Balak
by Stephen Mark Rainey

Horror Prelude
"In this universe, there are three dimensions of space: length, width and depth. The five senses exist so that a physical body may negotiate these dimensions. However, the condition of man is a duality: a material being in symbiotic harmony with a spiritual self. Within the spiritual realm, which is not bound by the mathematics of physical space, there must be an infinite number of dimensions. Therefore, the spirit must have as many senses with which to perceive them; yet in man, they have been dulled or made dormant by virtue of the dominant material being.
"As has been proven through time, music —the orderly construction of random sound —possesses the qualities most conducive to stimulating spiritual sensors, evidenced by its universal application to virtually every religious order. When taken to its ultimate limits, music may be the direct pathway leading from the physical to the spiritual, and by which the entire array of human senses will become active. At the crossing point between the two realms, a door that swings both ways shall allow the seeker from one side to access the other—for as there are beings in this world composed exclusively of matter, on the other side there must logically be those consisting purely of spirit.
"It is my intent to discover that door, to pass through it, and to establish contact with whatever may lie beyond."
— Maurice Zann
Introduction to The Spheres Beyond Sound, circa 1927

Chapter 1

From dreams filled with strange, beautiful images and haunting music, Claire Challis woke to the repulsive sound of a nasal, falsetto voice scratching its way through her closed bedroom window; the kind of voice adults reserve for speaking to pets or very small children. A particularly annoying case of the latter, she decided, for the voice was crooning, "My, don't we look fine in our Sunday best! Are you going to church, young man?"
From her second floor apartment, she could hear only an indistinct, mumbled response, but she thought it came from little Paul Hernandez, who lived next door. A momentary silence ensued, and then she heard, "Are you going with your parents?"
Claire couldn't help but shudder at the dry, coarse quality of the voice. The speaker sounded like an elderly man, but the intentional distortion of his speech impressed her as vaguely sinister. Little Paul must have answered in the affirmative, for the speaker continued, "You look so cute. How would you like to go with me to myyy church?"
Alarm flashed in Claire's mind; that voice did not assert even a pretense of innocence. She threw back her bedclothes, leaned toward the window, and lifted the Venetian blinds. She couldn't see anyone on the sidewalk below, but from around the corner of her building, to the left, a tall shadow crept across the pavement like a wavering gray ghost. It bent forward and lifted a long, crooked appendage toward the unseen child.
"You're sooo cute!" the voice cooed. The shadow suddenly lunged forward, twisted itself into a hunched shape that somehow looked inhuman, then quickly slipped beyond the range of her vision. A half-second later, she heard a low, abruptly-stifled "uulp!" that could only have come from little Paul.
"God!" she whispered, grabbing her bathrobe from the bedpost and hurriedly pulling it on. Heart cranking into high gear, she hurried through the living room, out her apartment door, and down the creaky, nattily-carpeted stairs to the foyer. Throwing open the door to the early Chicago morning, she endured a sudden gust of frigid, smoke-tinged air before stepping out to the small covered porch that overlooked Kenmore Avenue. Scattered pedestrians moved up and down the street in both directions, but she saw no one close by. To her left, a narrow alley separated her building from the next; judging by the angle of the shadow she'd seen, whoever had cast it must have been standing at the entrance.
She took a few cautious steps forward, listening for the sound of voices. Nothing but the low rumble of traffic and the whisper of winter breeze. Had someone really hurt little Paul... ?
But surely, her fears were premature. The speaker had merely been an elderly resident of the neighborhood, paying the lad a compliment, and in her groggy state, she had mistaken benign praise for ominously veiled innuendo.
But if I had bothered to think first, those years ago, Sean would be here now.
She took another step forward and craned her neck to peer down the alley. Suddenly, a dark figure whisked around the corner and collided roughly with her, sending her reeling backward. But a cold, strong hand quickly grabbed her wrist and kept her from falling.
"I'm so sorry," a raspy voice said. "I didn't see you there."
"No, no, my fault," she said, almost automatically. It took her a moment to absorb the sight of the man looming over her, his hand lingering on her arm as if for fear she might yet drop to the pavement.
He stood at least six-five and wore a black tunic with a white clerical collar, and a rather ludicrous-looking, wide-brimmed black hat that fell low over his forehead. Pale aqua eyes stared at her from a gaunt face; his head perched on a shrunken, vulture-thin neck. Coarse, stringy tufts of gray hair sprouted from around the edges of the hat, grotesquely resembling the fibres of some kind of mold. His bony fingers felt so cold that Claire almost jerked her arm away. Instead, she managed to extract it gently.
"Were you talking to—" she began, but he shook his head quickly.
"Forgive me, I was in such a hurry. I'm afraid I'm running late, so I cut through the alley to reach my church. Are you sure you're all right?" His deep-set, pale eyes blazed with kindness.
"I'm fine," she said. Looking past him, she saw the door to the neighboring building open, and Paul's parents stepped out, both dressed in their Sunday best. Mrs. Hernandez, a short, squat, forty-ish woman, peered up and down the sidewalk with concerned eyes.
"Weren't you just outside my window?" Claire asked, but the old clergyman was already turning away. He gave her a last apologetic smile, then strode up the sidewalk at a relaxed but rapid pace. Within moments, he had crossed the next block, some fifty yards further on.
Curious, she thought, staring after him. He'd acted perfectly kind and polite, the way a pastor was supposed to; but that cold grip on her arm had insinuated something altogether different. It had been too strong and insistent for such a frail-looking old gentleman.
The alley beside her building appeared vacant, except for a few piles of refuse and an overturned metal garbage can. Nowhere for a small child to hide, unless he'd crawled inside the can. But its open mouth faced her, and she could see that it lay empty. The morning sun peeked over the rooftops at the far end, firing a cold, cheerless beam into her sleepy eyes.
"Where is that boy?" she heard Mrs. Hernandez say. "Paul, where are you?"
"I told him not to run off/' grumbled his father. He scowled at Claire, as if her disheveled appearance were a personal affront. "Have you seen Paul?"
She shook her head. "I thought I heard him a few minutes ago. There was a man talking to a child...."
"You didn't see Paul?" his mother asked.
"No, but I think he was talking to that man." She pointed after the old priest, her eyes seeking his tall figure. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Dammit! She thought. He must have turned down Barry Street at surprisingly high speed.
"He better not have gone with any strange man!" Mrs. Hernandez said fearfully.
"No. The man was alone ... he was a priest."
"Christ, we'd better look for him," Mr. Hernandez muttered.
"I'll get dressed and help you," Claire said, turning back toward her front door. As she did, she caught a glimpse of something shiny on the pavement near her feet. Leaning down, she saw that it was a multicolored, crystalline cube about the size of a playing die; in her bare fingers, it felt as cold as ice. Inside it, bright, rainbow-hued fibres wavered slowly back and forth like the tendrils of underwater plants. Holding it up, she found that she could not see through it; rather, more and more layers of color seemed to extend beyond its walls, into infinity. After a moment, she felt Mr. Hernandez's eyes on her. She dropped the object into her bathrobe pocket and hurried back inside, the frigid air having cut through her almost to the bone.
Had the stranger dropped the little cube when they'd collided? she wondered, blessing the warmth of the old building's interior as she climbed the stairs. Such an odd little trinket! Something of value, perhaps? If so, he might come back looking for it. But as she reflected on his coarse, raspy voice, she felt sure he had been the one talking to Paul. And he'd hurried off at a pace that suggested he preferred not to answer her questions.
She pulled on a pair of blue jeans and a white, ribbed cotton turtleneck, still shaken by a relentless current of anxiety. She hoped Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez would lay her fears to rest by having already found Paul. She could scarcely bear the thought that something had happened to him—especially on a cold winter day like today, so much like the one two years ago that she tried to forget but never could....
How would you like to go with me to myyy church?

****

She helped the Hernandezes search for nearly an hour, ringing doorbells, asking passersby if they had seen a little boy, exploring the shops and alleys over on nearby Sheffield Avenue. Mr. Hernandez had called the police, and though she had nothing substantive to offer, Claire agreed to tell them what she had heard from her window, and about the strange old clergyman who seemed to have vanished almost as mysteriously as the child.
When they finally arrived, the officers — an aging, heavyset white man and a young, muscular Hispanic woman—questioned Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez thoroughly, though Claire thought they looked as bored as if they were enduring a bad movie they'd seen a dozen times in the past. They scoured the alley where she thought Paul had encountered the man, and asked her to relate in detail exactly what she'd heard from her bedroom window.
"Are you certain it was the priest you heard talking to the little boy?" asked the female cop.
"No, not certain/' Claire said. "I didn't see him. But the voice sounded the same."
"You said he was talking in baby-talk, right? So it could have been someone else?"
"It could have."
"I see." The lady cop scribbled some notes on a pad, while Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez eyed Claire suspiciously, as if she might have had something to do with their child's disappearance. Why? What earthly reason would they have to suspect her? Of course, like most neighbors in Chicago, they hardly knew each other, and distrust was almost instinctive. Still, after having made such an effort to help them, she resented it.
"So when you went outside, you ran into the priest. Would you describe him for me, ma'am?"
"Quite tall. Very thin. Longish gray hair. Blue eyes, I believe —very pale blue, almost gray. He was wearing the clerical collar, of course ... and a very big hat."
"No overcoat? Gloves?"
"No," Claire said, realizing now that he had appeared rather underdressed for such a blustery morning. She was beginning to feel chilled even in her heavy coat. "You'd think he would have frozen to death, as thin as he was," she added.
"You said he had a raspy voice, right?"
"Yes ... kind of like somebody who smokes a lot of cigarettes."
"Smell any smoke on him?"
"No, I don't think so."
"And you saw him walk off alone. In your opinion, did he have time to, uh ... harm the child? Perhaps conceal him somewhere around the alley? Even in your building?"
"Not likely. It couldn't have been more than a minute or so from the time I first heard him until I got outside. But even if the priest didn't do anything, he might have seen Paul."
"Yes, ma'am." The woman cop scribbled a few more notes, her face totally impassive.
I could never do such a job, Claire thought. How do they get people like this?
The cop finally met her gaze, nodding to indicate the interview was finished. She told Claire that they might call on her if they had any more questions, and that was that. The officers got back into their car and left the Hernandezes weeping softly on their front porch. Claire again offered them whatever assistance she could, only to be rebuffed by a dismissive wave of Mr. Hernandez's hand. Thus chastened, she returned to her apartment to indulge herself in the misery of remembering her own little boy.

****
On that cold Sunday, three days after Sean's fourth birthday, Claire had taken him to the Jewel supermarket on Fullerton, just to get enough groceries to last them through the week. Her hours, like all the graphic artists' at Gudmundson & Associates, had been cut; never mind that she was a 22-year-old single mother, already having a hard enough time paying the rent for her tiny apartment. Business was slow, and bottom line the top priority. Had any of the other studios in Chicago been healthier, she'd have left to try one of them. Alas, no one had anything better to offer her.
Sean was restless and didn't want to stay with her as she made her way through the aisles, mentally calculating how much she could buy with the meager amount in her pocket. The first time he ran off, she felt a moment of worry; but then, there he came, barreling around a corner, almost toppling one of the stand-up displays. She had grabbed him and threatened to seat him in the grocery cart—usually the most effective deterrent, for now that he was a "big boy," he found such treatment humiliating. Today, though, such talk impressed him not at all, and he went merrily on his way, totally ignoring his mother's stern warnings.
The second time he'd slipped away, anger replaced her fear. Most of the time, Sean minded as well as one could expect a four-year-old to mind; but he bore his share of his father's blood, damn it to hell, and that was certainly why he occasionally turned irrepressibly rebellious. When he ran off for the third time, she resolved that when they got home, the consequences would reach a new level of severity—i.e., the belt. She continued her shopping, more concerned about the price of ground beef than the whereabouts of her son.
This time, though, he didn't come back. After five minutes, she finally began to worry. She left her cart in the dairy section and went through the store, aisle by aisle, calling his name. He didn't answer or show his face. She retraced her steps, now genuinely afraid and growing frantic. Still no sign of him. She went to the store manager, and they called his name on the PA. Nothing. The store clerks joined in the search, but Sean Challis was gone.
The police never found him.
Sean joined the milk-carton kids, missing without a trace, his case a mere number among bulging file cabinets throughout the Chicago police districts. She clung to her hope for weeks, months ... that whole first year. But eventually, Claire resigned herself to the probability that her little boy was gone forever.

****

It was when she began straightening her bedroom and putting away her nightclothes that she found the strange little cube in the pocket of her bathrobe. Taking it in hand, she found it to be just as cold as it had been outside —so much so that it seemed unnatural, somehow. She had not mentioned it to the police. Not that she had forgotten it, exactly; but at the time it hadn't struck her as being particularly relevant to the child's disappearance. Wouldn't it be best to hand it over to the cops, in case it did belong to the strange old priest? She set it on her dresser, watching the colors in its heart shimmer just as brilliantly as they had under the morning sunlight.
Well, she thought, if the police came to question her again, she would give it to them. But what if the old man came back looking for it? If asked, she'd just say she hadn't seen anything of the sort. His gaunt face, which had seemed outwardly kind, had borne a coldness that hinted at secret knowledge —or secret darkness. She did not want to see him again.
Just past lunch time, the phone rang. For a moment, she hesitated to answer it, irrationally expecting to hear that eerie baby talk addressing her the way it had little Paul. She tried to shrug off the ridiculous notion, yet it lingered on disturbingly.
"Hi Claire, it's Mike."
She let out an audible sigh of relief. Mike Selby was a paralegal she had met at work, and they'd been going out off and on for almost a year now. "Hi. What's up?"
"Enjoying the day off. Nancy and I are going out for sushi and beer tonight. Want to come with?"
It took a moment to realize that he was referring to his sister. But she wasn't sure she was up to being anyone's company this evening. Working up her nerve, she told him what had happened over the course of the morning.
"Good Christ. I know that must have been rough on you."
"Yeah. I don't think I really want to go out tonight."
"You know, I'm pretty good at cheering you up ... aren't I?"
"I know, I know. But I think I'd rather stay home tonight. I'm sorry."
"Okay. Tell you what. We're going down to Sanko's about six. If you feel up to it, just meet us there."
"Well. I'll think about it. But don't count on me, all right?"
"I like counting on you."
She smiled. "I'll talk to you later, Mike."
"Okay. Bye."
She hung up, heaving a little sigh. Mike sounded truly disappointed, which in a funny way pleased her. He professed to be crazy about her, and she was fond of him, too; but as if by an unspoken mutual agreement, neither of them had taken any steps to develop their relationship beyond occasional dates.
Mike's suggestion of a beer appealed to her just now, though. She went to the kitchen and checked the refrigerator, finding half of a month-old six pack of Coronas left. She took one out and opened it, glancing at the clock as she did so.Twelve-thirty-five. Past noon. Late enough.

Chapter 2

At age 17, Claire had left home, feeling like a slave in a desperate search for freedom. Her mother and father had never been abusive or cruel; in fact, with the benefit of hindsight, she realized how deeply they'd loved her. But it was not a warm or comfortable household. It was a place of rules and regulations, of commandments engraved in stone. She had no brothers or sisters, no one to help take up the slack while her mother and father worked for their money. While her friends were together playing dolls or riding bicycles, or later, playing kick the can and going to teen dances, Claire was inside vacuuming, or washing dishes, or scrubbing bathrooms, or doing laundry — or finishing an extra school assignment that her father, not her teacher, had given her, even on weekends. She made straight A's until her junior year in high school, yet that never seemed enough to satisfy her parents' demands. At last, the pressure pot exploded.
She smashed the holy tablets and set out on her own, taking the first bus out of the Chicago Greyhound station. She stepped out onto Arizona sand, in a little town outside of Phoenix, with one suitcase and a hundred dollars she'd taken from her dad. She managed to get a job as a waitress, as she'd heard all young women did on their way up, and secured a tiny, one-room apartment over a country and western saloon.
She learned about drinking and riding horses and rattlesnakes and scorpions. At the saloon, she met Luke Fraser, a tall young maverick from San Francisco who told of his own mutiny from an oppressive home, and of his travels around the country. He'd taken her under his wing and, at the start, treated her like royalty, though he had a fiery temper and did a lot of drugs. Her job was dirty, and the tips usually sucked; life was hard, but it was hers, and she thought Luke was hers—until the day she told him he was going to be a father. A look of dismay and anger flushed his face —I thought you were on the pill, you stupid bitch! — and then he was gone, just gone, and she never saw him again. She gave up looking after a week, when it became apparent that he had made tracks and covered them on his way. He had been a drifter for a long time, and even if she had found him, he would never have been willing or able to pay child support, despite any judge's orders.Slowly, she began to realize how much responsibility she herself bore for her disenchantment at home. She was the one who always submitted to her parents' every whim; she had never even made the attempt to relate her feelings to them. She merely reacted, taking drastic measures perhaps before they were due. The hardest thing she ever did was to move back to Chicago, bringing her mother and father a surprise that they could neither have expected nor desired; yet, by some divine miracle, they had accepted her back, along with their new grandson.
But the whole sequence of events served to turn her life around. She finished school, even went to junior college and obtained an associate degree in graphic arts. She obtained a position with Gudmundson & Associates, and moved into her own apartment, all the while raising her little boy as best as she could. Daycare was expensive but necessary, and being around other children seemed to do Sean a world of good.
But none of that mattered any more.

****
The beers were all gone, and afternoon was creeping toward evening. The alcohol had dulled the sharp edges of her memories, and Claire had begun to feel hungry. Now, the thought of sushi and another beer or two seemed a lot more appealing than it had when Mike had called. What the hell, she thought; getting away from the house would help draw her out of the day's gloomy mood.
Sanko's was over on Clark Street, within easy walking distance. Having sold her car shortly after Sean had disappeared, she now walked or took the CTA just about everywhere. Even though her job and financial situation had improved considerably since then, she'd never felt inclined to re-invest in a machine that spent more time stopped in traffic than getting her where she wanted to go. It was almost five o'clock; she still had time to get herself ready and get to the restaurant.
She showered, put on a light touch of makeup, dressed in her most stylish—and warmest—jeans, sweater and boots, and finally pulled on her long, black leather coat with the honest-to-God-real-fur collar. Almost as an afterthought, she picked up the strange, colorful cube from her dresser, figuring she would show it to Mike, in case he might have any words of wisdom on the subject. Mike usually had words of wisdom for everything. She was out her front door at quarter till six; just time enough to get to Sanko's on schedule.
The frigid air stung her face, but it felt refreshing after the stuffiness of her apartment. Darkness was settling over the tree-lined avenue, and the streetlights were just beginning to hum to life, casting gnarled shadows on the sidewalk. The click-clacking of her boot heels echoed conspicuously among the tightly-packed brownstones, for traffic was sparse and few pedestrians braved the cold, which suited her fine. The fringes of Wrigleyville were about as safe as any place to walk alone, but she always carried a purse with a secure strap over her shoulder and a container of pepper spray in her coat pocket.
At the corner of Belmont, a major thoroughfare, she found signs of life aplenty, and had to wait to cross long enough for the cold to start working its way through her heavy outerwear. Taking advantage of the first opening in traffic, she set out across the street, looking to either side but not straight ahead. And for the second time in one day, she collided with another human being, this time nearly knocking the other to the ground and sending a stack of papers flying into the air.
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry!"
A short, emaciated-looking woman with oriental features stared curiously back at her, waving away her placating hand. The woman bent to pick up a few of the loose sheets and, smiling reassurance that she was all right, handed one of them to Claire.
It was a crudely printed, black-and-white handbill announcing services at the Church of the Seven Stars, cordially inviting her to attend. A strange-looking, stylized star adorned the top of the page, and below it was a dark portrait of the pastor, a Reverend Abraham Lemuel Lazar. The photo was so poorly printed that she had folded the flyer and slipped it into her pocket before she realized that the eyes staring from the portrait were the same eyes she had seen that morning beneath the brim of an absurdly wide black hat. She pulled the sheet back out, unfolded it, and stared at the image. Yes, it was him, all right, even though he wasn't wearing the hat. And she noticed at the bottom of the page, printed in uneven chancery  script,  the line:  "Now,  O Acolyte,  learn these secrets  that ye may  seek perfect knowledge of Him."
"What is this church?" she asked, as the woman turned and began shuffling away down Belmont.
"Gomen nasai," she said with a shake of her head. "Wakarimasen."
Okay. So the woman didn't speak the English. Claire watched her make her way through the crowd at the intersection, then furtively glance back before disappearing down a sidestreet.
Strange. The woman hadn't so much as offered a flyer to any of the other potential targets on the street. Only her. With a sigh, Claire stuffed the piece of paper back in her coat pocket, deciding that if the police questioned her again she would give it to them. At least they could track down the clergyman with the long name. Perhaps she should even call and let them know that she'd learned the priest's identity, as well as his church's address. Well, if so, that could wait till later. She continued on her way, but the image of the tall man's face and the sound of his voice crept through her memory, again dampening her spirits, which had scarcely recovered since the morning's unpleasantness.
How would you like to go with me to myyy church?
She walked the rest of the way to the restaurant on automatic pilot, paying no attention to the sights and sounds around her, arriving at one minute past six. As she entered the comfortable warmth of Sanko's to a jangling of doorchimes, a pair of smiling Japanese chefs shouted "moshi-moshi!" and waved at her. Several people sat at the sushi bar on the left, and the booths lining the right-hand wall were nearly full. As yet, she saw no sign of Mike and his sister.
But she had just taken off her coat and hung it on the rack next to the door when Mike and Nancy hustled in from the cold, breathing plumes of steam and rubbing their hands together.
"Claire!" Mike said, smiling broadly at her. "You came!"
"Couldn't resist."
He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I'm glad. You remember Nancy, don't you?"
"Sure." She gave the younger girl a warm smile. "Good to see you."
"You, too."
Nancy was 23; short and slim, with round cheeks and wavy blond hair. She and Mike had the same bright blue eyes, though he was a good head taller and had straight, dark brown hair. He was 27, three years older than Claire. Seeing him now, she was glad she'd decided to come. She found him attractive; he dressed sharply, always looked confident and self-assured. Tonight, she needed some of that assurance to rub off on her.
The hostess led them to a booth, and Claire sat down opposite her companions, facing the front of the restaurant. The agreeable aroma of seafood and ginger wafted through the air, colored by a subtle touch of sesame.
"You must be feeling better," Mike said.
"Ever so much."
"Brisk walk, wasn't it? Your hair's big."
She laughed and ran a hand through her raven hair, which was long and thick, and usually a little wild even without the help of the weather. She hated wearing hats, so the wind had undoubtedly created an interesting sculpture topside.
"It looks fine," Nancy said with a chuckle. Then her face darkened. "I hear there was trouble in your neighborhood this morning."
"Yes," she sighed. "My neighbors' little boy disappeared. I think he was abducted, and I believe I heard the person who did it. There was this priest—a strange looking old man—that I swear I think was talking to Paul. But I saw him walk away, alone, and I don't see how it could be him."
"This was right outside your place?"
"Yes."
"Did the police have any clue?"
"What do you think? They said they'd call me if they needed any more information. But I told them everything I knew. More than once."
The waitress came and took their drink orders; Kirin beer for Claire, sake for Mike and Nancy. For a while, they turned their attention to the menus, each deciding on various assortments of rice and raw fish. Claire's favorite was flying fish roe with a raw quail egg on top, which Mike thought was gross, though he had no problem eating uni—raw sea urchin—which Claire couldn't stomach no matter how many beers she'd had.
After the drinks came and they'd ordered their dinners, she said, "You know, it gets weirder. I have something to show you. Excuse me a second." She rose and went to the coat rack, digging into her coat pocket for the flyer and the strange cube. As she sat back down, she handed the paper to Mike. "That's him in this picture. The priest I saw."
"Where'd this come from?"
"Some Japanese lady was passing them out on my way here." At least, she passed one to me, she thought.
"Some coincidence."
"No shit."
"He is weird-looking," Nancy said. "At least, from what you can see in this picture."
"I was thinking I should give this to the police. I mean, even if this guy didn't do anything, he was close to scene. He could have seen something."
"Looks like he would have mentioned it if he had—he is a priest, right?"
"I also found this, just after he left." She held the cube out to him. Both Mike and Nancy let out startled gasps, and bent to peer at the shining, colorful object.
"That's something else," breathed Nancy. "It's pretty."
"It looks like those strands of color are moving in there. Must be some kind of optical effect."
"I guess so," Claire said. "Look at it up close. The colors seem to go on forever." Mike took the cube, held it up to the light and peered into it the way a jeweler would study a diamond. "Most unusual. It's cold."
"Like ice."
"Do you think it's worth anything?" Nancy asked.
"I don't know. It's probably just some weird little trinket. I suppose it could be evidence, though."
Mike looked back at the flyer. "This address is on Seminary. That's near here."
"Well, the priest did say he was heading to his church at the time."
"Hmm. I wonder if they have a Sunday evening worship service."
"How so?"
"So," said Mike, leaning over conspiratorially. "After dinner, we could always swing by there and see if their doors are open."
"You must be joking."
"Not at all."
"What do you propose we do? Go find the man and ask him if this thing belongs to him?"
"Sure, why not?"
Suddenly a cold lump rose in her throat, and her stomach went queasy. "No. I don't think I want to do that."
You're sooo cute.
"Well, we don't have to if you don't want to. But I'd like to drive by and see what the place looks like. What do you think, Nance?"
"Oh, bother," she sighed. "Has saying 'no' to you ever worked before?"
"How about it, Claire? Just a drive-by."
She almost shivered at the thought. But what could she possibly have to fear? "Well ... if we must."
"Great."
Mike smiled his most disarming smile, and she returned a small grin, still feeling like they were playing with fire. A few moments later, the food arrived. It looked excellent, but Claire found that she no longer had much appetite.

Chapter 3

Dinner went with very little conversation, and Mike must have sensed that Claire felt troubled again. He insisted on paying and wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, so she gave in—reluctantly, since technically they weren't out on a date. She'd return the favor some other time, she thought.
"Look," he said as he led them to his car, parked on the street a short distance from the restaurant, "if you'd rather not go by the church, just say so."
Claire shook her head. She also knew that once an idea sparked in Mike's head, snuffing it was out of the question. "It's okay. I'm just stressed about this morning."
Mike put his arm around her as they walked, and she felt comforted by his closeness. Nancy walked a few steps behind, as if she now felt out of place with them. Claire slowed her pace so Mike's sister would catch up. If anything, Claire felt like the one intruding, even though she'd been invited.
"Mike, you're an insensitive boor," Nancy said. Then, to Claire: "You realize he's going to have his way or know the reason why."
"Tell me about it."
"You talk like we don't have a democracy here," Mike said solemnly. "And that's crap."
"I don't think so," Nancy said.
Mike gave Claire a sad look. "She never believes me."
Claire chuckled softly, relaxing a little. "Let's get it over with, then you can take me home. I have a busy day at work tomorrow."
When they reached Mike's car, a silver Lexus IS300, Nancy got into the back so Claire could sit in front. They took off down Clark, then turned right a couple of streets south of Belmont to head over to Seminary. The wind had risen, and several strong gusts buffeted the car belligerently. Most of the pedestrians had finally surrendered and hidden indoors.
Mike checked the address and turned right when they reached Seminary. They didn't have far to go, for almost immediately they came upon a hulking, ancient brick building. Rather decrepit-looking, it was set back a short distance from the corner, with a tall, arrow-shaped steeple that towered above the surrounding trees. At its apex, in place of a cross, a multi-pointed star, illuminated from within—similar to a Moravian star but twisted oddly out of shape—blazed like a beacon. Claire had passed the big, shadowy building any number of times without ever giving it a second glance. She couldn't see a sign or placard identifying the church, which seemed unusual. Dim lights burned within the tall, stained glass windows. Mike slowed down as they passed, peering at the building with scrutinizing eyes.
"There are people in there," he said. "Someone's at the front door."
Claire also noticed that the solid black double doors had just opened outward. A second later, a tall figure emerged to stand at the top of the short stairway; she did not have to see the face to recognize Reverend Lazar. The imposing silhouette was all too familiar, and she could envision those watery, aqua eyes peering at her from the shadows of the doorway. As they left the church behind, Claire saw Reverend Lazar's hand rise to wave after them.
Her stomach twisted into a painful knot. Surely, the priest could not have recognized her inside the car. He probably wouldn't even remember her from this morning. With a last look back, she saw a few people filing onto the sidewalk in front of the church. The evening service must be letting out, she thought.
"Did you see that?" Claire said softly. "He waved at us."
"He probably waves at everyone that passes," Nancy said half-heartedly.
"No way," Mike said. "He knew it was you."
"C'mon."
"No shit. I bet he doesn't often have pretty young women cruising by to ogle him."
Nancy anticipated Claire by smacking Mike solidly on the back of the head.
Claire couldn't keep from grinning. "No way, Mike. More likely he was waving at you."
"Yeah," laughed Nancy. "He thought you were cute."
"I am cute. Want to circle around another time?"
"No," said Claire.
"No," said Nancy.
Mike put on his most dejected face. "Spoiled sports."
Claire felt her ire rise for a brief moment. "Mike, a child disappeared this morning, and that guy might have had something to do with it. I don't think this is exactly fun."
"You're right, I apologize. I'll take you home."
"Thank you."
She settled back into a state of contemplative silence, trying hard to dismiss her agitation. When Mike pulled up in front of her building, he got out and walked her to the door.
"I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry."
"I know. It's nothing," she said with a reassuring smile. "Thanks for dinner. I enjoyed it."
"Next time, we go to the Berghoff and you can buy me dinner."
"Sure, when I win Lotto."
"Look, if you need to talk or anything, just call, okay?"
She nodded. "I appreciate it."
He leaned close, and when he touched his lips to hers, she responded. They kissed longer and harder than they ever had before; warmth flooded through Claire's body, and she nearly melted in his embrace. He released her after a few moments; if Nancy hadn't been in the car, Claire thought, they might not have let each other go so soon.
Yes, he was an "insensitive boor" sometimes. Somehow that fact enticed her all the more.
"Goodnight, Claire. I'll call you later."
"Bye, Mike."
Waving to Nancy, she turned and hurried into the warmth of her building. From that brief time in the cold, her face and ears had nearly frozen, and she was glad she hadn't had to walk back home.
She went up the stairs to her apartment, turned on the lights, and locked the door behind her. No messages on her machine. Eight-thirty. Still early, and the evening's beer had made her tired rather than drunk—thank God, for she had no desire to wake up with a hangover the next morning. Her tolerance level had diminished significantly since her rebellious days, she thought with a twinge of both relief and regret. But, she had to admit, she'd enjoyed the company tonight, and that kiss with Mike ... wow.
She undressed, put on her warm nightgown, and lay down on the couch in front of the TV. She hated sitcoms, but it was either that or one of those agonizingly bad made-for-television-based-on-a-true-story movies. One day, she promised herself, she'd actually invest in digital. Instead, she left the idiot box alone, put on an old but timeless CD by the Moody Blues, and picked up a Sandra Brown novel she'd started reading a few nights before.
She'd only been reading for a few minutes when she noticed that her eyelids weren't cooperating anymore. The alcohol, for sure; that, and the day's stress. By all indications, going to bed looked like the best plan.
She brushed her teeth and relieved herself of most of the evening's beer. Jesus ... she had drunk more today than in the last month altogether. The bed welcomed her warmly and she settled beneath the blankets, glad to be retiring a couple of hours early. The radiator beneath her window hissed softly, a relaxing, reassuring sound that began to lull her immediately. She switched off the lamp and lay back in the near-darkness, peering up at the smear of orange-pink light across the ceiling that stole in through her drawn windowshades.
The dreams began even as she closed her eyes.
She was aware that she was lying in bed, but forms had begun to materialize in her field of vision like double-exposed photographs. Several figures were moving across a dark plain of gray and brown, flitting in and out between rainbow-like swirls of multicolored light. A vague shape began moving toward her, something tall and broad, like a rock that had unearthed itself and begun crawling on unseen appendages. As it drew nearer, she saw that it was a huge, humpbacked black man, shuffling slowly toward her with arms that nearly dragged the ground. He was carrying something in one hand — a lumpy bundle about the size of a small watermelon. As his face came into focus, she saw that one eye drooped grotesquely and the other burned at her with a brilliant onyx fire.
A deep, thumping beat pulsed threateningly from somewhere in the background. Not loud, but heavy enough to make her stomach churn. The black man stepped in front of her and opened his mouth to speak. "You have to take them and twist them," he said in a deep, sonorous voice, "bringing the blood to the surface. Then you slice them slowly, bilaterally, and let the entrails slide out. The blood is sweet, so you don't want to lose any. Pour the blood into the cup, and save it for the dreaming. It's sweetest in the dreaming."
As if her eye were a camera being pulled back slowly, she saw the black man recede into a dark mist. Before he faded from view, he lifted his bundle and shook it in the air. She could see a tiny arm fly loose and thrash wildly as the little body was flailed back and forth.
She gasped, unable to shut out the sight, but no longer able to see it clearly. Everything had begun to grow black. She could hear the faintest hint of a baby crying, somewhere far in the distance. It was a pathetic, weak wailing; at the same time forlorn and horrifying. As the vision faded into nothingness, the sound of the baby's screams grew louder, more insistent. It was crying, "Momma, no ... Momma ... nooo...."
Claire screamed and jerked herself awake. The room was dark, and the echo of her scream trailed away, its final note ringing shrilly in her ears. Consciousness struck like a burst of electricity, and she sat up, registering the blaze of light across the ceiling, the dark silhouettes of her dresser and chest of drawers. Her heart pounded in her ears, almost deafening.
But it wasn't so deafening that she couldn't hear the baby crying—still—just as in her dream. But she was awake now, and the sound was coming from within her room. She leaped from the bed, tangled her legs in the sheets, and nearly fell headlong. No, it wasn't her imagination, or some audible remnant of her dream. This was real.
Her eyes roved back and forth, searching for the source of the sound. With one hand, she groped blindly for the light switch, knocking her alarm clock from her nightstand to the floor in the process.
"Nooo," the little voice wailed, full of unfathomable anguish. "Momma! Nooo...."
Claire's fingers closed on the lamp switch, and she twisted it savagely. Golden light abruptly filled the room, dispelling the shadows that concealed whatever must be in the room with her.
The crying ceased abruptly, as if the light itself had silenced it. The room was empty, just as when she'd gone to bed. Outside, an occasional car rumbled past, and in the distance, she could hear a whining siren. The radiator hissed and clicked rhythmically. She stood by the bed, dumbfounded, heart hammering and lungs heaving.
Steady ... steady.
Was it a dream? She could barely remember the weird images that had filled her head as she'd drifted off to sleep. But the baby's crying was too vivid. Maybe a child outside her window?
No. It had been in here, as real as the sound of her heart beating like a jackhammer.
At last, she knelt and picked up her clock. It was only ten o'clock. Gathering her nerve, she crept to the door and peered into the darkness of the living room. Everything seemed normal now. From outside, the streetlights cast a dull orange glow through the blinds, barely illuminating the furniture. Claire made her way to the lamp next to the couch and switched it on, breathing a sigh of relief as blessed light washed away the shadows.
As her wits returned, she made her way through the house, checking the kitchen, bathroom, hallway, closets. Nothing out of place.
She was alone in the apartment.
But going back to bed was out of the question. Her nerves had been shattered and her hands still trembled. For the first time since she was a child, the thought of being alone in a dark apartment terrified her.
Then, with a flash of inspiration, she sat down on the couch, picked up the phone, and dialed Mike's number.

Chapter 4

Mike's car pulled up twenty minutes later —a remarkable response time from Oak Park, on the west side of the city —and Claire buzzed the lock as soon as she saw him from her living room window. His footsteps echoed on the stairs; a joyous, welcome sound. She threw open the door and took him by the hand, virtually dragging him into the apartment. His eyes alternately flashed concern and amusement. Her expression finally chased away any suspicion he might have that she was exaggerating her fear.
"Thanks for coming," she said softly. "I had quite a fright."
"You really heard crying in your room?"
"It went on well after I was completely awake. You don't imagine something like that... I don't."
"No, I'm sure you don't." He took off his coat, laid it over the back of the couch, then poked his head into her bedroom. "Check under the bed?" She shook her head. He knelt, lifted up her bedspread and peered into the dark recess there. "Nothing but dust bunnies. Closets?"
"All of them. Bathroom ... kitchen. Everywhere."
"TV was off? Stereo was off?"
"Everything."
"Well, I'm sure I won't find anything you didn't."
She shook her head. "I just didn't want to be alone."
Mike nodded. "Don't blame you. But I'd sure like to understand it."
"You believe me, right?"
"Sure I do. Nobody calls up sounding like you did unless they've been pretty well spooked."
"You don't mind coming?"
"If I minded, I wouldn't be here. Besides," he grinned, "I consider it an honor."
"I'm glad you think so. Want a soda or anything?"
"Sure."
She turned and headed for the kitchen, feeling warm and secure now that Mike was here. But a small anger had begun to smolder in the space that had been filled with fear; anger that she was afraid to be alone. Solitude was often a thing to be cherished in a city where crowds were an exasperating element of her every activity, whether it was shopping, going back and forth to work, or just doing the laundry. She'd had a roommate for a time, soon after Sean's disappearance, but that hadn't worked out. Ever since then, she'd been very happy having a place to herself.
She poured two glasses of ginger ale and carried them back to the living room, handing one to Mike. She sat down beside him on the couch, unabashedly pressing herself close to him. He tentatively placed an arm around her shoulders, seemingly a little nervous about being so close to her.
She studied the shadows in the far corner of the room. "What do you think it could have been?"
"I wish I could tell you, Claire."
"You must think I've lost it."
"Right off the deep end."
She smiled. "I've never known this place to be haunted, or anything."
"Maybe the dust bunnies are unhappy. You have a regular hutch under your bed."
She snickered. "You!" But his levity wasn't sufficient to brighten the gloom for long. She took a sip of her drink and leaned against his shoulder.
Whatever the circumstances, she realized now that by calling him, she'd taken their relationship to another level. What did he think about her now? That she was playing games with him? That she was a little crazy?
Ami?
She suddenly realized that she was nervous, too.
"Does anybody else in the building have kids?" he asked. "Yeah, but not little ones. They're all ten or twelve."
"So we can rule out the neighbors?"
"It was in my bedroom."
"Right."
"Before I woke up, I was dreaming. I don't remember it exactly now, but it was disturbing."
"Was it about Sean?"
She bit her lower lip. "Maybe it was."
Mike nodded and remained silent for a few minutes. Claire glanced at him, wondering if it had been a mistake to call him. No ... she could trust him, she was certain.
"Look, whenever you want to go to bed, that's fine," he said. "It's not like you need to entertain me or anything. I'll sleep on the couch."
"You're sweet," she said. "I don't think I can sleep yet, even with you here."
He gazed at her questioningly. Wrong thing to say. If she were to invite him into her bed, he would no doubt oblige her eagerly. But that wasn't what she wanted.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't want us to do anything. I mean, us ... together."
"I understand," he said, keeping his smile, though his eyes showed a trace of disappointment. But if she knew him as she thought, that was enough. Nothing more need be said on the matter.
"I appreciate dinner tonight," she said. "I'll take you out sometime."
"Yes. You will."
"Hope you like hot dogs and potato chips."
"Love them." After another long silence, he asked, "Seeing that priest at the church upset you, didn't it? I'm sorry. I shouldn't have insisted."
"Well, maybe a little. He's got this suspicious air about him."
"So do all those guys," Mike said with a snort. "All they want is your money."
"No," she said, her mind going back many years, finding the face of Reverend Martin Greene, who'd been the pastor of the Methodist church she attended. "I went to church every Sunday from the time I was baby until I left home. I didn't really like it, especially because my parents were so strict, but I always remember the minister from when I was in junior high. He was so kind, and he was sincere — and tolerant, in a way my mom and dad were not. I used to go to him with my problems sometimes, and he'd always listen, and advise me when he could. Unfortunately, he moved away before I went to high school and I never saw him again."
Mike shook his head. "I was brought up Catholic, of course. I used to go to confession, but I never talked to the priest much." He chuckled softly. "Let's see, my last confession was over five years ago."
"You know," Claire said, "I've always thought of a clergyman as someone you could trust—never mind about televangelists, and those phonies. I guess there's good ones and bad ones. But somehow, it really scares me to think about a priest who isn't what he appears to be."
"You mean guilt}7 of more than the sin of avarice?"
"Yes."
"You think the man you saw is dangerous?"
"It's just a feeling. A strong feeling."
"So, call the police tomorrow."
"Maybe I will. But the police make me uncomfortable too."
"How come?"
"It's just what they do." Not to mention they never lifted a finger to find Sean. She sighed. "But how could I live with myself knowing somebody had lost their kid, just like I did, and I didn't try to do anything about it?"
"You already have, Claire." She nodded. "I guess I need to give them that flyer and the cube. I have no idea if it actually belonged to him. It was just lying there."
"Well, evidence is evidence. Of course, it has your prints all over it now."
"That's bad, huh?"
"Well, it doesn't help. And they'll ask you why you didn't give it to them at the scene."
"I just didn't think about it then."
"I'm not saying they'll blame you. They just won't like it."
"Christ, I'm just trying to help somebody." She massaged her temples, which had begun to ache. "And what about the priest? What if he's completely innocent? Being highly unattractive doesn't necessarily make him villainous."
"If he is an honorable man, then he will forgive you."
In her mind's eye, she had suddenly become a young child, staring into the Reverend Lazar's icy blue eyes. His cold hand lowered to her forehead, sprinkling her with water, and in baby-talk, he said, "Bless this child in your sight, O Lord, that she might walk with you for the rest of her days."
And her child-self began to scream and cry, while her parents looked on approvingly, oblivious to her terror, and it was her pitiful little voice wailing, "No, Momma, nooo...."
She shuddered violently, and Mike hugged her tightly as her tears began to fall.
She awoke, still on the couch, as the sun rose. Mike was shaking her shoulder. "Better get up, Claire. Gotta go to work."
She sat up groggily, looking around at the apartment. A bundle of blankets lay on the floor at her feet, where Mike had apparently made his bed. "What about you?" she asked. "I had the foresight to bring extra clothes," he said sheepishly. "You don't mind if I use your shower, do you?"
"No, not at all."
"You go first, though. Do whatever you need to do. It won't take me long to get ready."
She pulled herself from the couch, a little achy from the lumpy cushions. Her nightgown was hiked up to her thighs, and she pulled it down self-consciously. Lord knew what her hair and face looked like; at least Mike showed no sign of running away in horror.
"If you want some coffee, there's regular and instant," she said as she headed for the bathroom. "I usually wait till I get to work before I have any."
"You're not going to fix me bacon and eggs?"
"Sorry."
"Some wife."
She snorted. In the bathroom mirror, hollow eyes stared back from beneath a tousled mane of black straw. "Jesus," she muttered, smoothing it down as if she could take back what Mike had already seen. She heard him patter down the hall toward the kitchen. As she was taking off her nightgown, he called, "Hey, are you friends with any of the kids in the building, or in the neighborhood?"
"No."
"Enemies?"
"Not that I know of."
"So you don't think any of them would stoop to playing practical jokes on you?"
"What, you think they could have wired the place for sound? That's silly."
"Just a thought."
She had to chuckle. She and the local kids pretty much didn't exist to each other. They had successfully ignored each other for the entire time she'd lived here. Hell, most of them didn't even speak English. She turned on the shower and let the water warm up to steaming. Stepping in, she turned her face to the hot deluge, which carried the last vestiges of sleep down the drain. The steady stream invigorated her, first tickling her skin, then working down to the muscles. Her blood began to move as she scrubbed, helping to bring her back to herself, exiling the fear and misery of the previous day to the all but hidden cavities of her mind.
Instead, the image in her mind was Mike, moving around her kitchen, boiling water for a cup of coffee, just on the other side of the bathroom wall....

Chapter 5

Mike Selby left Claire's apartment at seven-twenty, a few minutes after her. She had given him a spare key so he could lock up. Having it in his pocket felt like a token of acceptance, that both her trust and gratitude ran deep. He wasn't sure what last night meant to her; he knew that events in her past made her wary of commitment, and she felt it wiser to avoid that trap altogether. So since he'd known her, their relationship had remained casual — platonic — though he always hoped for something a bit more ... well, romantic. But he never attempted to cross that line for fear of planting an emotional minefield neither of them could negotiate.
Traffic on Lakeshore Drive was moving at its typical morning crawl. He generally took the Lake Street El from Oak Park to his office on LaSalle, which was no joyride, but it beat trying to conquer the endless motorcades converging on the Loop in a white-collar blitzkrieg. Fortunately, he could park in the garage right next to his building, but he had to pay an obscene chunk of his day's wages for the privilege.
Hell, for Claire's sake, it was worth the bother. He'd woken up next to her this morning, albeit at a slightly lower altitude, but that was enough to ignite a little fire in him. Perhaps it was childish; but it had been a frightfully long time since he'd been with a woman, and sometimes, he was afraid he'd had his last. No matter what he did, or where he went, no female ever seemed to show the remotest interest in him (the professional variety notwithstanding). Many months earlier, after bombing royally with two hopeful prospects at a Rush Street nightclub, in a drunken rage, he'd ripped the rearview mirror from the side of his car and kicked a dent in the front door. Since that embarrassing episode, he'd managed to hold his temper, but his luck hadn't changed.
So what about Claire?
Something had obviously spooked her, though he was sure she'd been dreaming, or was just outright mistaken. Certainly after going through a morning like she'd had, in which her own personal horror had replayed itself, she might have suffered a delayed psychological reaction or something. He felt sorry for her. But at the same time, he couldn't deny the thrill he'd felt when his phone rang, and her quavering voice on the other end begged, "Mike, please come over, come right now."
He'd never seen her so vulnerable, and her sudden dependence on him certainly bolstered his flagging ego. Still he knew better than to even attempt to take advantage of her weakness. If he lost her respect, her friendship, he truly would earn a place of honor in the bombers-out hall of fame.
He finally reached the exit for Michigan Avenue to head into the Loop. He had five minutes to get his car parked and himself signed in on time. It looked like he was going to miss the mark by a few. If Yvonne and Sir Edward were in good spirits, everything was kosher. If they weren't, he'd get written up. Trouble was, they'd been on a two-week hate binge, and to be on the receiving end meant considerable discomfort. Few in their sphere of influence had been spared.
He waited impatiently for the turn signals to change, and then for the jackasses who failed to understand that the lights didn't get any greener. Around him, the buildings of downtown towered like glittering monoliths under the heatless morning sun. He passed the Tribune Tower and the Sun-Times Building, and then turned onto Wacker. Suddenly, the way ahead was clear. Hitting the accelerator, he barreled through the next few intersections, finally turning left on LaSalle. His office was in one of the less lofty highrises adjacent to City Hall. More traffic waited in front of him, however, and the last two blocks took another five minutes. When he turned into the garage and pulled his ticket from the automatic dispenser, it was three past eight. He didn't find an available space until he'd reached the ninth level.
He made it to street level by seven minutes past, then had to go half a block to his own building, where he took another elevator up to twelve. The building was ancient, the elevator a cranky old thing that you had to stop and start manually, its door a hinged, folding grate. He was the only one aboard, since everyone with good sense would already be firmly planted in their offices.
It was ten after when he went through the double glass doors into the plush offices of Wandrey, Stroka, Parker & Wallace. Instead of Rachel Stiles, the receptionist, he found a severe-looking, blonde matron standing at the desk, arms crossed, bright green eyes regarding him without the slightest trace of human compassion. He felt a cold lump forming at the back of his throat."Mr. Selby," said Yvonne Parker, the youngest and usually the most approachable partner in the firm, "I trust you have in that briefcase my files on Marie Edmonds, and the copies of the affidavits I asked for?"
"Yes, ma'am, I do."
"And you have my report for Judge Studzinki?"
"Yes, ma'am, I do." Feeling all-too-self-conscious, he leaned down to scribble his initials on the sign-in sheet.
"Did you call Hal Grodin on Friday?"
"I did. He'll see you tomorrow at ten, like you wanted."
She nodded. "Give me the Edmonds files, please. I need them in a conference that started five minutes ago."
He plunked his briefcase on the desk and opened it, relieved to find the necessary papers in easy reach. He handed them to Parker, who turned to head toward her office. She paused on the way.
"I'll be filling out a disciplinary sheet on you/' she said. "Be in my office at nine to sign it."
"Yes, ma'am."
She disappeared down the hall and he hissed a sigh. Bitch, he thought, then took it back, for Parker had cut him a lot of slack in his time. She'd even been brought to task in front of the partners for being insufficiently assertive in her management style. He guessed he couldn't blame her too much for her attitude this morning.
He headed back to his desk, in the arena outside Parker's door. Rachel Stiles, a petite blonde with a model's figure, passed him on her way to reception. "Did she get you?"
"Yes."
"Hope it was worth it," she said with a sardonic grin.
"Yeah," he muttered to himself. Now that he was here, he had a ton of work requiring one or more ofthe partners in attendance, so he couldn't begin until they finished their meeting. Beautiful. Written up for being late to do nothing.
A copy of the Tribune lay on Enrique Perez's vacant desk, so Mike picked it up and scanned the headlines. Only in the city could one find such a rich catalog of criminal behavior, the details of which hid beneath blurbs such as "Five Shot Dead in Foiled Bank Heist," and "Logan Square Hit Again by Arson." Not surprisingly, he found no write-up about Paul Hernandez's disappearance. But on the back page, there were stories of four other disappearances, all children between two and seven, from scattered points around the city. Certainly, there was nothing to link them, yet having seen close up the effects on those involved, he felt singularly sensitized to the tragedy. He wondered how many children disappeared around the city every day.
He decided that, when he had time, he'd start looking up some statistics. He had to make a few phone calls to city hall later today, and though time would be short, perhaps he could take advantage of the opportunity to do a little digging.
As soon as Parker came out of her meeting, Claire, Paul Hernandez, Abraham Lemuel Lazar, and everything that had happened over the weekend were sequestered in secure chambers where they wouldn't distract Mike from his primary purpose in life: to assist the legal partners in every possible manner that would add to their accounts receivable, thus assuring himself of life after five o'clock. It didn't pay to have his personal life intrude on the company's time.

Chapter 6

 CORONER'S REPORT NO: 6PM-LPH-013 SUBJECT NAME: LIONEL HAIRSTON
AGE: 7
PRIMARY CAUSE OF DEATH: Severe trauma to cranium and esophagus/trachea
CIRCUMSTANCES: The subject was abducted from school playground in Wicker Park by unknown parties on October 29. Multiple rope burns on wrists and ankles indicate subject was bound on several occasions. Conclusive evidence of repeated beatings: lacerations and contusion on torso and extremities; fractured RT 4th, 5th, 6th and 7th ribs. Crushed esophagus and trachea, probably from assailant's foot, and fractured temporal plate above the left ear constitute most probable fatal injuries.
CORONER'S REPORT NO: 1DM-STE-914
SUBJECT NAME: STEVEN THEODORE ELLIS
AGE: 9
PRIMARY CAUSE OF DEATH: Blood loss and severe shock due to dismemberment.
CIRCUMSTANCES: Subject was kept in a narcotized condition (see appendix IB) for prolonged periods; appears to have been in captivity for at least three days prior to death. Internal injuries include ruptured sigmoid colon due to penetration via the anus and rectum by various sharp, unknown instruments. Subject's genitalia show evidence of having been burned, probably by lit cigarettes. Death a result of vivisection by dermitome; arms and legs amputated by ax or hatchet, possibly while alive.
"Do you have any idea how many children are abducted in this city each year?" Mike asked, sitting across the table from Frank Seism, his favorite office comrade. "And do you know how many of them turn up dead —often in pieces —sometimes as long as a year or more after their disappearance?" Frank waved at the nearest waitress so he could order a beer. The dinner crowd at Giordano's had begun bustling in. He shook his head. "No telling, Mike."
"And do you know how many more simply never turn up again?"
"Nope."
"Well, there are right now upwards of 2,000 cases —active —of missing children. About two-thirds of those are suspected to be runaways. Last year, in Chicago alone, two dozen children were reported abducted and murdered. Most of them were girls under 11 years old."
"Those are some numbers, Mike. Are you writing a thesis?"
"A friend of mine lost her kid a couple of years ago, and she thinks she witnessed an abduction in her neighborhood yesterday. She's pretty shaken up."
"I'll bet."
"So. I thought I'd give the subject a little attention. It's scary as hell, when you think about it. You've got kids, right?"
"One daughter. Sheila. Age three."
"Right. How would you feel if she disappeared without a trace, especially after reading the reports on how some of them turned up?"
"Christ, Mike, how do you think I'd feel? Why bring it up at dinner?"
"Sorry. I just learned this stuff, but I really don't want to talk about it with her. I think she might flip out a little."
"She got any other kids?"
"No."
"Well, that's one less worry for her."
Mike felt his face turning a little hot, but he decided against a smart retort. Frank was about the closest friend he had at the office, and they usually ate lunch together, occasionally hanging out after hours. Frank was Mike's age, lanky and pale, with a receding hairline and a wisp of a mustache above his upper lip. His eyes looked like big blue marbles behind his thick, wire-rimmed glasses.
The waitress came and took their beer orders. They'd already ordered pizza from the counter downstairs.
"You know what's weird? Claire thinks there's the possibility that a priest is involved in this case."
"Claire's your friend, right? Well, never trust those guys in collars. How'd she figure?"
"She heard voices outside her window; the little kid's, and she thinks the priest's. She went outside and saw this man. And the child was gone."
"She's sure it was the priest she heard?"
"She's sure, but it wouldn't hold up in court."
"Yes, well. Maybe the guy wasn't working alone. Maybe he didn't actually do it, but set the kid up for somebody else to grab him."
A bell clanged in Mike's head. Of course! If the priest were a lure, then someone else could have grabbed the child from behind, then hustled him into a waiting car. "You know, you might even get beyond being worthless one day."
"I just might," Frank mumbled.
The waitress arrived with their pizza, a stuffed spinach and mushroom with extra cheese. As she served them, each piece trailing long strings of melted cheese, Frank's eyes followed the movements of her hands like a shark's, and Mike realized that a regular feeding frenzy was about to commence.
Food was not the foremost item in Mike's mind, though; the urge to see Claire again had grown almost overpowering. He hadn't felt anything like this since Junior College when he started dating a girl who really seemed to liked him.
Until he'd blown it. Stood her up to go out with a young slut, was promptly discovered and dumped. Welcome to the Bomber's Out Club.
He wouldn't blow it with Claire. He was considerably more mature now, more patient, less impulsive. He would tread carefully.
He loaded up his pizza with hot pepper and salt, then stuffed a forkful into his mouth. The cheese seared his tongue and he nearly blew the mouthful at Frank. He managed to hold it in, working it around from side to side to keep it from sticking to the roof of his mouth. He saw Frank watching him with amusement, tearing at his own steaming slice. At last, the first piece slid down his throat and he immediately began shoveling in another.
Thank God Claire wasn't here to witness this fine display.
****
When Mike pulled out of the parking lot into Rush Street traffic and started to plot his course home, it occurred to him that Claire lived reasonably nearby. Should he... ? Or would it be too much too soon? She probably wasn't exactly pining for him at the moment. Better to wait, he decided, take it slowly.
Christ. He felt like an infatuated kid. He was too old, with too many responsibilities to go through what might turn out to be no more than a delayed schoolboy crush.
Mike, you idiot. This is real, man, it's the real thing.
Suddenly, though, he thought of the Church of the Seven Stars, and how in an odd way it played a part in their relationship. He headed up State Street to bypass the projects, then started taking sidestreets to avoid traffic, finally arriving at Sheffield, where he turned north. He was surprised to discover that his heart was thudding with excitement. He wasn't exactly sure what he was doing, except maybe looking for some sort of gratification through association.
He wondered if she had called the police to tell them about the flyer and the crystal cube she'd found. Then, he decided: yes, learning the answer to that question was sufficient reason to call her once he got home.
He was in the DePaul University neighborhood now, a warmly lit, tree-lined residential area that seemed remarkably tranquil compared to its surrounding environs. At Diversey, he turned left, then took an immediate right on Seminary. The church lay a couple of short blocks ahead.
There it was, on the right. To his surprise, he saw the doors standing open and a light inside. Perhapsthey had meetings on weeknights, he thought. The odd-looking star atop the steeple glowed with a reddish hue; perhaps, Mike thought, this was not a Christian church, for he'd never seen such a symbol before. He noticed no one outside the building or in the doorway, but most of the parking spaces on the street were filled. On impulse, he turned right on the adjacent sidestreet and found a vacant spot, deciding to get out and survey the church from closer range.
No one else was around as Mike left his car, though lights burned dimly in the windows of the venerable brownstones on either side of the street. He walked back toward Seminary, bowing his head against the chilly breeze, thrusting his hands deep into his coat pockets. The darkened stained glass windows of the church peered down at him from above. At street level, white frosted windows revealed lights on inside the building's lower level. Pressing close to one of them, he thought he heard a vague hint of voices on the other side. As he came around to the front of the church, he noticed a pair of featureless black doors at the southwest corner of the building that probably led to basement offices or classrooms. Unusual, he thought, that the main doors would be gaping wide in such cold weather.
As he took in the whole of the building, he found that it looked even older than had been apparent from the car. The ding}7 brick siding was stained and chipped, and the low stone pediment bore the spray-painted crown of the Latin Kings, one of the city's most notorious street gangs. The design had been partially effaced and might have been there for years. The low concrete stairs leading to the main doors were cracked and pitted, deeply enough to twist an ankle if one weren't cautious. Even on close inspection, he found no sign that identified the church.
Then, inspired by the three beers in his system, he went up the stairs and in through the open doors, finding himself beneath a current of hot air blown from a wide vent in the ceiling. He stood in a small narthex, facing another set of double doors, closed. On a wooden table next to them, he found a stack of flyers like the one Claire had. He picked one up and stuffed it into his coat pocket. The light here filtered down from three dust-choked chandeliers — oddly septagonal in shape — decorated with several crystalline chains that would no doubt sparkle brilliantly if cleaned. Mike felt remarkably warm in here, despite the open doors. Nowhere did he see a cross or crucifix, but at the far end of the narthex, beneath a stairway that probably led to the sanctuary balcony, a smaller replica of the same star that adorned the steeple shone with a dim light the color of a hazy Autumn moon. Its bloody hue illuminated a small table, upon which rested a tarnished silver plate, and an ornate, strangely engraved goblet. Taking a closer look, he found that the engraving appeared to be a kind of coat of arms: a coiled serpent wrapped around a tiny, cherub-like figure. Beneath it, the words "Venite, Magna Mater" were etched in flowing script.
"Good evening," said a low, smooth voice from behind him, causing him to jump. Mike turned to face a mammoth-looking figure in a black pinstripe suit. Dark eyes peered at him from a round, puffy-looking face, the eyebrows dark and bushy, the hair cut so short it was hard to tell its true color. "May I help you, sir?"
Mike swallowed uneasily. "I was just looking around. I found this church ... interesting."
"Have you come to us before?"
"No." He dug into his pocket and removed the folded flyer. "I got this from a lady over on Clark Street."
"I see," said the man, folding his hands behind his back. "Are you a member of any church?"
"Well, I'm Catholic. But I haven't gone to mass in a long time."
"I see," he said again. "Well, perhaps you would like to come inside to pray."
Without thinking, he blurted, "Pray? I don't think so." Then, thinking better of the idea: "On other hand ... Yes, I think I would like to pray."
The man nodded, and opened the doors that led to the sanctuary. Inside, only a faint light illuminated the vast chamber. The aisle led to a candlelit altar, above which the ubiquitous, illuminated star rested atop a tall, bronze stand. Apart from the candles on the altar, it appeared to be the only source of light within the great hall.
"What denomination is this Church?" Mike asked softly. "We are not affiliated with any traditional denomination," the huge man answered. "This is an entirely autonomous congregation, devoted to spiritual wisdom that one may not find in your typical houses of worship. We have a few chapters in other cities, but the Church of the Seven Stars is unique in its ideology, and does not seek to expand in the way of most 'mainstream' denominations. But perhaps you would like to learn more about us?"
"Perhaps," Mike ventured. He studied the man as surreptitiously as possible, somewhat intimidated by his overbearing presence. The smiling face seemed genuinely pleased to welcome him, and his silky voice conveyed only courtesy and respect. Perhaps it was his great size that made Mike feel uneasy.
"You may kneel at the altar or have a seat in one of the pews. Whichever is most comfortable for you. I must ask, however, that you do not touch anything or attempt to visit the offices or classrooms through that door." He pointed to closed wooden door to the right of the altar, and his face took on a pained expression. "It is on an alarm. We have occasionally had trouble with young vandals."
"I understand," Mike said. "Well, you're most kind. I'll just go and ... take care of my business."
"I'll leave you then."
Mike started forward, then stopped. "Oh. You know, I didn't hear you when you came in. Were you outside?"
"No, I came from my office. Next to the narthex. I'm sorry if I startled you."
"Oh, it's all right. My name is Mike, by the way." And I must be drunker than I thought.
"I am pleased to meet you, Mike. I am Mr. Hanger. Perhaps I will see you on another occasion." The man bowed his head curtly, then disappeared through the narthex door.
Mike walked softly down the aisle past the rows of pews, reluctant to make a sound in the utterly silent chamber. He was reminded of how small he'd felt in the sanctuary of St. Jude's when he was a child; an agoraphobic anxiety gripped him, a terror that the high ceiling might come crashing down on his head. His mom used to say he was afraid the sky would fall. With difficulty, he managed to fight down the eerie sensation. He reached the railing around altar, which was elevated upon a dais. Atop the cloth-covered altar rested a silver goblet similar to the one in the narthex, and a large thick book that he assumed was a Bible. A tall podium stood at one end of the platform, covered by a square of red satin, embroidered in gold with the omnipresent symbol of the star. A slightly must}7 smell hung in the air.
Into the silence of the great hall, a faint noise seemed to float from a great distance. Once it became clearer, he identified it as the sound of a baby crying, reminding him all too clearly of Claire's dream, or hallucination—or whatever had caused her such distress. Indeed, in this place, the sound gave him the creeps; surely, it came from somewhere outside, as there was obviously no baby in the chamber.
Still, despite its low volume, the sound seemed too distinct to be coming from beyond the tall stained glass windows. He looked again toward the main doors, wondering if someone had come in carrying a child. No one. Shutting the sound out of his mind, he decided to leave, for there appeared to be little more to learn about this place. Turning, he began to head back down the aisle when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a glitter from behind the altar railing. He went to investigate.
What he found was a silver tray on a stand, just behind the banister. In the tray lay a number of small, dazzling little cubes like the one Claire had found, the colors inside seeming to oscillate slowly beneath the red-hued starlight. He reached for one and tentatively touched it, finding it cold, like the one he'd handled before.
Well, this proves that the cube belonged to the priest. Claire did indeed have a piece of evidence in her possession.
Looking around to make sure that no one else had come inside, particularly the giant Mr. Hanger, Mike reached into the tray, took one of the cubes, and slipped it into his coat pocket, finding that his heart had suddenly kicked into overdrive. He quickly turned and began walking back toward the entrance.
Suddenly, there came a distant, muted creaking—from the other side of the alarm-rigged door, he thought. Then, the sound of footsteps, slow, uneven, as if someone were limping; moving slowly nearer with an almost frightening deliberation. Rather than follow his first impulse, which was to vacate the premises with all possible haste, he looked around, eyed the wine-colored curtains hanging on either side of the tall windows, and scrambled for the nearest one, slipping behind it and flattening himself against the wall. He smoothed out the curtain and turned his head so that one eye could peer around the corner of the drape.
Okay, sometimes I'm stupid.
The footsteps paused; then he heard the unmistakable sound of a bolt being drawn back. The door at the end of the altar opened, and a tall, gaunt-looking figure wearing a priest's frock entered the sanctuary, followed by a hulking, humpbacked creature who lumbered along with an odd, shambling gait. It was a black man, Mike saw, with a tragically deformed face. His eyes, which gleamed crimson and onyx under the reddish light, were set at skewed angles, one drooping toward his sloping cheek, the other wide and glaring straight ahead, unblinking. The two men moved to stand in front of the altar, facing the rear of the sanctuary.
Mike silently moved his head so that he could see out the other side of the curtain. Mr. Hanger had just appeared in the chamber, his eyes searching every corner, his face wearing a grim, purposeful expression, not at all like the smile of welcome he'd worn upon their first meeting. The two men at the altar, the first of whom could only be the Reverend Lazar, spoke softly to each other, but Mike could not understand them.
Hanger then said, "I trust the young gentleman is on his way home by now."
Lazar in a raspy voice. "May he arrive safely."
Hanger then closed the sanctuary doors, twisting the handles to verify they were locked, then he turned and approached his two companions. Mike swiveled his head to the other side of the curtain; the three now stood facing each other, forming a triad. For several long minutes, they remained rigidly in position, not speaking, barely appearing to even breathe. Mike found he was holding his breath, and let it out softly, careful not to make a sound. He was sure these men would not take kindly to him should he be discovered. At last the figures at the altar broke formation and Mr. Hanger went around the altar rail to take a seat in a high-backed wooden chair behind the pulpit. The deformed black man took a position behind the tray of glittering cubes, standing as erect as his bowed back would allow, his long arms crossed behind him. Lazar remained outside the railing, head bowed solemnly. After another few moments, he looked up at Hanger and raised a hand in a gesture of greeting.
"O Captain of the order, O most exalted. We gather here in His name, that we may gain His most precious wisdom. We ask that ye grant us thy mercy so that we may come to enjoy the grace of our Father, as ye have gained such favor."
"Thy request is heard," Hanger said, his voice low, yet still booming through the great hall. "Are ye a true follower of the words of wisdom?"
"I am."
"And do ye approach with glory for Him in thy heart, without reservation?"
"I do."
"As ye bring honor, so shall ye be honored. Give to me thy most precious possession, that thy words will find favor with Him. What, O servant, is thy secret name?"
"O Captain, that be the name of Jerovaim, he who comes only to serve thy will."
"So it is, that name which may only be spoken within the halls of His presence. To speak it outside of this circle is the gravest blasphemy."
Mike nearly let out a disbelieving hiss. What the hell have I walked into? Hanger appeared to be the man in charge here, not Lazar, as he would have expected. Whatever ritual they were performing, it wasn't like any he'd ever seen. He found himself fascinated, despite his fear of being caught.
"Tell me of thy need, O servant."
Lazar bowed his head. "The token of communion which was mine is delivered. It is now in the hands of the lamb."
"Indeed, ye must proceed with the gravest caution. Thy service and loyalty shew ye worthy of the trust placed in thy hands. Ye now beg a favor of Him?"
"O gracious Captain. I request aid from the emissaries of Golgolith, that I may give all glory and honor to Him, our Lord and Savior. In this request, I forsake any and all personal gain, and act only in accordance with His will."
"Thy request is honorable. I will carry it for thee in good faith." Hanger stared down at Lazar, his face taking on the smile he had first shown to Mike. "In His name, do we now depart this place. To whom do ye swear allegiance, our brother Jerovaim?"
"My allegiance is sworn solely to Him."
"Do ye swear thy service the rest of thy mortal days?"
"I swear it."
"Very well. Approach, then, and take to thyself a token of communion."
Lazar knelt before the black man, who reached into the tray of crystalline cubes, took one and held it in front of Lazar's face. The black man mumbled a few words that Mike could not hear, then placed the cube in Lazar's open mouth. Mike saw the priest tip his head back, and heard a sharp crunch as his teeth split the cube. For a moment, Lazar's face and throat were illuminated from within by a warm, golden glow; it passed quickly, and the old man lowered his head and placed his hands together in front of his face as if in prayer. Hanger then rose from his seat, faced the star over the altar, bowed and left the dais, going through the door that he had instructed Mike to avoid. The black man shambled after him, leaving Lazar kneeling at the rail. Mike's feet were beginning to ache, and he didn't know how much longer he could remain motionless behind the curtain. He prayed that Lazar would leave quickly.
Five minutes later the priest rose, turned toward the rear of the sanctuary, and slowly ambled toward the doors to the narthex. He unlocked them and slowly pulled them open, to disappear into the darkness beyond. Mike heard the rattle of doorknobs, then the slamming of the outside doors.
Christ! What if he'd just been locked in? Stealthily, he crept from his cover, made his way past the dimly lit pews, and stopped before the double doors. He placed an ear to them and listened.
Nothing.
Surely, Lazar had left the building. What if Mike managed to slip out but happened upon the others outside? It was a chance he'd have to take, he thought; he couldn't stand to remain in this place a minute longer.
Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he reached for the door handles, closing his fingers on the cold metal with fearful anticipation. The door pulled open easily, exposing the near total darkness of the narthex. Mike hurriedly went through, finding the outside doors now closed, as he expected. They were indeed locked to the outside, but fortunately, the spring bar allowed him to open them from this side. Rushing into the cold night, he felt a warm surge of relief, but he still looked to every side for any sign of the churchmen. So far, none. He jogged down the sidestreet where his car was parked, and within a matter of moments was reaching for his keys and punching the button to unlock the door.
He slid behind the wheel, closed his door, and punched the lock. He started the car and turned up the heater, sitting back in his seat and taking a few deep, calming breaths.
What the hell had he just witnessed? Those men must be escapees from an asylum, he thought. Lazar had said that some token was now in the hands of "the lamb" —the connotations of which could not be more disturbing. Now more than ever he was convinced that the priest Claire had seen was indeed part of a kidnapping, or worse, the murder of a child. Maybe while Lazar occupied little Paul Hernandez's attention, Hanger or the black man had come up behind him and whisked him away; then Lazar had simply walked away, bumping into Claire as he left the scene. If she hadn't already gone back to the police, he would, for the circumstantial evidence was surely sufficient to warrant an investigation.
Mike reached into his pocket and removed the cube he'd taken from the silver tray. Apparently, this was something important. What he could hardly accept, though, was that Lazar had actually eaten one of these things! Mike held it up against the glare of a streetlight, tapped it with his fingernail, even placed it between his teeth. Damn, it was cold—unnaturally cold. One thing he knew with certainty: whatever this crystalline substance was, it sure as hell wasn't edible.

Chapter 7

Claire sat on her couch in front of the television, watching a news story about another missing child in the north side of the city. The reporter made mention of the dramatic increase in the number of children who had vanished in recent months, and that few of them had been found. Most, it seemed, simply disappeared without a trace, with no bodies ever turning up, no ransom demands ... nothing. So far, Claire had not seen a thing about the Hernandez child; not even a small write-up in the newspaper. Mr. and Mrs. Hernandez had gone through the neighborhood putting up "Missing Child" notices with a picture of Paul, and spent many long hours knocking on doors, desperately hoping someone might have seen him. The whole procedure was painfully familiar to her; she'd been through the same thing when Sean had vanished. The police had paid another visit to the Hernandezes, but had not asked to see Claire.
And she not called them about the strange cube and the flyer that revealed the priest's identity. She could hardly explain her inaction; certainly, the longer she waited, the greater the odds against her evidence being of any use. Perhaps she could even get in trouble for withholding information from the police. But none of these things shook her from her fear-induced lethargy. She could sense an air of danger around her, growing stronger with the deepening of night, almost choking her with its oppressive thickness.
In her hand, she held the icy, multicolored crystalline cube. Its frigid surfaces stung her palm, but she paid the discomfort no mind. Lifting the cube, she peered into the deep, wavering planes of color within: blue as pure as the sky, gold as brilliant as a noonday sun, crimson, like blood; all swirling in and out of vast, midnight depths. As she stared, her surroundings seemed to disappear, and the sound of the television faded away, to be replaced by a barely audible, distant hissing, almost like the noise from her radiator.
Rising then: the sound of a child crying. Not just crying—screaming, the horrible, high-pitched shrieking of a baby suffering the cruelest of tortures. Claire cringed at the sound, and suddenly she realized it was little Paul she was hearing. It was his voice. Oh my God...."Mommy, nooo ... it's hurting me ... make it stop...."
A deeper, threatening voice began rumbling over the baby's. She couldn't understand the words, but it seemed sickeningly familiar. The syllables became more defined, but remained incomprehensible, like a foreign tongue composed mostly of hard consonants and guttural grunts. Then, they suddenly changed to English, and the far away voice told her, "This is what I did...."
She strained to hear beyond the baby's wailing. The voice said slowly, "In taking it, I bruised the child, but stole it from its parents. I threw the mother out the window, and her body smashed on the pavement below. I cut the head off the father and left it on the railroad tracks, to be crushed into royal jelly. This is the world as it is for me, and I enjoy my work."
The tone of the voice was hypnotic. The mumbled cadence of the words filled her with a deep dread, but she could not shut out the sound.
"The other child I took, and boiled it, so that the skin fell off the bones in slabs. The mother and father came looking, so I showed their baby to them, and they ran away screaming. When I ate the flesh, I experienced great joy. This was my gift from Him, in reward for my service."
The voice faded into the distance again, and Claire could no longer understand it. Then, it was gone altogether, leaving only the baby's screaming and the hissing radiator sound. Her eyes beheld living, endlessly moving color, swirling silently around her like the fluid in some huge, unknown organic system.
Suddenly, she came back to herself, as if she'd been slapped by a cold hand. She shook her head, unsure of where she was, what was happening. The television ... the cube in her hand ... she must have dozed off while watching the news. She felt disturbed by something; bad dreams, perhaps. But she could not remember anything specific from that subconscious realm; only some nonsensical, half-heard mumblings....
The news was just ending, so she had been out for at least fifteen or twenty minutes. The cube felt like ice in her palm. When did I pick this up? she wondered. The last she could remember, it had been in her coat pocket.
Struggling to her feet, she went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of ice water and took an Advil. Hopefully it would ease the rising ache in her head as well as this awful anxiety. Mike's presence this morning had been a balm for her nerves; now, she felt wretched again, and even the apartment seemed drab and empty without him. Perhaps the time had come to admit that loneliness had crept insidiously back into her life....
It was just after she'd rinsed her empty glass and placed it in the drying rack that she noticed the fall of complete silence over her apartment. Usually, there were subtle signs of life all around her: the low rumble of traffic outside, creaks and murmurs from the neighboring apartments, the occasional distant siren. Not now, though. She couldn't even hear the sound of the television in the living room. Leaning close to the window, she peered across the narrow alley, at the dark window in the adjacent building. She could see herself, and her brightly lit kitchen reflected there, like a ghost looking out from a room of its own. No one had lived in that apartment for several months. Sometimes back here, in her own kitchen, which seemed so remote from the rest of the house, she felt truly isolated. She didn't spend much time here; it was not a cheerful, hospitable room, like her mother's kitchen, which seemed to be the heart of her old house. It was indeed the one thing about living at home she missed. The wonderful smells that always wafted from there, the sunlight that danced through its window, the prevailing atmosphere of health. So often, they'd had guests over for dinner when she was a child. She could count the number of people who'd been guests in this kitchen on one hand.
She had just turned out the light and was about to go back to the living room when something at the edge of her vision drew her attention back to the dark gulf beyond the glass. Something even blacker than the darkness, a swirl of shadow, like a small animal uncurling on the windowsill. A cat, perhaps? A black cat?
Then ... a quick flash of light amid the darkness ... and an electric thrill of fear jolted her heart. A pair of eyes, brilliant, green eyes, glared at her briefly, then vanished. Oh God, something was out there! She backed away from the window, bumping painfully into the kitchen table. Her pulse thudded in her temple as her breath froze in her lungs.
She flipped the light back on, only to realize how plainly visible she would be to anything that might be watching. She practically leaped from the kitchen and hurried back to the living room, cursing herself for becoming so spooked but unable to stabilize her nerves.
It was just a cat, she told herself. A goddamn cat, or a raccoon. Raccoons could often be found even in the heart of the city, miles away from their native woodlands.
Yet, those eyes had been large, widely spaced—far too big to belong to any animal that might be able to climb up to her second floor windowsill. The head that held those eyes had to be as large as a man's.
In here, the sound of the television masked the intolerable silence that seemed to have overwhelmed the apartment, but it comforted her little. The window blinds facing the street were open, and outside, the streetlights burned with orange halos, casting a golden hue over the street and the parked cars. A light breeze stirred the bare maples lining the avenue, but she could not hear its rush against the windows.
What she did hear was a faint, feline yowl rising above the soundtrack of the commercial on the TV. As it swelled, she could tell that it was not a cat at all, but the sound of a baby crying. Just as she'd heard the night before. Now it was in the room with her — shockingly loud! Where the hell was it coming from? Where? She spun around frantically, terrified; angry.
Stop it!
Then—outside, something clattered against the side of the building, like a tree limb in the wind. But the branches of the trees could not touch the house even in the strongest gale. Peering out the window, she saw the roof of the house across the street as if through a wavering heat haze. The panes of glass rattled. The baby's cry intensified into a pitiful, anguished screech.
Something dark began forming outside, framed within the window: a swirling storm cloud just above the edge of the windowsill, billowing and contracting, pulsating like some kind of alien life. And from its heart, the pair of yellow-green, glowing jewels once again glared at her, like the eyes of a huge, malevolent wolf. The sound of the child's screaming reached an even higher pitch; spinning around, Claire caught sight of the little cube on the end table.
The crying was coming from there!
She grabbed the cube and peered into its jeweled heart. Yes, from its icy depths, the frantic wailing emanated with horrifying clarity. Suddenly, gazing into the source of the sound, Claire's fear melted, simply vanished, to be replaced with a consuming rage. This was a trick of some kind, some vicious ruse designed solely to terrify her. Clutching the object in a furious palm, she stormed into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and rummaged through the lower drawer where she kept a few tools. Finding the heavy clawhammer, she took it, then dropped the cube on the floor. And raising her weapon high, she brought its head down on the obscene crystal with all her strength.
She felt the impact as the hammerhead struck; suddenly, a bright flash blinded her, followed by a deafening whooshing sound. Fragments of the cube exploded in all directions, flaring into tiny sparks before vanishing into little wisps of smoke, leaving only the odor of ozone filling the kitchen. Claire stumbled backwards in surprise, dropping the hammer to the floor with a heavy thunk.
When her vision cleared, she saw that nothing remained of the cube, not even dust. The crying had stopped, and she found herself alone in an empty, silent room, leaning against the wall to keep her balance. The air of danger she'd felt since yesterday seemed to evaporate like the pieces of the cube, and rushing out to the living room, she found no seething cloud of horror waiting for her at the window; just some inane game show blaring from the television.
She dropped to the couch, somewhere between shocked and ecstatic with relief, taking long, deep breaths to quiet her pounding heart. Now that the catalyst for her terror had been destroyed, her mind automatically began trying to sort out the real from the unreal, and she had to force herself to slow down and relax. She had been hallucinating, certainly; but what could have brought it on? Drugs? Her own overwrought nerves?
But the sound of the baby crying could not be written off so easily. Nor could those eyes at her window —they were real. So very, very real!
She ignored the little voice that tried to interject uncomfortable facts into her newfound state of calm. Clearly, there was much she didn't understand, but what she did know was that someone had gone to extraordinary lengths to terrify her.
And they had succeeded.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her doorbell. Who the hell? Reluctantly pulling herself off the couch, she went to the intercom and pressed the "talk" button.
"Who is it?"
"Claire, it's Mike. Can I come up?"
She hit the buzzer to admit him, surprised but grateful for his company. If only he had come earlier, maybe she could have been spared this night's horror. But it didn't matter; she wouldn't be alone now. She threw open the door, and there he was, in his overcoat, wearing a small smile on his face. But he looked haggard and worried, and she felt a new stab of apprehension.
"What is it, what's wrong?"
"I don't know," he said. "There's weird shit going on."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean this."
And all of Claire's hopes suddenly melted, as from his pocket, Mike produced a tiny, multicolored crystalline cube, just like the one she had just smashed in the kitchen, and bounced it in his palm.
You have to go to the police," Mike said as they sat on her couch beneath the soft lamplight. "I'll go with you; I can take half a day off tomorrow. I know a detective we can talk to. But I think we're dealing with truly dangerous people."
Claire had listened to his story of what happened at the church. After his experience, he'd decided to come here after all, and for that she was glad. She then told him of her own ordeal, and of the destruction of the cube. He seemed less incredulous than she might have expected.
"These cubes," he said, holding up the one he'd appropriated, "there are many of them at the church, and they appear to be important to these men. Look at this one. It's a little different than the other. Similar, but not quite the same."
Claire peered at it, but did not want to touch it. He was right, though; the patterns inside this cube seemed subtly different than those of the first. Hard to pinpoint the exact reason—but the aura it exuded seemed more intense, the colors and planes blending with greater brilliance. It looked beautiful and alluring, yet it felt dangerous.
"The one I smashed, it just vanished. Completely disintegrated."
"That son of a bitch at the church actually ate one of these. You think you could crack that with your teeth?"
"No."
"No way." He rapped the cube with his fingernail. "These things are so cold. It's unnatural."
"The sound of the baby crying ... God, Mike, it was so real, so close. How could it do that? How could that thing do that?"
"I don't know." He sighed heavily. "Tomorrow, we're taking this stuff to the cops. It'll be their problem then."
She gazed at the little object, and sudden, strange image appeared in her mind's eye: a shambling, dark silhouette, and a low, nonsensical voice.
"I think this thing actually made me hallucinate," she said slowly. "The sounds, the voices I heard, the things I saw. It scared the hell out of me, Mike."
"The sooner we get this stuff out of our possession the better." He glanced at the cube and scowled. "Ugh. Technically, this is stolen property. However ... there's no way to differentiate this from the one you smashed. And there's nothing left of it."
"Are you serious? You want me to say this is the one I found on the street?"
"Well, if I admit that I took this from the church, my conduct will be brought into question. I only have to say that I saw some of these in the sanctuary. There was nothing improper about me just being there."
Claire shrugged. "Well, if that's what we have to do. We won't have to confront the priest himself, will we?"
"If they arrest him, we may have to testify in court." Mike sighed wearily. "But we still don't have any hard evidence of wrongdoing. The only thing the police can do is question Lazar, and only as a witness to a possible abduction. He won't be held as a suspect."
"Not even if you tell them your theory that he might have been an accessory?"
"I'll talk to Ingram Trotter. He's a detective I know —a little, at least. He's in homicide, but I think this will make him raise an eyebrow."
Claire nodded. Suddenly, this seemed to be Mike's story, as if he were a real lawyer working on a big case. Well, if he wanted to play it that way, so much the better, she thought. She had no burning desire to go to the police herself and risk not being taken seriously.
"Can you get some time off in the morning?" he asked.
"I think so. Bill will probably be happy to save the dollars on payday."
"Okay. Let me use your phone. I'm going to call Parker and tell her I've got some business to take care of in the morning. And pray she doesn't fire me."
"It's settled," he said, hanging up the phone.  He looked a little pale. The conversation had been dominated by the voice at the other end of the line, which Claire could hear from across the room at least a couple of times. "She's not happy. Not happy at all. But I've got till eleven. That should be adequate." "I really appreciate this, Mike."
"Some things you've just got to do." He glanced at his watch. "Like head home. Since I won't be in the office tomorrow morning, there's a lot of work I need to do tonight."
Claire swallowed hard. She'd almost dared to hope Mike would stay over again. "You don't want a drink or anything first, huh?"
He shook his head. "I can't. As much as I would like to. It is kind of ... hard to leave, though, if you know what I mean."
His eyes gazed at her so warmly. She felt herself blushing. "Yeah, well. I still feel a bit leery about being alone. Just be sure you take that damned cube with you."
He patted his jacket pocket. "Right here. Look, I'll call Trotter when I get home, and make sure he can see us in the morning. Unless I call and tell you otherwise, meet me at the 19th district station at 9:00. It's at Belmont and Western."
"I'll be there."
"Remember, this is the cube you found."
"I know. I can do that."
"Okay then. I'll see you tomorrow." He leaned toward her and kissed her on the lips. She responded ardently, and he took her in his arms briefly, holding her tightly but soon releasing her.
"Be careful," she said as he turned and started down the stairs.
"Everything should be all right now."
Claire nodded and closed the door, going straight to the window and waiting for him to appear on the sidewalk. When he did, she waved, and he waved back. Within a moment, he was driving down the street, and all too soon out of view.
Silence filled the void he'd left. Solitude, to which she'd grown accustomed — and comfortable with—had begun to feel empty and threatening. Tell me I'm not really crazy, she implored the ceiling, then went back to the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice, no longer feeling afraid, but keeping her eyes averted from the darkness beyond the window ... just in case.

Chapter 8

Lt. Ingram Trotter's office looked like a closet that a hyperactive child had stormed through. Loose papers, manila folders and computer disks covered every square inch of the large wooden desk and the top of the gray file cabinet in the corner. His drawn shade admitted only a sliver of sunlight; a fluorescent desk lamp provided the scant illumination.
Claire and Mike sat in a hard-backed wooden chairs in front of the desk, waiting for Trotter to arrive. Mike had managed to work them in, but only just, he'd said. Claire's stomach felt queasy, and her fingers unconsciously crinkled and uncrinkled the edge of the folded flyer she clutched in her hands. The last time she'd been in a police station was to file the report on her missing son.
"How did you sleep?" Mike asked. "Any dreams?"
"None that I can remember. I guess that's a good sign."
"Something strange happened to me last night."
"What?"
"I sleepwalked. I haven't sleepwalked since I was about twelve."
Claire raised an eyebrow. "Where did you walk to?"
"I woke up on the sidewalk in front of my house. I guess because it was very cold."
"You didn't lock yourself out?"
He chuckled. "No. But I had the strange feeling I was heading somewhere specific."
"My place?"
He smiled and touched her hand tenderly. Just then, Detective Trotter came into his office, giving his two visitors an appraising glance. He was a tall, broadly built black man with short, iron gray hair and penetrating, chocolate colored eyes. His charcoal suit appeared immaculately pressed, and apart from a neatly clipped mustache, he was clean shaven. Claire guessed he was about forty-five.
"You're Mr. Selby, aren't you," he said in a soft, pleasant voice. Mike stood up and the two shook hands. "Your firm helped me out a few times, I believe."
"Yes, sir. Last year, Ms. Parker lent me to you to research the Givens case."
"That's right." Trotter pushed aside a stack of papers to expose a 4-cup Mr. Coffee machine and poured himself a mugful. "Coffee, either of you?"
They both declined and Mike introduced Claire. Trotter smiled politely at her, exposing very straight, very white teeth. The contrast between his personal demeanor and the state of his office, she decided, was extreme.
"So you think you witnessed a child's abduction. And you have an idea of who might be responsible?"
"Well, I saw this man leaving the scene," she said, producing the church flyer and handing it to him. "And I found this." As he took the proffered cube, she noticed his reaction of surprise. He had not expected it to be so cold. Mike gave her an approving glance.
"I have a copy of Officer Ermilio's report," Trotter said. "You didn't mention finding any such evidence at the scene."
"It—it just slipped my mind," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I didn't associate it with the incident at the time."
"But I found out it came from the same church the priest belongs to," Mike interjected. "I visited this church, and found several of these cubes in a tray at the altar." He then proceeded to describe the sanctuary, the men he'd encountered, the strange ritual he'd observed, omitting the detail of the purloined cube. Trotter listened somewhat distractedly, rolling the colorful object between his thumb and forefinger. When Mike told him about the priest ingesting the cube, the detective's eyes flashed curiously.
"And you were where when these events occurred?"
Mike glanced at his feet. "Standing behind a curtain by one of the windows."
"Hiding."
"Surveying the situation. I didn't go in with intent to spy, but under the circumstances, I would not have felt comfortable revealing myself."
"I think you're in a position to know better, Mike."
"Well, like I said, given the circumstances I'm certain it was the wisest choice. My impression was that these people are potentially dangerous."
"They didn't threaten you in any way did they? And what was it you told me Mr. Lazar said — something about wishing you a safe trip home? That doesn't sound very sinister."
"Come on. You know bullshit when you hear it. So do I."
Claire felt her face flushing, afraid that Mike was not making the best possible impression on the detective. She said quickly, "I believe he's correct, sir. I'm pretty sure that Lazar was the man I heard talking to the little boy."
"I've seen the report. You're not asking me to arrest this man, are you? Because at the moment, I don't have enough to hold him for five minutes. There's no body, so I can't conduct a murder investigation. Homicide is my department, Mike. The Hernandez family already has Missing Persons on the case."
"I know that," Mike said. "But I'd like you to question the priest. Maybe you'll find it is your department. And you should check out that church. I know you'd find that interesting."
"If, God forbid, this child does turn up dead, then I'll be on it in a second. But until then, Mike...."
"Lieutenant, it's important to Claire —to us. Pardon me for saying so, but I know how you work. We'd both be a lot more comfortable if we knew you were looking into it."
Trotter gave her an appraising look. "I understand you lost a child of your own a couple of years ago. Is that why you're so anxious about this case?"
She nodded. "My child was never recovered, Lieutenant. Missing Persons was on that case, 'doing everything they could.' I have accepted that my son is dead. I want you to find Paul Hernandez before he ends up dead, too. Or don't you believe in the old saying 'an ounce of prevention?'
"Trotter smiled, revealing his white teeth again. "Words to live by, Ms. Challis. That's why we have more than one department here. Mike, if I have time, I'll see if I can't get a man to coordinate with Missing Persons. But no promises."
"You will, really?" Mike asked.
"I will admit that you've aroused my curiosity. But if you were a police officer, you might get more than your wrists slapped for using poor judgment. However," he gave Mike a solemn frown, "I'd say you're well on your way to being a bitching lawyer."
"Would you tell that to Parker?"
"No. I hate lawyers."
"Bear in mind, Lieutenant, Ms. Challis and I are merely attempting to be good citizens."
Trotter nodded. "Look, I'll keep the flyer and this doojigger and perhaps a detective can swing by the church. Plus, I'll run a check on your Reverend Lazar. Did you get the names of the other two men?"
"Hanger, he said. No first name. I don't know about the other."
Trotter scribbled the name on a notepad. "Well, maybe this will give me enough to have fun with."
"There's something very strange about that cube," Claire said suddenly, without even meaning to. "Maybe it's some kind of device, electronic, or something. I heard ... sounds ... coming from it. In my living room, and my bedroom."
"Sounds?"
"A baby crying. Coming from that."
Trotter's expression warned her that she was treading dangerous ground. She didn't want to spoil the progress they'd already made, but it was important that he know the kind of effect the cube had had on her, and that she believed Lazar and his cohorts were responsible for it.
"If these were some kind of electronic gadgets, I don't think Mr. Lazar would have eaten one. Unless he's looking for a hell of a thrill." She hesitated, realizing how seriously she could be damaging her own credibility. "Maybe they're not all the same, I don't know. But I know what I heard." She decided she didn't dare mention what she'd seen—or thought she'd seen—outside her apartment windows.
"Tell you what. I've got some reasonably concrete facts from the two of you." He held up the cube and the flyer. "You let me work with these, and I'll see what I can come up with. Is that agreeable?"
"Yes," she said, unwilling to dig herself in any deeper. "Yes, thank you."
"I've got another appointment, and I'm going to be late as it is. I appreciate you coming down, Ms. Challis, Mike. Would you excuse me now? If we learn anything, I'll call you. I've got both of your numbers —and your cell phone number, Mike."
Claire and Mike rose at the same time. She felt almost giddy now that the interview was over, but she worried that Trotter might think her unreliable, after what she'd told him about the cube. She felt Mike's hand take her arm in a firm, reassuring grip. He and the detective shook hands again; Trotter gave her a curt nod and another smile.
"I would ask that if either of you plan to leave town in the next few days, please notify me first. Just in case we need to be in touch."
"I'll be here," Claire said, then bid him a final thanks and good day. She and Mike then stepped into the brightly lit corridor, which nearly blinded them after their eyes had gotten used to the dimness of Trotter's cubbyhole.
"Was that a polite brush-off?" she asked.
Mike nodded. "Kind of. But we got somewhere with him. He's a good man. He'll do what he said."
"God, I appreciate this, Mike. I could never have gone through with it by myself."
He snickered. "I know. You don't like cops very much."
"Well, there's that," she said. "But I have a harder time dealing with things I don't understand."
They walked down the corridor toward the main entrance, past the front desk where a number of bored-looking officers chatted and drank coffee, and out of the sprawling brick building into the morning sunshine. A garish red, blue and yellow metal sculpture just outside the front doors gave Claire the impression that a car had jumped the curb and crashed onto the concrete deck.
"Our taxes paid for that?"
Mike chuckled. "Afraid so."
Once on the sidewalk, they headed south on Western, walking under the long bridge that passed over Belmont Avenue. Cars and pedestrians moved in disparate phalanxes up and down the road, while the sound of horns and rumbling tires echoed raucously among the buildings. They managed to catch a bus heading toward the Loop, but were packed uncomfortably among a full load of passengers and had to stand apart near the back door.
This was Chicago's worst aspect, Claire thought: trying to get where you wanted to go with even the slightest degree of comfort. They'd still have to change buses to get anywhere near their respective offices. The noise of the bus and the press of commuters ruled out any meaningful conversation, so they rode mostly in silence, every now and then exchanging small smiles. Claire studied a few of the nearby faces, wondering about them, as she often did; everyone else always seemed to be inside his or her own little shell, most often with eyes closed, radiating solitude. Here, an old man scrunched into his seat, head down, knees jammed together, hands folded in his lap. There, a squat old black woman, jaw protruding angrily, eyes focused intently on the floor. A young woman wearing leather, head shaved on one side, her ears, nose and lips bristling with metal studs and rings, bounced up and down to music only she could hear.
A melting pot.
Claire felt it was a safe bet that none of them had been visited by anything totally inexplicable the night before, like certain people she knew.
Thirty minutes and another bus later, they disembarked at Chicago and LaSalle, leaving both of them still with cold walks of several blocks. "It's ten-fifteen," Claire said. "You should be able to make it well before eleven."
"Yeah," he said. "Time to part company."
She glanced down the street toward Huron, where she was headed. "Thanks again, Mike. You're a great friend." Did she really mean to say that?
He didn't blink, at least. "Call you tonight?"
"I'd like that."
They parted with a quick kiss. As Claire walked away, she felt him watching her, and she was glad. Yes, there was something here. Something very important.
After she'd gone a block farther, she glanced back, and felt a little twinge of disappointment that she could no longer see him. And catching sight of the gray bulk of the Water Tower Place shopping mall, she suddenly wished that she and Mike could blow the whole day, forget everything that had happened, lose themselves in shopping for everything they couldn't possibly afford, eat lunch at the Ritz Carlton, go dancing tonight on Rush Street. So close here —so tempting. But still just a fantasy, she knew; she'd worked too hard and come too far to blow what she had on foolish indulgences. She'd learned the real value of money when she'd had to raise Sean....
And despite a last ditch attempt to derail it, her mind returned to the stress of the last couple of days, overshadowing her hopeful ruminations about building something special with Mike. She began to swear silently and bitterly, for anger was the one emotion she knew intimately and had come to terms with. Change the fear to anger, and I can manage, she told herself.
As she walked under the Franklin Street el tracks, a train roared overhead, nearly drowning every thought remaining in her head. A few droplets of water showered over her, its wet chill rudely slapping at her forehead and cheeks. "Leave me the fuck alone," she said, feeling less inhibited about showing her anger now that Mike was gone. She wondered if he was the type of person who would be willing to deal with her occasionally hot-blooded temperament.
What about Mike, though? What was he like when he was truly and utterly pissed off? Would she be able to stand him then? That, she thought, was perhaps the most important thing to consider in jumping into a relationship.

Chapter 9

Dazzling sunlight exploded in multicolored fragments through the sanctuary of the Church of the Seven Stars, painting the pews and altar spectral shades of blue, violet, green and gold. The arrays of stained glass glittered with uncanny brilliance beneath the noonday sun, painting patterns that would confound even the most adept artist. No one knew who had designed the windows, for the building had been completed in the mid-1800s, and the original plans had been lost since before the Great Depression. For half a century, the building housed a Greek Orthodox congregation, but it had been used as an opium den during World War I; turned into a speakeasy during Prohibition; made into an acid parlor in the late 1960s. The building had been these things and more under the ownership of one man, who most currently went by the name of John Hanger.
Reverend Lazar had called this church "home" for the last sixty-six years, ministering to its flock. Whatever purpose the building served, the church's heart was its active congregation. At any given time, it enrolled no more than a hundred, usually less than fifty, and its number had fallen as low as twenty on a few occasions. But its size mattered little; The Church of the Seven Stars —only one of many names it had assumed over the years —did not cater to the masses; rather, it served the interests of a select group of highly devoted individuals who preserved its ancient beliefs and rituals with uncompromised integrity. Occasionally, the Church recruited new parishioners, when special needs or tasks arose, but for the most part, its purposes were best served by maintaining a manageable, dedicated congregation.
Lazar oversaw the day-to-day operations of the Church, acting as teacher and spiritual advisor to the laity, as well as managing the legal and business affairs necessary to exist in contemporary society. In his service, he was the most trustworthy; in his wisdom, he deferred to no one but John Hanger; in his faith, he stood steadfast, and unwavering example to those who looked to him for the embodiment of Truth.
In his years of devotion to the Church, he had undertaken many projects for the glory of his God. He had accepted his current assignment with all the grace John Hanger would expect from him. And like any of his tasks, it would be seen through to completion. Certainly, his work often entailed the assumption of risk; it was an accepted factor in all his endeavors, and it demanded respect. John Hanger placed his trust in Lazar's intelligence and experience, and Lazar, conversely, placed his life in John Hanger's hands.
Reverend Lazar spent the better part of his days within the solitary confines of the sanctuary, seated behind the pulpit in meditation, communion, and calculation. In this place he could hear the things that sang and spoke in the spaces above, below, and between those perceived by the five mortal senses. Here, he saw truth, and learned the things that John Hanger had learned in the days when the Earth was young.
He did this in place of sleep, for he required none.
The Church received very few visitors, although select members of the congregation, acting as missionaries, had recently distributed handbills designed to enlist a number of individuals to participate in certain activities. Response had been as foreseen: a scant few entered showing a vague interest, including the one hoping to find the secret of the Taquith font. This one had most certainly witnessed the Assembly of Golgolith, for afterward, while he communed with the Spirit, Lazar detected the signs of a presence in the sanctuary with him. He perceived heartbeat, respiration, smelled the fear that exuded from the one in hiding.
If Lazar had discovered this following the act of Assembly, then John Hanger had been aware of it from the beginning. And this puzzled Lazar, for observing the ritual was forbidden even to Church members lower than the Sixth House—not to mention an outsider. For what reason would John Hanger allow such a transgression? But it was not Lazar's place to question, for John Hanger made the law, under the divine guidance of the Spirit. And, should the Spirit so direct, John Hanger and only John Hanger could alter the law, if in doing so a higher purpose was served.
Most troubling, though, was the fact that a Taqith font had been destroyed, and another stolen. The only precedent for such an event was sometime in the early 1900s, before Lazar had been confirmed. There was no record of the result, but one could be assured that those involved were long since gone.
So, Lazar had committed an action, and there would be a consequence to this action. It was Lazar's dutyto address any complications according to his talents.
As he meditated upon this, a low creaking echoed from the far end of the sanctuary, in the narthex. A moment later, the double doors opened, and a single figure appeared silhouetted against the daylight beyond. Immediately, Lazar perceived that the consequence was beginning. The figure, a tall black man dressed in a dark suit came down the aisle, his eyes roving around the chamber, at last falling upon Lazar seated on the dais.
"Good afternoon," said Lazar in his low, raspy voice. "Have you come to offer a prayer?"

Chapter 10

Lt. Trotter found the stage-like setting he'd entered something between amusing and disturbing. The nave, which was larger than he expected, basked in vivid color patterns cast by sunlight through the stained glass windows, producing an almost surreal effect. The bright red star burning over the altar seemed a rather gaudy intrusion to the already overwrought scene. A spicy fragrance hung in the air, thick and cloying, as if to cover up something even less pleasant. To the right of the altar dais, the tall pulpit very nearly concealed a seated figure dressed in black, eyeing him impassively. It was from here that the voice had addressed him.
"Good afternoon," Trotter replied politely, holding up his badge for the priest to view. "Are you Reverend Lazar?"
"Yes, I am."
"I'm Detective Lt. Trotter, Chicago Police. I was wondering if I might speak to you for a few minutes."
"The police? Of course, if it's necessary."
"Yes, sir. I have reason to believe you might have been in the vicinity of a child abduction on this past Sunday morning. I'm hoping you might be able to shed some light on a rather troubling situation."
"A child abduction? I can assure you, sir, I saw nothing of any child abduction, not Sunday morning, not anytime. My gracious."
"I have a witness who placed you at the site within a few minutes of the occurrence. Anything you might have seen, even if it didn't seem important, could be of value. I don't need more than a few minutes of your time."
"I understand."
"Would you prefer to go somewhere more private?"
"Not necessary. We will not be disturbed here."
"Okay." Trotter stepped up to the dais, discreetly scanning his surroundings. On the altar lay a large book, bound in leather, that he thought was a Bible until he saw its title, inscribed in gold: The Spheres Beyond Sound, by Maurice Zann. Next to it, a tall goblet, apparently empty. Black candles in a pair of candelabra at each end of the dais. No sign of a tray full of multicolored cubes.
"According to my information, you were walking on Kenmore Street about nine-thirty on Sunday morning," he said, taking out his notepad and pen. "Would this be correct?"
"Oh, I imagine so."
"Where do you live, Reverend?"
"In the parsonage, just behind the church."
"And that's your residence."
"Yes."
"Where were you coming from, then, on Sunday morning?"
"I regularly visit a couple of our house-bound parishioners on Sunday morning. I was coming from there."
"They would be able to confirm this?"
"Of course. Their names are Mrs. Wilhelmina Oakes and Mrs. Grace Sibelsky, if you'd care to look them up. They live in Halstead Arms."
Trotter scribbled the names on his pad. "That's a pretty long walk, isn't it?"
"Well, it is necessary, and I do not mind the distance." The priest uttered a self-deprecating chuckle. "I find myself taking a cab much more frequently these days, though. My legs don't hold up like they used to."
"It happens to us all," Trotter said, giving the old man a little smile. "Did you make this visit alone?"
"Yes, I generally do all my visitations by myself."
"You apparently came through an alley that opens onto Kenmore. Is this a regular habit of yours?"
"I sometimes take whatever shortcut I can find, to save my legs, you know."
"Could be risky in the city, don't you think? Well. About nine-thirty, an unidentified individual was heard talking to a young child near this alley. The child hasn't been seen since. My witness said that this person seemed to be talking in baby-talk. Would you have spoken to a child in such a manner, Reverend?"
"No, I don't recall speaking to any children. It's something of an embarrassment in my position, but I'm afraid I'm not very good with children. I've never had any of my own."
"Did you see a little boy at any time while you were in the alley or once you reached Kenmore Street?"
"I can't say that I did. Even if there was a child, it's not likely I would notice him."
"I see."
"Do you have children of your own, Mr. Trotter?"
"Yes. A son in high school and a daughter in fourth grade." Then, reluctantly, Trotter reached into his pocket and withdrew the crystal cube Claire had given him. After the thing that had happened following the couple's visit, the very touch of the thing made him uneasy. He held it up for Lazar to see.
"Have you ever seen this before?"
Lazar bent close to Trotter's hand and, with slight look of bewilderment, peered at the object. He sniffed and shook his head. "No, I can't say that I have."
"You don't keep a number of these in the church?"
The priest looked at him with wide eyes and shook his head. "Why, no, not at all. What is it, anyway?"
"That's what I'm hoping to find out. Perhaps nothing more than an odd ornament. You're quite positive you've never seen one of these?"
Lazar stared long and hard at him. A rather chilling look, as if the priest were sizing him up, peering straight into his heart. "Never."
Trotter clicked his tongue, knowing that he'd just heard the vital response. He eyed the cube, holding it up to the light from the window. "It is a weird-looking thing, isn't it? Do you recall bumping into a young woman? Dark-haired, attractive, about 25 years old?"
"Bumping into a woman? Hmm. I may have. Somewhere along the way, perhaps I did."
"Would it have been on Kenmore Street?"
"As likely as not. It's hard to remember something like that."
"This object was found near the alley, the child's last known whereabouts. I was hoping to find out you might have dropped this, when you bumped into the young lady. That would help us determine whether or not it's an important piece of evidence."
"Yes, I can see that. I wish I could help you."
"Of course. It's too bad." Before slipping the cube back into his pocket, he said with a forced chuckle, "I don't suppose these things are edible. Do you?"
Stone-faced, Lazar gazed back. "It certainly doesn't look like anything I'd want to put into my mouth."
Trotter shrugged. "Okay, Mr. Lazar, I think that's about it. Oh, one more question. When you got to Kenmore, did you see anyone on the street that you might consider suspicious? Anyone walking with a child, maybe holding his hand?"
Lazar frowned and shook his head. "I don't think so. I simply wouldn't have been looking for anything like that."
"Oh, I know. But sometimes people remember things they ordinarily wouldn't think about. I have to ask."
"I understand. Is there anything else I can help you with, Lieutenant?"
Trotter couldn't help but commend the sincerity the man projected. "No, I think that's it. I appreciate your time, Reverend."
"Glad to be of help."
Trotter smiled, slipping his notepad back into his jacket pocket. He started away, then turned to Lazar a final time. "What kind of Church is this, Reverend?"
"We are a non-denominational order, dedicated to personal spiritual growth. It's a small Church, but we have an excellent congregation. Are you interested in our services?"
"Just curious. I notice there aren't any of the traditional symbols one might expect to find in a church. No crucifix, no Bibles."
"Our way of worship is unlike most. We focus on meditation and on strength of spirit. The basis for our beliefs predates Jesus Christ of Nazareth by a considerable number of years."
"So this is not a Christian church."
"No."
"Do you by any chance have any literature I might take with me?"
"I'm afraid not. We seldom advertise ourselves to the public, for it is our choice to remain an esoteric order. However, if you would like to learn more, you would be welcome at one of our services."
Trotter smiled broadly. "Thank you, Reverend. I appreciate your time."
"It was nothing."
Trotter nodded to himself. No, it was definitely something, A pretty good pack of lies.
As he went out into the afternoon sun, he sensed eyes watching him—a condition to which he had grown quite sensitive in his position. Without looking back, he got into his car, started the engine, and pulled quickly away from the curb, glancing in the rearview mirror at the Church until it disappeared in the distance.
The priest's eyes, effective as they were at showing no emotion, had not fooled him when he produced the cube. First, after the strange incident in his office, he had ample reason to believe his visitors' bizarre accounts; second, he'd dealt with a couple of cults before, and the members were, by and large, a dishonest group. He had to admit that Lazar was a smooth liar; he'd been a little too straight-faced in answering the questions about the missing boy. Most people, even when telling the truth, tended to sound nervous and unsure of themselves in the presence of a police officer. This guy had his answers down pat. Odd, how he'd been sitting alone in the sanctuary like that—as if priests didn't have anything better to do with themselves all day.
Trotter had already run a check on the Church itself. It seemed to be a legitimate, licensed organization, established about a hundred years ago by a group called Starry Wisdom. In that time period, there had been various changes in administration (and a few recorded liquor violations during the 30s —get that one!), but there was little in the official record that he considered of use in this case. He could find no criminal record for Abraham Lemuel Lazar or for anyone in the city named Hanger—with the exception of one Eugene Hanger, who was at this moment serving fifteen to twenty in Joliet for armed robbery.
Ingram Trotter had been a homicide detective for more than ten years, a beat cop for almost a dozen before that. He'd been on some damn hairy cases in his time; he had three scars in the shape of bullet holes to prove it. He was not one to be easily unnerved. But when, ten minutes after Mike Selby and Ms. Challis had left his office, the sudden sound of a baby crying erupted from the midst of his office, he was taken more than slightly aback. His decision to take a personal interest in this case came a moment later when he verified that the source of the noise was none other than the weird cube in his desk drawer. The shrill, anguished wailing had ceased the moment he nervously extended a finger to touch the ice-cold object.
He'd asked Cleo, his secretary in the next room, if she'd heard anything; two detectives in the neighboring offices. No one else had heard what he had.
I heard the sound of a baby crying ... coming from that!
Ms. Challis's own statement.
There had been no repetition of the inexplicable event. But he'd decided that, on his lunch break, he'd go straight to the Church, followed by a trip down to forensics.
He had already called Missing Persons to inform them he was moving on the case. They'd hardly balked; instead they seemed more than happy to get the case out of their hair. Then he'd sent Geoff Patterson, his best man, to gather as much information as he could on any children reported missing in the neighborhood in question over the last year.
Trotter's one hope was that he did not have a homicide situation on his hands. Conceivably, this cult dealt in the child slave trade, though that dark specialty usually involved stealing young babies. The last thing he wanted to find was some grisly pattern reminiscent of Dahmer or Gacy —especially if the victims were just children.
Early afternoon was slipping into mid-afternoon, and traffic was reasonably thin for a weekday. Trotter turned south on Halstead, bound for the forensics lab on Harrison Street. He called in his location and ETA, checked for any messages—be sure and stop at the grocery store for bread and milk—and asked that Cleo please get hold of Mike Selby to set up an appointment for tomorrow morning.
So, what the hell is your story? he thought, pulling the little cube out of his pocket. The thing was so strangely cold, never warming to the touch. The way the colors vibrated seemed to defy physics; in some way, it reminded him of the effect of the sunlight passing through those stained glass windows at the Church. It was an unsettling illusion of life, as if the material inside the crystalline object were organic. He could find no possible explanation for it giving off sound, certainly not like he'd heard in his office. Unfortunately, even if he logged it into forensics this afternoon, they probably wouldn't touch it until tomorrow morning, at best.
As he turned right on Ogden Avenue, something on the roof of the car suddenly went thump, and the vehicle shook violently —as if a large, solid object had struck the roof. He slowed, peering into his mirrors to see if anything had fallen in his wake; nothing. Then, at the top of the windshield, he noticed a wavery heat haze. Fire! He quickly pulled over and climbed out, hustling away from the car, fearing he'd been hit by a molotov cocktail.
But there was nothing. The top of the car showed nary a scratch, much less anything worse. But in the air behind the car, a thin cloud of dark smoke began to dissipate as he watched. Unlikely it could have come from his vehicle, he thought. But it was the only sign that anything nearby might have been burning. After giving the car a thorough once-over, ascertaining that it was perfectly in order, he got back in and continued on his way, figuring that a piece of debris from somewhere or maybe even a bird had hit the top of his car. He shrugged off the beginnings of the ridiculous notion that something truly extraordinary was happening, and that its source lay back there —at the Church he'd left.
Ridiculous notion.

Chapter 11

The clock wound steadily toward five o'clock: liberation hour for hundreds of thousands of Chicago's gainfully employed; usually the time of day most preferred by Claire and her office inmates. But today, even though the worst of the ordeal appeared to be behind her, she had strange misgivings about going back to her apartment to face the night alone. Mike had already told her was going to be busy with work, and she was reluctant to press too hard, possibly driving him further away from her. Better to let things happen as they would.
She had been composing a set of ads for Chicago Style on the Mac all afternoon and her eyes ached from the strain. She saved her project and shut down the system, wishing she hadn't skipped lunch, for she felt famished and weak. Leaning over the partition that separated her desk from Maureen Matthews, she called, "Hey, Mo, you want to get a bite to eat before heading home?"
"I can't/' came the disembodied voice. "I'm low on cash. Besides, I gotta pick Jerry up tonight."
Claire clicked her tongue, hardly surprised. Since Mo had begun seeing this Jerry, she had to pick him up every night. She looked toward Tina Wimberger's desk, over by the windows. Vacant. Oh, yeah—Tina had taken vacation this week. Damn. It didn't look like there'd be company for dinner, unless she asked Bill, the Boss. They'd had dinner and drinks a few times, always strictly professional; but now it wasn't a good idea, she thought, since Bill and his wife had recently separated, and the last thing Claire needed was to exhibit any sort of impropriety with the Boss.
Nancy!
Mike's sister worked at Encyclopaedia Britannica, down on Michigan Avenue. She was good company, and what better way to get the real dirt on brother? Claire chuckled to herself, convinced this was a fine idea. She looked up the number in the book and dialed Britannica.
Luck. Nancy was still in her office.
"Hi, Nancy, this is Claire."
"Hi!"
"You busy after work?"
"Well, not really. What's up?"
"Wondered if you'd like to get some dinner with me tonight."
She pondered for a moment. "That's really nice, Claire. But I don't really think I can afford to go out tonight."
Claire nodded; her own wallet wasn't bursting at the seams either. "I was really just looking for some company. I guess you know Mike and I have been though a tough couple of days."
"Well, I haven't talked to him since the other night. But I figured things were pretty hairy."
"Hey, would you like to come over to my house? I've got stuff—I can make chicken or spaghetti."
She could hear Nancy's gears whirring. "I'd hate for you to go to any trouble."
"Oh, please. If I don't go out, I have to cook anyway."
"Well ... okay, sure. I have my car. You want me to swing by your office and pick you up?"
"That'd be great." Claire gave her quick directions, and told her she'd wait on the corner at Wells and Huron. She estimated it would take Nancy ten or fifteen minutes to get there from South Michigan Avenue. Her spirits brighter, she hung up, looking forward to having Mike's sister for company.
She locked up her tools and switched off her desk lamp. Time to fly. On the other side of the partition, Maureen clattered around, closing up her work area. Farther down, Tim and Roger, the gay guys, packed up their things.
The parade was about to begin.
"Good night, all," Claire said. She picked up her coat and purse, punched out, and headed for the elevator, almost childishly excited by the prospect of having a guest for dinner. That's bad. Real bad. Claire was first on the elevator, but the car stopped at each of the six floors below, and was filled to capacity by the time it reached the ground floor.
As the doors slid open, the flow of bodies carried her out, herding her toward the revolving door to the street. It was an evening ritual, irritating, but expected. Now, to face the rigors of getting to Wells through the mad rush of homebound lunatics without being trampled.
She had only gone a short distance, flanked by faceless, overcoated strangers, when she felt the distinct burn of eyes on her back. She stopped abruptly, earning herself disgusted glares from some of those forced to detour around her. Moving to the innermost lane of the sidewalk, she turned to look back the way she'd come, trying to find the source of the burn. Had paranoia just reared its ugly head? Lately, anything was possible, but her instincts were finely honed, for a single woman living alone learned to detect potential threats by a kind of internal radar. Her hand went automatically to the canister of pepper spray in her purse.
Her eyes methodically swept right to left, then back, stopping to focus on a particular point every few yards, then completing their circuit.
There. A broad, hunched figure shambling away from her, his gait uneven, as if he'd suddenly just turned back the way he'd come. She could only see a ding}7 looking overcoat and a bristly mat of dark hair poking above severely stooped shoulders. Something about the way he moved bothered her; perhaps he was lame, for one shoulder lurched awkwardly with each step.
She stood there for a full minute, waiting to see if the man would go straight or turn at the next block. He disappeared amid the crowd for a few moments, then reappeared at the corner, veering north on Orleans Avenue. Briefly, his head turned, and a single, dark eye glared at her, hammering her with a terrible sense of deja vu.
God, what the hell... ?
He was a horribly deformed black man, his face lumpy and misshapen, one eye wide and alert, the other dull and sagging over a crushed-looking cheek. In a second, he had disappeared, but Claire could barely suppress a shudder, for she was sure he'd been the one watching her.
Oh, Jesus.
She started walking again, intent on putting some distance between them. Did he single me out, she wondered, or was he just ogling any woman that walked by? Worst of all, Claire had the distinct impression that she should have recognized him.
She picked up her pace, trying to convince herself that she had nothing to worry about, he was just some ugly pervert that she would never encounter again in her life.
Suddenly, as if someone had spoken into her ear, a low voice said, "It's sweetest in the dreaming."
Her heart froze, and she stopped short, again nearly causing a rear-end collision. The voice hadn't been real, it hadn't! But she'd heard it before, and she knew she'd seen that terrible face before, in some place that had terrified her. It seemed like lifetimes ago, yet was so close, so familiar.
Sean.
It kept going back to Sean, somehow. And little Paul Hernandez. Pain she had tucked away a long time ago was being dredged up steadily and malevolently. Stop it, please make it stop.
She tried to refocus her mind on her upcoming evening, on the company that only a few minutes ago had brightened her whole mood. She wanted to talk about Mike, get the unique knowledge of him that could only come from a sibling. Getting to know Nancy better would help her learn more about Mike's world, his family. And she liked Nancy; she wanted them to be friends.
Reaching the corner at Wells, she found traffic backed up from the intersection ahead. Gridlock. No sign of Nancy yet, and there probably wouldn't be until some of this shit cleared up. God, how could anyone stand to drive during business hours here? The idea was ghastly. She didn't even like being a passenger during rush hour, for the stopping and waiting, then hurrying up to wait some more frazzled her nerves almost as much as driving in it. She'd take the noisy, dirt}7 trains and buses any day.
She made small circuits around the crowd on the sidewalk, never standing in one place; in this kind of crowd, it would be all too easy for some thug to grab her purse and run, or simply knock her in the head. And she continually looked back the way she'd come, praying not to see that dreadful figure that had been eyeing her.
Five cycles of the stoplight later, she heard a short burst on a horn, and bright red Pontiac Sunfire flashed its headlights at her. She saw Nancy's blonde crown and waving hand through the windshield, and began walking at a clip toward the car. Hurrying around to the passenger side, she slid inside quickly, buckling herself in just as the traffic started moving again.
"Hi there," she said breathlessly. "Thanks for coming by."
"No problem," Nancy said with a smile. "It's pretty horrible today, though."
"I can tell."
"What's the best way?"
"Just stay on Wells."
Streetlights were flickering on around them, and people on the sidewalks became one-dimensional silhouettes as darkness descended quickly. Nancy's stereo blared loud dance music, and she finally turned it down so they could hear each other talk.
"Thanks for the invite/' she said. "I didn't expect to be doing anything tonight."
"I know it's kind of spur of the moment. I enjoyed our dinner the other night, and I wanted to be able to talk to you more this time."
"You and Mike — getting pretty serious, then?"
"Maybe," she said, smiling. Already, her bad feelings from the street were dissolving in the warmer atmosphere of the car. "We've dated for a pretty good while, but we've never made any commitments. I don't know now. Just seems like things are happening between us."
"That's the way it works sometimes."
"You have a boyfriend?"
"Sometimes. This one guy, Joe, I think he wants to get serious."
"Do you?"
She blushed slightly. "Maybe. If he's willing, I'm willing. I think."
"Scary, sometimes."
"Tell me about it. Speaking of scary —this thing you and Mike have gotten involved with. You've seen the police?"
"We went this morning. I think they're going to follow up on things. I mean, we didn't waste our time. I think."
"I hope it'll blow over for you quickly."
"Me too. It's kind of been getting to me. That's one reason I was hoping you'd come by tonight."
"Sure. It always helps to have a friend to talk to."
"Mike's been so decent about it all. I really haven't known many decent men."
"He's okay. We used to fight all the time, when we were kids. He's grown up a lot, though. Ever since he got out of school and started working, I've actually stopped hating him."
Claire smiled. "Getting into the real world does tend to give you a dose of instant maturity, especially in such a reprehensible field as his."
Nancy laughed. "Shit, he's just a weenie over there, and he acts like some bigshot lawyer. I guess you see through that, though."
"Yeah. I suppose I find it rather endearing."
"Me too. But I'm not exactly unbiased."
Claire smiled, amused by Nancy's jabs at her brother. She directed Nancy to head up Lincoln, where traffic thinned slightly. As they drove past Lincoln Park, the memory of Gene Dougherty suddenly darkened her mood. He was the first man she'd tried dating upon returning from Arizona, and they'd spent some good times around here —getting pizza at Bacino's, bar-hopping on Lincoln Avenue. But then he'd shown his true colors and all but raped her one evening in the park. When she dumped him, it had been an ugly scene. But at least he'd simply lost interest and left her alone, the one small comfort left to her in the deal. And that had been about it for romance, until Mike came along.
"So what do you and Joe like to do?" she asked at last.
"Well, we only see each other on weekends. He lives in Palatine; it's a long way out there. Sometimes we go bowling or shoot pool. Do you bowl?"
"No, but I've shot a little pool."
"Hey, if we could stand Mike, maybe we can double sometime."
"That's the big question. Can we stand Mike?"
Laughing again, Claire directed Nancy up Sheffield, and within a few minutes, they were pulling up in front of her house. Amazingly, a few empty spaces remained in front of the house, which meant they'd beaten the neighbors home. Mr. and Mrs. Rotante would be pissed to find a car in one of their customary spaces.
Over at the Hernandez house, both cars were gone, and all the lights were off. The place looked lonely and desolate.
Claire led the way up the front steps and ushered Nancy into the small entry foyer. She stopped to collect the mail, and upon opening the box found a bundle wrapped in brown paper waiting for her. She lifted it out, and to her surprise found it quite heavy.
"This wasn't mailed," she said, looking it over. "There's no address label." Clicking her tongue in puzzlement, she tucked the package under one arm, collected the rest of her mail —all bills and junk—and trotted up the stairs to the second floor with Nancy at her heels.
"I wonder what this is," she said, after hanging their coats in the front closet. Kneeling at the coffee table, she began peeling the paper off the package in layers until she exposed the item within.
Both she and Nancy gasped in surprise. It was an odd figurine about six inches tall, apparently sculpted from some type of jade-green stone: a stylized, grotesque character that resembled nothing so much as some kind of hybrid reptile and insect. Its body rose from a thick, asymmetrical base, covered with intricately etched scales, capped by a shapeless head atop a long, twisting neck. The face was a mish-mosh of protuberances and indentations, with a gaping hole that she supposed was its mouth. A spindly array of jointed legs sprang from its twisted torso.
"That's quite a piece of work," Nancy said. "Do you have a friend that's an artist?"
"Not one who would do this." She touched the figurine, finding its surface curiously cool and slick, prompting her to wipe her fingers on her pants leg.
"Look here," Nancy said, pulling a piece of paper from among the wrapping. "There's something written here."
Claire took it and examined the writing. In a slanted, flowing script in bright red ink was written:
He reigns;
Let those who have ears to hear heed His words;
We shall dwell with Him
In darkness and thunder which gathers about Him.
His power endures forever!
Fire goes before and after Him,
And burns those who would go against Him;
His vengeance shall shake the world;
All those who know Him tremble.
The earth and sea shall bow before his wrath
And melt like wax beneath his gaze.
Give glory unto His name
Until his awakening,
Behold the sign which Balaam cursed And was brought down in the land of Moab;
With glory does Balak proclaim his rising
He is, and ever shall be.
Claire dropped the paper and hissed a sigh. This could have only come from one place. And there was only one way to interpret its meaning: as a warning.
"That verse sounds familiar," Nancy said, picking up the paper and studying it. After a few seconds, she nodded to herself. "Those names, Balaam and Balak are from the Old Testament."
"That thing came from the Church," Claire said. "Somebody put it in my mailbox. But besides me, only the postman and my landlord have a key."

Chapter 12

Trotter had been on his way out the door, headed for home, when the phone on his desk rang. He contemplated ignoring it, but habit and a 23-year-old sense of duty compelled him to answer it.
It was the Crime Lab, and —miracle of miracles —they'd already gotten to his little cube. But Fred Varley, the chief technician, very much wanted Trotter to come for a visit, if he didn't mind staying after hours for a while. Varley promised to keep it as brief as possible.
Trotter had agreed, and now stood next to Varley at an examining table, peering at the cube beneath an arm-mounted magnifying lens. The glittering colors beneath the lens seemed to swirl and mesh like converging rainbows captured in glass.
Varley weighed in at a non-muscular 240, with a pate just going bald, eyes magnified by ancient-looking, horn-rimmed glasses. He'd been the chief tech ever since Trotter joined the 19th, nine years ago. "The spectroanalysis indicates it's some kind of organic compound," he said, his voice deep and resonant. "I'm not sure what the outer shell is made of, but it's very tough. The material inside, though, is an even bigger poser. I've isolated Carbon, Silicon, Nitrogen and Calcium as primary elements. But I haven't been able to pinpoint what makes the colors appear as they do. I'm sure it's some kind of chemical suspension—I just can't figure out the recipe."
Trotter had said nothing about what he'd heard in his office. He waited hopefully for Varley to say that he, too, had heard something incredible. When he didn't, Trotter asked, "You think this thing could transmit sound of any kind? Or produce a noise on its own?"
"Not likely. What, specifically?"
"A sound like a baby crying."
Varley gave him a dubious glance. "No way that I can see."
"My witness thought she heard something," he explained, not wishing to relate his own experience. Not yet, at least. "What about its temperature? It's so cold." 
"That's a result of some reaction inside. I would have said the thing might be releasing carbon dioxide, but it didn't register any on the spectrometer and there's no sign of any opening in the casing. I'll tell you this much—there's nothing electronic in there."
"I didn't think so."
"Do you know what I would like to do? I would like to crack this thing open. It's the only way to get a sample of its contents."
"You photographed it already?"
"Yes."
"So, open it, if that's what you need to do."
"I just needed your approval."
"You got it."
Varley went to a cabinet and removed a white vinyl case, from which he took a small, electric drill. He then spread a very thin latex mat on the examining table, and placed the cube on top of it. Finally, he donned a pair of surgical gloves and safety goggles, and gripping the cube with a pair of pliers, he positioned the tip of the drill against one of the faceted surfaces.
"Stand back," Varley said. "If the contents are under pressure, it could spew."
He then applied power to the drill. With a sharp whining sound, the bit pierced the cube—which, with a loud crack, split into equal halves that tumbled onto the rubber mat.
Then, with a sudden whoosh and an abrupt flare of white light, the fragments blew themselves out of existence, shooting spirals of gray smoke into Varley's face. "Ow\" he cried, leaping backward. An acrid odor quickly filled the air.
"What the hell?" exclaimed Trotter, glancing at Varley to make sure he wasn't hurt. The lab chief was pulling off his goggles and glasses to rub his eyes with his coat sleeve. Trotter saw tears moisten Varley's cheeks."I didn't expect that," the older man said. "A pressure explosion would have happened as soon as I punctured it. That broke apart, then blew up."
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm okay." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his eyes, then slipped his glasses back on.
"Did you hear it?"
"Hear what?"
"When it blew —that noise."
"Only a pretty loud pop. What did you hear?"
He shook his head. "Just a ... weird noise. So, where did it go?"
Varley looked at the table, on the floor around it. No sign of the cube remained; not a single glittering speck.
Varley knelt, peered under the table, beneath the surrounding cabinets. "There's nothing here. It totally disintegrated."
"Hard to believe."
"See for yourself." The chief stood up, smoothed down his wrinkled lab coat. "So much for your piece of evidence. Sorry, Ingram."
"Son of a bitch. I was really hoping for better results."
"You say someone ate one of these things?"
"So I was told. What do you think of that?"
"I'm pretty sure you're being bullshitted. That would almost certainly be fatal."
"Yes," Trotter said, nodding. "I suppose it would."
"You wouldn't have any more of those on hand, would you?"
"No. But tomorrow morning I'll be talking to the gentleman who brought this to me. We have a few things to straighten out."
"We do have the recorded test results on this thing, at least. And the photos," Varley said.
"That's good. But I would have at least liked to have kept fragments of this thing."
"So, what's it all leading up to?"
"Good question. I've got Patterson digging into reports of missing children over the past year. We're checking out neighboring districts, too, looking for any common threads."
Varley clapped Trotter on the shoulder. "Well, feel free not to bring me any more business. I'm sorry about this, Ingram. I didn't quite foresee this result."
"I know," Trotter sighed, more angry and frustrated than when he'd arrived. "Thanks, Fred. I'll talk to you tomorrow." He left the lab and trudged down the stairs, muttering something about deaf old white men. Never in his career had his own perceptions been anything other on the money; he sure as hell didn't hear things.
But for the second time he was reluctantly forced to acknowledge that Ms. Challis's "weird feelings" might be more than hallucinations. For when Varley's drill had pierced the cube, just as the pieces flashed out of existence, Trotter quite clearly, unmistakably, heard the brief, abruptly stifled sound of a young child screaming.

Chapter 13

Mike had taken the Ravenswood line up to Belmont, hopped off the train very close to Clair's house, but bypassed her street and headed straight to Seminary and the Church of the Seven Stars. He'd been brooding all day, ever since the meeting with Trotter, and while the detective assured him the police would address the matter, Mike remained unsatisfied.
He'd told Claire about the night's sleepwalking, but the one thing he hadn't mentioned was that when he'd awakened, he realized he did, in fact, have a clear destination. He'd been heading for the Church. Whether drawn by some outside force or compelled by some bizarre inner frustration he could hardly say. Right now, he knew only that he had to follow this unknown path that had been laid down before him.
As he turned down Seminary, a cold wind began to whistle down the street. He was bundled up, but even several layers of clothing offered scant protection against the Lake Michigan wind. To get home he would have to take a train and at least two buses; probably a good hour's traveling time, barring any major delays. Still, rationality hardly prevailed in this situation. He'd get home whenever and however circumstances allowed.
His mom and dad had always called him impulsive. Now, he thought, driven was the more appropriate term.
The Church lay just ahead. He could see the twisted star on the tall steeple rising above the houses, shrouded faintly in a luminous mist. What sort of symbol was that? What did the ceremony he'd witnessed the other night mean? They'd invoked strange names, spoken in liturgical manner. And the cube ... that damned, unearthly cube.
The lights in the Church windows were burning. This place seemed to be an active hub, despite its apparent obscurity. Mike slowed his pace, hoping that none of the building's occupants who might recognize him were out and about. The last thing he wanted now was to be identified and questioned, or perceived as an interested part}7.The front doors again stood open. The structure looked like a giant hulking creature, its mouth gaping, awaiting whatever unsuspecting prey might happen by. From where he stood, the narthex looked empty; he strained to hear any sounds coming from within. Nothing.
He then whispered, "Holy Mother, please bless a poor fool on a fool's errand."
It was not his habit to pray. He didn't believe in spirits, for that matter. Still, if someone up there was watching, now seemed a good time to be watched over. Instead of heading for the front doors, he turned down the alley on the north side of the building, beside the wall bearing the half-effaced crown of the Latin Kings. He came upon the first of the low, frosted glass windows and crept up next to it, hugging the walls to minimize his exposure to the street. He pressed an ear against the glass, hoping for a sound — any sound — to betray what might be happening within.
At first, he could hear nothing beyond the wind's hollow rumble as it swept through the alley. But then he detected a muffled voice, or voices, though he couldn't quite make out the words. He moved to the next window, near the rear of the building, again pressing his ear to the glass. The voice was barely clear enough to discern; nonetheless, he was able to identify it as Rev. Lazar's.
"How long have you been on the street?"
An unfamiliar voice replied, "About a year, maybe more. Got no family, no place to go."
"What did you do before?"
"I worked for the city. I did maintenance on the CTA trains."
"And you lost your job?"
"I got downsized."
"Where do you stay? In a shelter?"
"Shelters is full most times. Lotsa nights I sleep in a subway somewhere. I can usually beg enough money to eat about once a day."
The wind whipped by for a moment, drowning the voices on the other side of the window. Mike swore under his breath, waiting impatiently for the noise to subside.
At last:
"I'm glad you came here, Mr. Morgan. You received one of our handbills?"
"Yeah, over on Lincoln. Some woman gave it to me."
"One of our missionaries. They do their best to lead people in need of help to us. You were lost, as it is said; now you are found."
"Well, thank you, Reverend."
"It is for those like you that we exist, Mr. Morgan. I should very much like to bestow upon you a gift—a very special gift from our Lord."
"That's kind of you, sir, but I don't know if I'd feel right taking...."
"No, this is a token of our Lord's grace. It is an honor to the Church and to Him if you accept it."
"Well, that's very kind."
"Now. I want you to look here. Look at what I have in my hand."
Mike felt a crawling sensation in his stomach. The cold had wormed its way through his clothes, coiled around his extremities and numbed his face; but it was not cold that caused his legs to nearly buckle. He pressed hard against the glass, heedless of the possibility that someone on the other side might notice his presence.
"Is that a jewel?"
"Of a sort. Now, look deeply into it. Tell me what you see."
"Lots of colors. Looks like something ... moving."
"Yes, there is."
"What—what is that thing, Reverend?"
"Keep looking, please. Look deeply."
"Why ... oh my God ... wait a minute!"
A long silence followed. Then: "Mr. Morgan, this is for you."
"Oh, Jesus, Jesus! OH GOD! I-"
From beyond the frosted glass, a brilliant flash burned into Mike's eyes. Startled, he leaped back from the window. What the hell had just happened in there?
And then, from within, he heard a low, garbled voice, which he knew was Lazar's, though it sounded different. It rose in volume so that he could now hear it even standing away from the window. Nonsensical syllables clashed with one another as the voice broke into a chant, its pitch rising higher and higher, becoming a shrill, warbling screech. Among the incomprehensible syllables, Mike could occasionally hear the word Balak—pronounced like "bay-lack" — spoken clearly, at a lower octave. And as the voice softened again, he distinctly heard a word he remembered from the ritual he'd witnessed: Golgolith.
Too unnerved now to remain in the alley, he rushed toward the front of the building, toward the welcoming streetlights and passing cars, anxious now only to depart with all possible haste. He cursed his apparent obsession with this place —and foolhardiness—for he knew now his life might well be in jeopardy.
Just before he reached the sidewalk on Seminary, a shadow suddenly fell over him as a hulking silhouette blocked the opening to the alley. He skidded to a halt, a yard away from the huge shape planted before him. From the dark apparition, a deep voice spoke in what sounded like a garbled litany: "sh'szeep utt yuuhl t'chack utt g'nai-oggh m'aiiie!"
Mike looked frantically from side to side, realizing he could not get past the huge figure. Without hesitating, Mike spun and ran back down the alley, toward the rear of the building, praying that he'd find an escape route and not come up against a dead-end. He heard a low grumble from behind and the shuffle of heavy, awkward footsteps. That beast was after him!
He dared to look back, only to see the shambling shape moving toward him at surprising speed. Mike kicked into overdrive, his leather oxfords barely able to find purchase on the graveled pavement. As he rounded the corner at the back of the building, he pitched headlong, staying upright only by hurtling into the chainlink fence that rose along the access lane behind the church. He pushed off from the fence and was instantly back at full speed down the lane heading in the direction of Barry Street. He heard gravel crunching only a step behind him.
I'm not going to make it.
His heavy overcoat hampered his legs, and the cold nearly took his breath away. Glancing back as he passed under a streetlight, he caught a glimpse of his pursuer's face; it belonged to the humpbacked black man he'd seen before, the one who'd fed Reverend Lazar the cube as if it were a communion wafer. One gleaming eye gazed frightfully at him, boring into him with venomous intensity. This man meant to kill him.
The gravel lane opened onto Barry, and Mike turned left toward the bright lights of Sheffield. He realized that Claire's house lay just a block away; if he could get back there...
No! He couldn't lead this maniac straight to her! He sped past the intersection at Kenmore, thinking that if he could just reach the next block there would be plenty of lights and pedestrians, hopefully enough to discourage the hunter from the chase. He began tearing at the buttons of his overcoat, trying to open it and free his legs. He was panting now, and with every step he feared he would slip and fall. Fatigue was beginning to catch up with him. But suddenly, something brushed his collar. A huge, gnarled hand fell upon his shoulder but failed to make a grip. Adrenaline gave him a new burst of speed and the black man fell a few steps behind.
Mike ran straight out into the middle of Sheffield, barely avoiding an oncoming automobile. He dodged an elderly couple preparing to cross the street, hoping their presence would force his pursuer to slow down or just give up. Glancing back, he saw the huge figure emerge from the sidestreet, his pace faltering. And looking up Sheffield, he saw a bus just pulling up to the stop at the next corner. He kept up his pace just long enough to reach the doors, falling inside a second before the driver closed the doors and started off. He reached for his wallet, thanking God it was still there, and flashed his CTA pass before the driver's eyes. Peering out the window, Mike made out the slumped, hulking silhouette shuffling slowly back toward the Church, blazing eyes locked on the bus with unconcealed malice. Mike tucked his wallet back in his pocket and staggered down the aisle to the first available seat, sliding into it with a grateful sigh.
The bus was heading south, toward town, and somewhere, he would have to change and start heading west. But he wanted to put some distance between himself and the Church before transferring, so he sat back in his seat, trying to catch his breath without coughing up the thick phlegm that now clogged his throat.
He was supposed to see Trotter in the morning. What a story he would have to tell now.

Chapter 14

"Do you have a Bible?" Nancy asked as Claire turned on the burner beneath the pot of spaghetti sauce.
"Yeah, in my room. You want to look something up?"
Nancy nodded. "When I was in school I studied the Bible pretty seriously. That note got me to thinking."
"Sure, I'll get it in a second." Claire raked her chopped mushrooms from the cutting board into the steaming saucepan. The scent of sharp Italian spices made the kitchen seem a much more welcome place.
"So," Nancy said. "Who do you think could have put that figurine into your mailbox? Any idea?"
"I don't know. The lock wouldn't be very hard to pick. Stir that, will you?" She handed the spoon to Nancy, excused herself and went to her bedroom to find her Bible.
It was hiding on the top shelf of her closet, where it had been since she had moved into the apartment. When she pulled it from its place, the black leather cover was stuck to the books on either side. Carefully, she removed it, running her fingers over its cool, rough surface. In the lower right-hand corner, her name was inscribed in gold: CLAIRE ELIZABETH CHALLIS.
She opened the Book gingerly, and the pages made a crisp, crackling sound. The smell of old pulp wafted from the interior like a heady draught from the past. On the first page, in faded blue ink, she read,
Dearest Claire,
Congratulations on your confirmation! We hope you will always remember what you have learned and stay strong in your faith. Treasure this Book and use it. It will always provide the strength and comfort you need during the trials and tribulations of life.
Love,
Mother and Father 
She remembered the day she had received her Bible; her confirmation class had stood before the congregation, reciting their vows of faith and obedience. She didn't recall a word of them, and for a few moments she felt... sad. It was one of the only times in her youth she remembered her mother and father actually showing any pride in her. No derision, no stern looks of reprimand for sinful acts she hadn't yet committed; only warm, sincere approval. She'd felt a rare joy then, hoping against hope that her life was about to move in a new, better direction.
Next day, same old story.
She carried the Book back to the kitchen, where Nancy stood at the stove stirring the pot. Claire traded the Bible for the spoon, and Nancy sat down at the small kitchen table to thumb carefully through the old pages. She reached a passage she evidently considered important and stopped to read silently for several minutes.
At last she said, "Those names in the note are from the Book of Numbers. Balaam was a seer who was sent by Balak, the King of Moab to curse the Hebrews when they moved into Canaan. Balaam met God, who appeared in the form of an ass—ha ha —and was instructed to bless the Hebrews instead. Balak worshipped false gods and hated the Hebrews because they posed a threat to his kingdom." Nancy read a little further, nodding to herself. "As it turns out, Balaam did as God instructed and foiled Balak a number of times. In the end, Balak went on his way without getting what he wanted. He must have been mightily pissed."
"I guess he would be."
"If you know anything about Old Testament history, the Hebrews were pretty much universally despised. The conflicts in the Middle East now are civilized compared to the way it was then, except nowadays they can kill more people at a time. There's another reference in the Book of Revelation, where Balaam is said to have been the one who originally taught Balak the worship of false gods. Very likely there are parts missing from the Old Testament text regarding these two." She thumbed to the Book of Psalms and began reading. Then, taking the paper that had come with the figurine, she ran her eyes back and forth between the texts. "As far as this note goes, there's a distinct similarity to the 97th Psalm. These lines about 'Fire goes in front of Him ... the earth and sea melting like wax,' and so forth; they're the same lines, just put in a different context. It seems like somebody's idea of a joke."
"I don't think it's a joke," Claire said gravely.
"What do you mean?"
Claire suddenly felt uncomfortable saying any more. The last thing she wanted to do was enmesh Nancy in the terror she'd experienced. That hadn't been the reason for inviting her over.
"I just don't want to take anything lightly after what Mike and I have been through."
"Maybe you should go back to the police with this."
Claire sighed. Not the police again. She'd already swallowed her foot in front of Lt. Trotter and this would probably only make her look worse.
Nancy's eyes widened. "You don't think you're in danger, do you?"
Claire shook her head, not wanting to alarm her guest. "I wouldn't go that far. I think someone is just trying to upset me."
"You've got to tell Mike, anyway."
"Yeah, that much I will do." This topic needed to be closed, she thought. She was hungry and dinner was almost ready. "Anyway. There's wine if you'd like a glass. Join me?"
"Sure. Just a little," Nancy said, closing the Bible. "Wine hits me hard sometimes."
Claire took out a pair of long stemmed glasses and a bottle of Burgundy from the cupboard. She poured two glasses, handed one of them to Nancy, and then raised hers. "To a damn good plate of spaghetti." They grinned at each other and sipped from their glasses. With the first swallow, Claire felt a comfortable warmth beginning to build inside, quickly spreading through her whole body. Within a minute, her first glass was gone.
"Could you give that another stir?" Claire asked. "I need to go to the washroom before dinner."
"Sure." Nancy picked up the spoon and Claire went down the short hall to the bathroom, closing the door after her. From the kitchen, she could hear Nancy humming pleasantly to herself. She was a sweet girl, Claire thought; smart, and easy to talk to. She'd been sympathetic to Claire's feelings without prying into her personal affairs. No doubt Mike would apprise her of anything he felt she really needed to know.
Claire did her business, flushed, and began to wash her hands. As she lathered her hands with soap, over the sound of running water, she thought she heard a crash from the other room. Turning off the faucet, she listened. From beyond the bathroom door, there was no sound at all.
She quickly dried her hands and called, "Nancy?"
No answer. But a moment later she heard a rattle: something metal striking the kitchen floor.
She threw open the door and hurried down the hall. Reaching the kitchen door, she saw a red, steaming mess splashed across the white tile floor, and the empty sauce pot suddenly rolled into view, coming to rest against the wall with a clang.
"Nancy!"
She took a cautious step forward, not yet willing to accept what her eyes beheld.
Apart from the remains of dinner on the floor, the kitchen was empty. Mike Selby's sister was gone.
What the hell?
"Nancy? Where are you?"
No answer.
Claire hurried to the living room, but her guest was not to be found there, either. Not in the bedroom. But her purse was still on the couch, and her coat still hung in the front closet.
She opened the front door, leaned out into the hall. Nothing and no one out there. Surely she couldn't have made it from the kitchen, out the door and down the stairs without Claire hearing her. And almost certainly, her car keys were still in her purse. The back door!
She rushed back to the kitchen—careful not to slip in the pool of sauce —and checked the door that led to the rear stairway. Still locked from the inside. No one could have broken in this way, nor could Nancy have slipped out and refastened the deadbolt.
Looking around frantically, Claire's eyes fell upon the kitchen table, and the bundle of paper in which the weird figurine had been wrapped. It was empty. But the figurine had been there —she'd put it there after they'd examined it! She grabbed the wrapping paper and shook it, disbelieving. Then she threw the paper down, for it felt slick and wet, and drawing her hand back, she found them dripping with an oily, mucus-like fluid.
"No way."
The puddle of steaming sauce on the floor had been disturbed, she now saw; at the edge of the red pool, she recognized the distinct impression of a woman's shoe. And there was another track—no, more than one—from something else: broad, cloven prints as big as dinner plates. But no, she told herself; they did not resemble the clawed tips of the appendages that sprang from the body of that obscene sculpture that had been delivered to her by parties unknown. No, such an impression was just her upset imagination twisting random splatter marks into something unthinkable....
A sickening lump formed in Claire's throat, and she stumbled back to the living room, leaning against the couch, feeling suddenly faint. Her chest heaved as she gasped for air —only to be jolted by a new impossibility confronting her.
Nancy's purse was gone.
It was just there. I saw it.
Lurching to the closet, she threw open the door, and now —as she both dreaded and expected —Nancy's coat was gone.
"Goddamn it," Claire cried. "Nancy! Please!” Then, like a cold finger creeping up her spine, the sensation of being watched —the same she'd felt last night when those terrible green eyes had appeared at her window — came over her again. She thought she caught a whiff of a pungent, sulfurous tang; whirling around, she saw her front door waver in what appeared to be a heat haze. And disappearing beneath it, a swirl of black smoke, rushing out of the apartment as if blown by a silent wind.
"This can't be happening," she whispered to herself, falling onto the couch in cold shock. It had to be a hallucination. Somehow they managed to drug me. She remembered the figurine had felt slick and repellent as soon as she'd touched it. It must have been treated with some chemical, something that had affected her perceptions. But what about the things that had happened prior to that? The sound of the baby crying? The eyes she'd seen, or thought she'd seen, at her window? Could the cube have also been some sort of delivery agent for drugs? The most rational answer, perhaps, yet somehow the most implausible.
Outside, half-heard, a car engine started.
She could not bring herself to rise and go to the window. Her mind had become a whirling storm of convoluted impressions, memories, and sensations; nothing she could firmly grasp. They were breaking her down. Preparing her.
They —the ones who'd stolen little Paul Hernandez.
And Sean. Had they had taken him, too?
She retreated. Pulling what she could gather of herself into a dark shelter where no sight or sound could penetrate.
Until sometime later, the faintest impression from outside wormed its way into her darkness, and she almost responded —almost, but not quite. A sound, one she had come to associate with Mike. A bell. The phone was ringing.
But even had she tried, her limbs would not have obeyed her commands. So she stayed behind the wall she erected, unwilling to risk exposing herself to whatever might be lurking out there, waiting to take her —the way it surely had taken her new friend. Eventually, the phone stopped ringing.

Chapter 15

Mike had been worried enough before trying to call Claire for the first time, so after dialing repeatedly for over two hours and getting no answer, not even her machine, he was sitting on pins and needles. His house felt cold and empty, and after his flight from the ugly man earlier in the evening, his nerves were piano-wire taut. Every few minutes, he looked out the window, almost expecting to see a dark, squat silhouette loping toward his house. He knew that no one could have followed him all the way home, but under the circumstances, logic offered little comfort.
He'd never been chased by anyone before, certainly not with such obvious evil intent. His legs still felt wobbly, even after a couple of hours. And for the first time, perhaps ever, he wished he owned a gun. If any of those sons of bitches ever came after him again, he wouldn't hesitate for one second to vent their skulls.
He paced his living room floor, picked up the phone, punched Claire's number again. The receiver purred as Claire's phone, ten miles away, rang on and on, heedless of his desire, his need to reach her. Claire, where the hell are you?
Slamming the phone on the table in disgust, he went back to the window, as though he might find answers out there if he looked long enough. Next door, the lights at the Krecicki's burned warmly, and through half-drawn Venetian blinds, he could see old Mr. K. sitting like a Buddha in front of the glowing blue television tube. Mrs. K. was squalling in Polish from a back room, audible through two sets of closed windows. Young Master K., age six, ran past his father, carrying some kind of model airplane. The normality of the setting seemed a ludicrous facade, a stage where the players remained blithely unaware of the strange shapes moving around them, concealed by darkness.
The thought of which sent him back to the kitchen and the rear door that opened to the little back yard. He flipped on the porch light, illuminating the yard and garage, his eyes questing for any sign of sinister movement. Nothing. Nothing at all—which seemed almost worse. Confound it, he needed to talk to someone. Regardless of the consequences, tomorrow he'd have to tell Trotter the whole story. He could not keep his escapade at the church to himself. But tonight... what to do about tonight?
Nancy.
He picked up the phone and dialed her number. After two rings, he heard the hiss of her answering machine starting—but instead of her airy voice coming on with "Hi, this me, leave a message after the annoying noise," he heard a brief, whispered roar, like a train passing far in the distance; then, with a very slow, rhythmic cadence, a deep voice intoned, "Rhuh'd lleek aiee ... deddh'ii r'tssis rhuuuyh."
A numbing chill advanced through his body, almost stealing his breath. It was a familiar voice.
"Deddsh'ii r'tssis rhuuyh."
"No!"
He punched the reset button, hit redial.
The same voice. "Rhah'd lleek aiee...."
He dropped the receiver as if it were a viper.
Nancy's machine couldn't record an outgoing message from an incoming call. The only way it could have gotten onto the tape was if the speaker was there, on location.
They could not have gotten to his sister. They shouldn't have even be able to identify him, much less gone so far as to connect Nancy with him. But there could be no mistaking that voice, its incomprehensible tongue. And he could not have misinterpreted its mocking, derisive tone; the message was meant specifically for his ears, to let him know that they were in control.
No, Mike did not own a gun, but he had a nightstick from the second-shift security job he'd worked while attending daytime post-grad classes several years back. It lay on the seat beside him, along with the butcher knife from his kitchen. He was zooming down the Eisenhower Expressway at more than eighty, thankful that the traffic was sparse tonight. He'd dialed 911 en route and reported the grave possibility that someone had broken into his sister's house. A unit was being dispatched to her address, and at his insistence, word was being relayed to Detective Trotter. Not for the first time, Mike cursed the fact that Nancy didn't believe in owning a cell phone.
Unfortunately, there was no quick way to get to her house from Oak Park. The most expeditious route was hardly the shortest; it took him all the way into the city and up Lakeshore Drive, where he could at least haul ass on a multilane freeway up to Rogers Park. Otherwise, he'd have to negotiate a checkerboard of stoplight-riddled city streets, fighting congestion even at this time of night.
A cluster of taillights ignited ahead, and he swore loudly. Why drive the fucking speed limit when you can creep along like slugs and clog the works all day and night, you goddamn morons? He had an entire catalog of obscenities reserved specifically for Chicago drivers, but now would be a good time not to have to use them, thank you very much. Don't you fools know what's going on?
As traffic thickened, he veered back and forth between lanes, trying to get ahead of as many of the rolling obstacles as possible. Fortunately, the parade was moving—better than rush hour pace, anyway—but he had to slow to an intolerable fort}7-five to keep from running over his brother citizens who had no place better to be than on the road.
There. Just ahead, a big opening. He'd merely come upon a clump of snails with no family members in possible jeopardy. Pulling ahead of the gaggle, he floored the accelerator, hitting eight}7 again within three seconds. Not far to the junction at 1-90/94, and then just a short hop to Lakeshore Drive.
Heart pounding now, adrenaline surging, it was impossible to keep from fearing the worst; his foot kept applying pressure to the pedal, then he'd catch himself and back off a little. Getting himself killed wouldn't help anyone.
Just past the network of snaking bridges at the junction, the Eisenhower turned into Congress Parkway, taking him downtown just south of the Loop. Here, things bottled up, and he was forced to blend with traffic and check his anxiety.
He dialed Nancy's number again on his cell phone. This time, nothing. No answering machine. No strange voice. At the stoplight at Michigan Avenue, he had a moment of shocked dismay when a shimmering heat haze passed over the hood of the car; Christ, he couldn't have burned up his engine! But when the light turned green, the car surged smoothly forward, no sign of any problem. He shook off the occurrence as an aberration, maybe even a trick of the eye. Fuck it. Congress led to Columbus, Columbus to Jackson, Jackson to Lakeshore Drive. He kicked it back into high gear again.
Lake Michigan was a vast void off to the right, broken by a few lights here and there: from Meigs Field, and a few boats out on the water. To the left, he could see the illuminated blue globe atop the Britannica Building where Nancy worked. Next to it, the lights in the windows of one building had been arranged to spell out messages, a different one every night; tonight it read: "ON THE BRINK."
Ambiguously prophetic?
He glanced at his watch. 9:56 P.M.
****
He pulled up in front of Nancy's apartment building at 10:16. Two white and blue squad cars were parked on the street, and a dull blue Chevrolet Caprice, unmistakably an unmarked police vehicle, had angled itself in front of a neighbor's car. A pair of officers and a middle aged Latino man Mike recognized as Nancy's landlord stood on the walk leading to the building's front door. A young couple in the flat above Nancy's peered out curiously from their window.
Mike found a parking space several houses down, leaped out, and ran toward the building, his eyes roving frantically up and down the street for a sign of Nancy's car.
It wasn't here.
He didn't know whether to feel grateful or more alarmed. As he approached the officers, who regarded him with overt suspicion, he fought down a burning adrenalin rush, trying to appear calm and business-like.
"I'm Mike Selby," he said. "I'm the one who called you."
The officers were both young black men, one tall and gangly, the other broad and muscular, with a boxer's flattened nose. The tall one said, "You're Ms. Selby's brother, right?"
"Yeah. Is Lt. Trotter here?"
"He's inside. But it looks like your sister isn't."
The other said, "We had the landlord come down to let us in. As near as we can tell, there hasn't been any break-in."
Mike shook his head. "I know who it was on the phone. Nancy would never have willingly let him in."
"No sign of forced entry, and no sign of any major valuables missing or damaged."
As he jogged up the three steps to the little front porch, the front door opened and Lt. Trotter stepped out, glaring down at him with a dour expression.
"Well, well. I wonder what your sister's going to say when she comes home and finds this scene?"
Mike stalked up to him, indignant. "Have you listened to her machine?"
"Come inside, please."
Trotter led him through the familiar, brightly lit hallway to Nancy's apartment. It was a cozy, inviting little place, filled with their parents' old furniture that Mike remembered from his youth. Two of her living rooms would fit into Mike's, but she found it comfortable with its long, plush couch that faced an entertainment console with a big-screen TV (compliments of Dad, who had been one of Motorola's sales managers) and a lavish stereo system. Ferns and ficus plants occupied every corner of the room, creating a warm, natural atmosphere. A cop stood facing the window, and another stood over Nancy's answering machine, on the end table next to the couch.
Trotter took a stubby pencil from his pocket, and with the eraser, pushed the answer button.
The hollow hiss of the tape began, followed by Nancy's voice saying, "Hi, this me, leave a message after the annoying noise." Beeeep.
Trotter hit stop, ran the tape of incoming calls to the beginning. When he played it back, all that came out was a harsh clattering sound — Mike hurling his receiver upon hearing the voice from the other end of the phone line.
That voice was not on the tape. “What the hell is this? What have you done here?"
"I was hoping you'd explain what I'm doing here," Trotter said softly. "You said there was a message from the man at the Church."
"I heard it. It was that man who chas —that deformed-looking guy I told you about."
"On this machine?"
"Of course on this machine. I heard it, Lieutenant."
"Okay, Mike, I want you to settle down and explain a few things to me. First of all, do you have any idea where your sister is?"
"No," he said with sigh. "Forgive me if I'm jumping the gun, but what if she's been abducted? What if she's in trouble?"
"Relax, will you? There's no sign of any intruder. No sign of a struggle. You said yourself she wouldn't just let anyone in. Now, unless there's more —a lot more—you haven't told me, I find it difficult to believe these people could have targeted your sister. Tell me this; assuming she's perfectly fine, where might she go at this time of night?"
"I don't know. Maybe to the grocery store. She usually shops at night."
"Is she seeing anyone? Any friends she might visit?"
"Some guy in Brookfield, I think. No way she'd go out there on a weeknight. She goes to bed early."
"Do you have his number? You could call and see if she's with him."
"Shit, I don't even know his last name."
"Okay. Well, Mike, my guess is that she'll be home soon and be a little ticked to find a house full of police officers."
"Lieutenant, I know what I heard, and it was on this machine. It must have been tampered with since I called. They used another tape.” Trotter leaned to the nearby officer. "Let me talk to Mr. Selby alone, please, Harris." The heavyset cop nodded and stepped out into the hall, leaving Mike and Trotter facing each other like arch rivals. "Okay, Mike. I want to tell you a couple of things that have happened. I talked to your preacher down at the Church. He's a suspicious character, I'll grant you that. I'm also quite certain he was lying to me on a few points. But I didn't see any of your little cubes around anywhere. And this Lazar assured me he'd never seen one before."
"That's a damn lie. I — "
"Hold on, I believe you. Now. I took the cube down to forensics to be analyzed. We cracked it open. Do you have any idea what happened?"
Here it comes. He shook his head in feigned innocence.
"The damn thing exploded. Vanished completely. No trace."
Just like Claire's had. Mike's heart sank.
"I don't have any evidence now, except for the photos we took of it and a few preliminary notes on its composition."
Mike lowered his eyes, wondering if he shouldn't come clean about his taking the cube from the Church. But then, there was the episode from this evening that Trotter wasn't going to like hearing about.
Then, as if reading his mind, the lieutenant continued. "When you told me that the voice on the phone belonged to 'the guy who — ' you started to say 'chased,' didn't you. You want to explain that to me?"
Mike shrugged, realizing that hiding the truth would be futile. "I went to the Church earlier tonight. I heard something going on inside, the priest talking to someone. A streetperson, I think. I couldn't tell what was going on, but the man screamed, and Lazar began some kind of chanting. Then, that big black guy came out and ran after me. I got out of there quick ... I think he meant to kill me."
When Mike's eyes met Trotter's, the other's expression nearly chilled him to the bone. The detective's fists clenched fiercely at his sides. Very softly, he said, "Would you like to tell me why you went there tonight?"
"I don't know. I really don't know. I figured I might learn something. And I did."
"Like?"
"Like I think there's another missing person now. This time it's a streetperson."
"You didn't actually see anything, though, right?"
"No."
"And your big friend chased you. He was going to kill you."
"I'm certain of it."
"Damn you, Mike. What are you trying to do? Cut me off at the knees?"
"Of course not, Lieutenant. Quite the opposite."
"You weren't even going to tell me about this!"
Mike sighed. "Well, I would have, but not... yet. I wanted something more concrete."
"Look, smart-ass. You gave me enough to look into the Church. The only reason I'm here now is because I felt your statement was worth taking seriously. Now if there's anything to them, you may have scared these people into covering their tracks."
"Then where the hell were you? There weren't any cops down there tonight."
"How do you know?"
"They did something to that man in there, that's obvious. And when they came after me, I didn't see anyone rushing to help me."
"You know, I don't enjoy having to cover my ass for a lightweight paralegal who thinks he's Perry Fucking Mason. Mike, it's in your best interests not to interfere any further in this case. I'm sure you get my meaning."
He sighed. "I hear you. I was wrong to go there, I know that. But there's still the business at hand. Do you believe I heard what I heard on Nancy's machine?"
"There's no evidence to support it, Mike."
"Yeah, but it would be pretty stupid of me to make up a story like that. And I don't think you believe I'm stupid."
Trotter leaned close to him. "No, I don't think you're stupid. But your judgment's been far from exemplary, son. Let me make something clear. We'll check this place out. I'll have the phone and the answering machine dusted. Then we're going to do things exactly as I say they're going to be done. Frankly, I don't want to see your face or even hear your voice as long as this case is open, unless I call you. The next time I find you've set foot on the Church property, I'll haul you in myself. Comprendez?"
"Yeah, Lieutenant."
"Say it like you mean it, Mr. Selby."
Mike glared at him, trembling with anger and frustration. "Yes, Lt. Trotter, I understand you."
Trotter sighed, relaxing his posture. He turned to the front door and called, "Harris, let's get this phone and answering machine dusted for prints. Also, doors, windows, the walls in this room." He looked back at Mike. "When your sister comes home, she's probably going to be pissed as hell at you."
"I hope so, Trotter."
Mike looked at his watch. 10:45. Claire. This business was all because he hadn't been able to reach her.
"Lieutenant, I want to go check on Ms. Challis. I've been trying to call her all night. I don't suppose you need me for anything else here, do you?"
"I didn't need you for the first thing here. But I was kind of hoping you'd be here to greet your sister when she gets home."
"You know," Mike said, "my sister might not particularly care to find her house full of cops. But if she knew it was because I was afraid something had happened to her, she'd be thankful she's got a brother that loves her."Trotter shrugged. "Touched. To the heart. You know, Mike, I hate lawyers. And even worse, I hate up-and-coming lawyers whose asses are too big for their britches."
You and Claire, he thought. "But detective," he said, turning to leave, "We're on the same side." "That, dipshit, is very much the problem."

Chapter 16

Lazar made his way through the dark corridor with the eyes of a cat. He needed no light to guide him, for he had negotiated these deep passageways beneath the Church for countless years. He could not see the exposed stone walls, the mold that grew over their rough surfaces; but he discerned pale, gray shapes arcing over and before him, swimming in a field of darkness like solid ghosts, the dark path before him wavering as if lit by a black flame.
Ahead, near the ebony eye at the end of his vision, Lazar could see a pale phosphorescence at floor level; an opening leading to a yet deeper level. He was now two floors beneath the main floor of the Church, and he had several times that yet to travel. This corridor could be accessed by one entrance only, a trap door in the Church's cellar, designed so that its outline in the stone floor could not be detected, and so that only someone with the knowledge to activate its spring hinge might gain entry.
Taking care not to slip on the worn stone steps, Lazar began his descent down the stairwell, its walls eerily illuminated by phosphorescent fungi. Here, the air smelled foul even to his age-numbed senses, for a few feet beyond these walls ran the city's main sewer lines; a small amount of seepage made its way even into this haven—a reminder of the humanity's filth, the waste of a society steadily killing itself and the earth around it. Lazar hated the smell, not so much for what it was, but for what it represented.
At the bottom of the stairs, the corridor split in three directions. Only one led to his destination; the others wound into a series of mazes where a person might wander until claimed by death. Indeed, the remains of an unlucky few still lay in that distant darkness, those who had been lured or deposited there over the course of many years at the behest of Lazar's lord and master. Even had one been fortunate enough to stumble back to the main passage, his reward would hardly have been a life spared....
Lazar continued walking assuredly into blackness, sensing the waxing presence of his summoner like an intensifying electrical charge in the air. The cool, organic smell grew thicker, an odor vastly different from the fecal gas that wafted in from the sewers. Another stairway waited just ahead. The only other chamber on this level was forbidden to him except during the performance of certain rituals: those that involved blood. But now that John Hanger had mastered the power of soul containment within a tiny receptacle — the Taquith font—such ceremonies were seldom performed other than for personal gratification. Having bequeathed the power of soul transmogrification to both Lazar and Nyle, Hanger had simplified one of the riskiest aspects of his position: the abduction of those he required for sustenance.
Another level down, and Lazar came to the final passage leading to the Great Hall of Balak. Now, in the distance, a thin crease of gold lit the doorway for which he was bound. From the arched ceiling, the spiked tips of a raised portcullis hung in silent expectation, awaiting the command to be lowered in defense of the main hall, a situation that to this day had never been necessary. But these, and other safeguards, assured John Hanger that his domain would be forever protected from any mortal who might desire his end, whether from outside or within the congregation.
As Lazar reached the door to the chamber, he could hear the faint sound of stirring from within, a faint hiss of air, perhaps the very breath of the man—he used the term hesitantly—who waited for him.
Without knocking, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Here, the stone walls were illuminated by innumerable candles, and above, the ceiling rose to unseen heights. Several tapestries and paintings of varying styles and ages decorated the walls, providing an ironic touch of humanity to an otherwise thoroughly alien setting. Colorful tabriz patterns from ancient Persia dominated the decor, along with several freestanding sculptures of Sumerian and Babylonian deities —all original — including the squat, manlike Enki, the dragon Tiamat and the night-gaunt Pazuzu. And in the center of the large room, carved from living rock, a tall, twisted cone-like shape from which dozens of ropy, snakelike cords writhed and thrashed in still-life, its central trunk disappearing into the unseen heights above: Golgolith, the patron god of Moab, who had once rewarded his faithful subject King Balak with the power of eternal life.
In the dawn of recorded history, Balak had moved throughout Egypt, Mesopotamia, Asia Minor and beyond, carrying with him the tidings of his benefactor, gathering followers and gaining power. But during the time of Balak's settlement along the Dead Sea, the seer Balaam had, through trickery, broughthim down in the name of Jehovah, banishing him to the deepest pits of the underworld. But angered by the affront, Golgolith Himself had lifted Balak from his tormented deathdreams, and set him free upon the earth. Given a new mortal guise, he sought out Balaam and tempted him with the powers of life and death. At last, he won his old adversary over, making him an instrument of the dark power that had blessed Balak with everlasting life. Then, revealing his true face, Balak saw Balaam the Traitor destroyed by his former Lord Jehovah, cast into the very same pit from which he had once escaped, leaving Balak to laugh—no, howl —in his triumph.
And now....
"Enter, friend Lazar," said John Hanger, seated upon a tall throne hewn from the very stone of the cavern wall, illuminated by dancing torchlight, his huge head resting on hands folded beneath his chin. He wore a long black robe of glistening satin, his fingers adorned with gold rings bearing various symbols, including the Sign of Golgolith—the twisted, many-armed Star of Wisdom. His eyes stared, unblinking, at Lazar, who approached with head bowed in respect. As the priest reached the effigy of Golgolith, he bent low and touched his lips to one of the outstretched stone tendrils.
"Have you achieved you goal?" came the low silky voice.
"I have," was Lazar's raspy reply. "A visitor came to us at an inopportune moment, but Nyle drove him away. Interestingly, it was the same gentleman who enjoyed our most recent Assembly in the sanctuary."
"Then he is acting according to my expectations, succumbing to the lure. Excellent. What else have you to tell me?"
"All traces of our presence in each area of influence have now been removed. Those who remain alive will find themselves in ... uncomfortable positions."
"Then your creativity is to be applauded, Friend Lazar. I am confident in your success."
"My thanks to thee. My thanks to Him. The emissary of Golgolith remains abroad. Nyle has undertaken to summon it back to us. I expect him shortly."
"Excellent. Now ... I understand that the woman you encountered on the morning you collected the young man-child has a history with us, though she is unaware of it."
"Indeed. Two years ago, we collected her own son. He was the last blood offering before your completion of the Taqith design."
Hanger's face split into a wide grin. "As I thought. Yet your meeting with her was by chance, you say?"
"Amusingly, yes."
"Friend Lazar, I want you to collect her. Inside of me, the blood of her offspring cries for her, and its misery is beautiful. There will be no Taqith created for her. She will be the next blood offering."
"I see." Lazar suddenly found himself apprehensive. "Then I shall bring her to you."
"I scarcely need to remind you of the dangers since she has become involved with the forces of their law —the dangers to you, I might emphasize. When she disappears, attention will fall upon the Church. How will you circumvent an investigation?"
"I will need a small amount of time to prepare, O Lord."
"You are aware, of course, that there is only a small amount to offer. Once the Ceremony is complete, there shall be no more need to remain discreet."
"I shall not fail in your service."
"No," said Hanger, leaning back in his throne with a wry smile. "No, you will not."
Lazar cringed inwardly. He was accustomed to this manner of address; it was John Hanger's way. Still, each time was a reminder that his life meant nothing to the ancient being who served the forgotten God. He was merely a pawn to be used or discarded as his sovereign saw fit. He had found favor for over sixty years, but his first failure would result in his termination. This consideration always remained uppermost in his mind. Still, the joy of service overshadowed his fear, made him confident and enthusiastic in the performance of his duty. His acts of communion with his God energized him, granted him a taste of the eternal essence that burned fiercely in John Hanger's veins.
The relationship with Golgolith was a symbiotic harmony. When they partook of the living, the souls they consumed fed their deity by transfer of energy, and in return, His power was conferred upon them. It was a cycle benefiting both master and servant, as long as the servant remained forever faithful.
"When Nyle returns, send him to me," Hanger said. "I may have need of him."
"As you wish."
"And, Friend Lazar ... I have no wish to burden you. However, I must again remind you that time is of the essence. He is ravenous."
Lazar nodded, less happy now than ever with Hanger's request. "I will do my best."
"Thank you, my friend."
Lazar bowed deeply and turned to leave the chamber. Behind, he heard a rumble, like a giant, wild animal; and when he glanced back, the thing that sat upon the rock-hewn throne in no manner resembled the man with whom he had only just spoken.

Chapter 17

Mike's car screeched to a halt in front of Claire's apartment building, barely missing the rust-scarred Cadillac that belonged to the Rotantes, her downstairs neighbors; if he'd hit the old beater, they would have sued him for all his worldly possessions, or at least made a valiant attempt of it. But caring little for such mundane worries at the moment, he bolted from the car, burst through the front door to the small foyer and punched her door buzzer with enough force to jam the plastic knob into its socket. He beat it once with his fist to unstick it.
No response. He hit the buzzer again, waited. Nothing. After a long, anxious minute, he went back outside, peered toward her living room window. A lamp was burning behind drawn Venetian blinds. Then—shit!—What was wrong with him? He still had the spare key she'd given him when he'd stayed over! He rushed back in, fumbled for his keyring, cursing his slowness. Opening the inner door, he vaulted up the stairs to her floor, pounding on the door so loud everyone in the building no doubt heard it.
"Claire, where the hell are you?"
For a long moment, nothing and no one responded. Finally, thought, he heard a muffled shuffling sound from within, then something sliding across the inside wall toward the door. A fumbling at the doorknob. It turned, and the door creaked open to reveal a stooped, haggard figure, hair askew, eyes staring at him blankly.
"Claire! Jesus, what's happened?"
He grabbed her in a frantic embrace, and she wilted at his touch, legs collapsing, head tilting loosely forward. He pulled her to the couch, gently easing her into a sitting position. She moaned softly, raising her head to gaze at him with tear-stained eyes. The sleeves of her blouse were crusted with something thick and red.
"She's gone," Claire whispered. "It took her. It took her away."
He knelt beside her. "What are you talking about?” She shook her head, the anguish in her face so intense he thought she was going to retreat from him. Then: "Mike, she was here, and then it... oh, Jesus, the smoke."
She fell forward, her jaw dropping to emit a scream that never came. He pulled her close, tenderly running his hands through her tangled hair. He felt her tears on his neck, pooling on his shoulder. "Can't you tell me what's wrong?"
Her eyes met his, darkening with some terrible remembrance. But she seemed to steady herself, and said slowly, "Mike, Nancy came here tonight. We were going to have dinner. I left the room, and when I came back she was gone. The kitchen was ruined and she had disappeared. Whatever was here last night came back. It came back and took her."
"Nancy was here?"
She nodded. "It took her coat, her purse, her car. The figurine disappeared ... I think it came to life. That's what happened, Mike, it came to life."
He released her and stood up. "You were in the kitchen?"
Claire bolted upright, gripping his arm. "Don't go in there! Please!"
"I have to." He pulled himself away from her and went back through the hall until he came to the kitchen door. He saw the cold, tacky mess of spaghetti sauce smeared across the floor. He smelled something hot, and saw smoke rising from the stove. The burner was still on, glowing bright red. He quickly turned it off, thanking God she'd been spared a fire. He looked around the room. Nothing else in here but the mess from the ruined dinner.
He turned, only to bump into Claire, who had crept in behind him. "She was in here. I came back from the bathroom and she was just gone. Then the smoke poured through the living room door. It was the figurine."
"What are you talking about?"
"This thing, this package in my mailbox. Some kind of statue ... a horrible, monstrous-looking thing. And there was a note." She pointed to the table. "It was there."
Mike shook his head as the bare face of the table stared at him mockingly. "And it came to life. Claire...."
"Damn it," she whispered. "It was them, you know that, don't you? Mike, she was innocent. She had nothing to do with any of this."
"Jesus, please," Mike intoned. He could hardly bring himself to tell Claire about what he'd heard on his sister's answering machine. Yet the police had found nothing. As if someone or something were acting against them and destroying all traces of itself immediately behind it.
Every single clue gone without a trace. Just like little Paul Hernandez.
Just like Claire's own little boy.
"My God, it's worse than I ever thought possible," Mike said. "They're fucking setting us up."
"Wait," Claire said. "We gave that cube to the police. They still have that much evidence."
He shook his head. "Not anymore. Guess what."
Claire didn't even need to wonder. Mike turned to the window, peered at the pure blackness of the alley beyond, its endless depth bringing home to him the true nature of the darkness that had begun to weave itself around them, now begging the question:
What had happened to his sister?

Chapter 18

The red Pontiac Sunfire traveling north on Lakeshore Drive left the road at eight}7 miles an hour, smashed through the guard rail, and plummeted into the jagged rocks along the shoreline, flipping over twice and sending a tire spinning like an ungainly frisbee into the water. Almost miraculously, the vehicle came to rest right-side-up, its front end folded like an accordion, the passenger's side door hanging half off its hinges. The car did not immediately burst into flame, but sparks from the impact set a fire under the hood, and a ruptured fuel line began spewing gas that spread steadily around the wreck. The few cars traveling within sight of the accident began slowing down and pulling over, their drivers peering anxiously out their windows for a glimpse of the car's remains.
From within the wreckage, something stirred, and the driver's side door suddenly flew open with the sound of rifle shot. A hulking, stooped silhouette climbed out, apparently uninjured, heedless of an imminent explosion. As Nyle gained his footing among the rocks, he turned to the car, raised his arms, and in a smooth, deep voice chanted, "la! Thed ne ee'im ahneh nai'im reep'hah!" His single glaring eye reflected the fire that began to leap from beneath the crushed hood.
Inside the car, a figure suddenly appeared, as if from thin air, in the driver's seat—a young, blonde-haired woman. A low moan escape from her lips, bringing a smile of satisfaction to Nyle's malformed features. Then, the spreading gasoline ignited, and a brilliant flower of flame erupted from the car with a dull thoom. A scorching wind swept over the squat body, but did not so much as sway him with its force. Glancing at the road, from which he could now hear the voices of the approaching witnesses, he spoke a single command: "Paak'seh."
A pair of young men appeared at the smashed guard rail, one of them hurdling it and making his way among the rocks toward the blazing vehicle. He could see a motionless silhouette behind the wheel, surrounded by licking flames, but he knew it was too late to help that unfortunate soul. He got as close as twenty feet before being driven back by the intense heat of the blaze.
A pillar of fire suddenly  roared from the rear  of the car, and the young man,  a student from Northwestern University named Guy Wetzel, dropped among the cold rocks as several pieces of blackened metal clattered down around him. One of the smoking shards landed only inches from his face, and with a cry of alarm, he clumsily scuttled backward among the boulders.
When he looked back at the car, it was completely enveloped by the flames. Whoever was inside never had a chance. Guy had seen what happened from a distance: the little red car had barreled past him at high speed, not allowing him a view of the driver, whom he swore up and down for being an asshole. A quarter mile or so ahead, just beyond the exit at Foster Avenue, the car began to swerve, veering awkwardly between the two outer lanes; then it aimed itself at the guard rail and accelerated. It pitched over the edge and out of sight, looking for all the world like the driver had done so on purpose.
As Guy gazed at the growing fire, he could hear the voices of the other motorists who had stopped and begun to congregate at the roadside. While he'd been pissed as hell at the driver, he surely didn't want to see somebody go out like this. Jesus, what a horrible way to die!
He felt a tear pooling in his eye, trying to attribute it to the acrid smoke that poured from the blazing mass. But the wind was carrying the smoke away from him, except for—how incredibly weird —a thick, localized mass of black vapor that swirled and seethed overhead, seemingly drifting against the wind.
After a few moments, it disappeared into the night.

Chapter 19

"So, the first solution is implemented. Excellent," said Lazar, seated in his chair behind the altar. "Unfortunate young woman. But our curious friends have now been crippled."
Nyle stood rigidly before Lazar, gazing at him respectfully, his one focused eye never leaving the priest's. His thick black hair formed a spiky crown atop his misshapen head, his oversized shoulders hunched around his neck. Swollen-looking lips pulled back from a mouthful of uneven, jagged teeth that looked more canine than human. Lazar could smell the salt}7, ocean odor that clung to the being's ancient body; most unpleasant. But Nyle was seldom in close proximity, for his tireless service "in the field," as Lazar liked to put it, consumed the better part of his existence.
Nyle came from the same age as John Hanger. He —or more properly, it—had sprung from a joining of man and god-thing, in the days when outer beings trod upon the earth with some frequency—before the infestation of "intelligent" life had made the planet undesirable to those avatars of distant realms where spirit had form and matter bore no shape. Nyle could become as one with the ether, and in that state summon other powers that could be utilized in the corporeal world. But to deal too closely with them too often was dangerous. Even Nyle could not always control those forces once they became material. Tonight, he had performed successfully, and Lazar was satisfied that his two subjects had been rendered more vulnerable than ever, facilitating his collecting of the woman John Hanger desired.
"Tomorrow," Lazar said in a soft voice, "I wish to meet with certain members of the congregation. I have a task for one special person, a task that is supremely important. There are arrangements to be made that will yet require your assistance. I shall share it with you in the morning."
Nyle bowed perfunctorily. While he could in no way be considered a subordinate, he assiduously obeyed the Church doctrine that required all of the actively ordained to function as a single body.
"Laash aiie," he said.
He then turned and slowly shuffled out of the sanctuary, through the door leading to the Church offices. Nyle's speech was of the ancient underworld, for that had been the tongue of his mother; only when he appeared in dreams would his words become clear to mortal ears. And appear in dreams he could, where he might influence, torment, or possess.
The perfect third for the Church's triumvirate.
Tomorrow, Lazar would implement the next phase of his operation. Soon, Claire Challis would be delivered to John Hanger, to become the first blood sacrifice to Golgolith since the advent of the Taqith font. What a sweet death she would suffer, Lazar thought, mentally rehearsing the plan he had devised, checking his timing, visualizing the details to come. A beautiful, poignant death.
The God of the Seven Stars would hold him, Lazar, in very high favor indeed. Perhaps, one day soon, the position John Hanger now held would become his.

Chapter 20

Nancy's phone rang four times. Five. No answer.
No answering machine. No Trotter. Nothing.
Mike hung up and slid back in his couch, sighing in defeat. Whatever his sister's fate, he was helpless to do anything. He'd called her house over and over, called her office, several of her friends — tactfully, telling them nothing.
No word of her.
But she was not dead. She might have vanished, but Nancy could not be dead.
He had to force back his tears.
Claire nestled close to him, and he found some comfort in the warmth of her body. She had at last recovered her wits; still, she seemed so vulnerable and weary.
"I thought maybe I'd been drugged/' she said. "But I just don't know anymore." She squeezed his hand tightly, and he leaned back, eyes vacantly gazing at the ceiling. She laid her head upon his shoulder. "Mike, do you believe in demons?"
He sniffed. "No. Is that what you think we're dealing with?"
"I can't accept hallucinations as an answer."
"You think it's easier to believe in demons?"
She snickered humorlessly. "Maybe."
"Maybe you should get tested for drugs. If that figurine had been somehow treated, like you said...."
She shook her head. "I know what they'd find. Nothing. The Church is too clever for that. And this started well before that thing was delivered to me."
"Demons or not/' Mike said, "those men are devils. But I can't go back to the police. Trotter will have me locked up, sure as shit. But I have to do something ... I have to know about Nancy."
"You're not going back to the Church!"
He shook his head. "No. Not yet."
The silence was suddenly shattered by the jangling of the phone. Mike's hand shot out and grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"
Claire watched his eyes going from dull to fiery bright. His jaw began working back and forth, but for a long time, he said nothing. Then, with a whispered, "Oh, my God," he hung up the phone.
"What? What is it?"
For several seconds he only stared into space. Then, as hot tears began to pour freely from his eyes, he said with a choked sob, "It's Nancy. They found her."
It was almost 2:00 A.M. when Mike and Claire arrived at the city morgue, exiting the police cruiser Trotter had sent for them, insisting that Mike refrain from driving. In the fluorescent-lit, windowless wing of the pathological sciences building, time was meaningless. Still, the halls were virtually deserted, with only a skeleton staff to man the offices and reception desk. Trotter was waiting for them in the main entry hall, along with a bespectacled, middle-aged woman and a pair of uniformed officers who stood on either side of them like bodyguards. As Claire and Mike came down the stairs and hurried towards them, Trotter's face wore a mixture of stern dismay and sympathy.
"Mr. Selby, this is Dr. Solomon, the medical examiner. These are officers Najjar and Penrow. They were at the scene of the accident."
Both of the cops nodded to Mike. Najjar, a swarthy, husky man in his early forties, said softly, "We got there in record time, Mr. Selby, but there was nothing we could do. It was way too late."
Mike stared at him, stone-faced. The other cop, a young woman with with sharp, masculine features, merely lowered her eyes. Mike turned to Trotter. "You're sure it's her?"
"That's why you're here, Mike. It was definitely her car."
"Where was she found?"
"Lakeshore Drive, heading north. Looks like she must have been on her way home from somewhere."
Claire glanced fearfully at Mike, but he did not so much as blink. Trotter led them down the hall toward one of the many closed doors. They stopped at one emblazoned with a large white numeral "3."
"I'm afraid it's going to be extremely unpleasant, Mike. You better get yourself ready for this. Ms. Challis, you'll need to wait out here for him."
She nodded, and Mike gulped, his ears roaring, throat constricted. He straightened himself, trying to appear self-confident, not quite succeeding. Dr. Solomon opened the door and ushered him in.
It was a large, frigid room, with walls of polished aluminum, one being a bank of countless levered, air-tight doors, each about two feet square. The opposite wall was lined with smaller cabinets, their doors secured with combination locks. A cloying vapor, formaldehyde, perhaps, tainted the air. Mike turned and saw Claire standing at the door, prevented from entering by the female uniformed cop. Dr. Solomon went to one of the small cabinets, twisted the dial and opened the door, withdrawing a small metal box, which she then handed to Trotter.
"Take a look at these, Mike. Her personal effects."
Trotter held the box out in front of him. Inside, resting on a cloth pad, lay several rings —all scorched and coated with soot; the cracked dial of a wristwatch, band missing; and a pair of earrings, which had been melted into almost unrecognizable lumps. One of them barely retained the shape of a flying dove.
Mike's heart rose to his throat. "Those are hers, Trotter."
"Can you do this? You want some time?"
"We'd better do it right now, or I won't be able to at all." His voice cracked, despite his best effort.
Trotter nodded. Dr. Solomon went to one of the aluminum doors and pulled its levered handle. As it opened silently, a slight wisp of fog curled out of the dark interior. Reaching into the compartment, she grabbed a handle and slowly rolled out a long table, upon which rested a shapeless mass covered by a white sheet, stained red and black. Grabbing one corner, Dr. Solomon gave Mike a final look of warning, then slowly drew back the sheet, to reveal the remains hiding underneath.
The face he saw could not have belonged to Nancy. Most of the hair was burned away, leaving only a few gold-colored clumps along a blackened scalp. Her skin was coated with thick gray ash, blistered along the cheeks and chin. Her lips were pulled back from the perfect teeth, the edges of which were crusted with black dust. A red gash in one cheek still oozed dark, half-coagulated blood. The gash had an odd, serrated look, almost as if it had been made by a crosscut saw.
But there was no mistaking the profile, ruined as the face might be. This body, this thing lying on the slab had once been a beautiful, energetic young creature, full of love and joy, with a life that everyone Mike had ever known would have envied.
He dropped to his knees, leaning against the aluminum table, as hot tears began to stream from his eyes, as if God had opened a valve straight to his soul that released all the misery ever pent up inside him. A hoarse scream tore its way past his vocal cords, echoing like a dirge through the cold storage room.
Trotter and Solomon stood back, giving him his space. They were all too familiar with the pain locked inside this chamber. At the door, Claire began to weep, her soft moans blending discordantly with Mike's cry. She suddenly pushed her way past the officer blocking the door and ran to Mike, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She could not bring herself to look at the body.
At last, rising, she turned to face Trotter. "Detective, I want to be tested for drugs. I believe I came into contact with something that has caused hallucinations. I'll do whatever I have to do."
Trotter looked surprised. "What are you trying to tell me, Ms. Challis?"
"Nancy was at my house tonight. But she vanished. I left the room for just a minute, and then she was gone."
"So why do you think you were drugged?"
"Last night, I saw a pair of eyes watching me, outside my window." She shuddered inwardly. "They were the most frightening things I've ever seen. And this afternoon, a very weird-looking figurine was delivered to my house. It vanished at the same time as Nancy. I've already told you what I thought I heard the other night—a baby crying, in the middle of an empty room. Something has to have affected my perceptions, wouldn't you say?"
Trotter gazed at her thoughtfully, face inscrutable. At last he said, "I want to know everything you've seen, or thought you've seen. I want to know how long Ms. Selby was at your home, how long you were together, what you did. And this figurine ... where did it come from?"
"Where do you think, Lieutenant?"

Chapter 21

It was just past 2:30 A.M. and Dr. Solomon had taken Claire into a small examining room to administer a series of drug tests. The older woman, who seemed quite friendly and sympathetic, explained each of the individual tests, which included drawing three syringes of blood and taking a urine sample, as well as checking her vision, hearing, pulse, respiration and reflexes. It would take until sometime the next day to get the results back. When the doctor was done, she left Claire in Detective Trotter's charge.
"So, have you ever done any drugs before, Ms. Challis?"
"You don't bust people years after the fact, do you?"
"I'm not out to bust you for anything, Ms. Challis. I just want to know if there's anything in your history I need to be aware of."
"Well, I smoked pot when I was in college. I snorted coke once or twice."
"Ever drop acid? Do mescaline?"
"No."
"Peyote? Psilocybin?"
"No."
"When's the last time you smoked marijuana?"
"God, I don't know. Not since before Sean was born. More than six years ago. And pot couldn't cause anything like this."
"To your knowledge, did Ms. Selby use drugs?"
"No, I don't think so. She didn't strike me as the type."
"Do you think she could have slipped you anything without your knowing it?"
Claire snorted. "That's idiotic."
Trotter smiled wryly, scribbling some notes in his book. "That's what I was hoping you'd say. Now, let’s talk about this package you received. You say there was no mailing label, so it wasn't delivered by the post office. You think someone placed it directly in your box."
"Seems so."
"Then, this figurine —it was removed from your house, with no trace. And you think it came from the Church."
Claire sighed. "Where else?"
"What did this statue look like?"
She shook her head. "It's hard to describe. Kind of like a sea animal of some kind, with—"
"Draw it for me." He tore a page from his notebook and handed it to her, along with a stubby pencil.
Pausing to think, to remember, Claire visualized the weird, asymmetrical shape of the figurine; the fins, the stalk-like appendages. She sketched it quickly, coming up with a fairly true representation.
Trotter peered at it and raised an eyebrow. "Why do you suppose anyone would give you this?"
She could still not bring herself to mention the impossible prints —the tracks —she'd seen in the spilled spaghetti sauce. "I thought they were trying to frighten me. But it's more than that. It's worse."
"Worse —like what happened to Ms. Selby."
"Yes."
"Once again, Ms. Challis, I am faced with a very upsetting set of circumstances. I have to accept on faith that some sort of fetish was deposited at your place by the Church, then later removed, probably by the same people —at the same time Ms. Selby disappeared. But she apparently later died in a car accident. Lots of witnesses. I suppose you realize this does not make a policeman's job a happy thing."
"Damn it, Lieutenant, do you think I'm making this up? Maybe Nancy and I were both drugged. She touched the statue too. Maybe that's why she's dead."
"Her body will be tested, Ms. Challis. Quite extensively."
"I got into this whole mess by trying to help someone out. And now it's one horror after another. Do you think this is your nightmare?"
Trotter sighed deeply, forcing back his exasperation. "Ms. Challis, I understand this is a bad time for you. You need to get some sleep. I'll send an investigative team to your place to look around. If you don't want to be up with them, I'll put you in a hotel for the rest of the night because it will take a few hours. Want to leave me a key?"
"Yeah, whatever, Lieutenant. I just want to get out of this place." Claire rubbed her aching, swollen eyes. She didn't think she'd be able to sleep, but if she could just get away from this God-awful morgue, her nerves would improve, at least. Maybe tomorrow she'd be better able to cope with Trotter.
"We'll talk again," the detective said. "Hopefully, your test results will be in by noon tomorrow. And if we find anything in your apartment we'll let you know. Will you be going to work in the morning?"
Claire snorted. "No, Lieutenant, I don't think so." She rose and walked out of the examining room, her legs weak and rubbery. At the end of the hall, near the lobby entrance, she saw Mike sitting on a couch, face buried in his hands. A uniformed officer stood next to him, discomfort plainly written on her stern features.
Mike looked at her with tear-stained eyes, his face chalky. He held a drenched handkerchief in one hand. Claire knelt and touched his cheek with gentle fingers. His skin was frigid.
"I'll have to call everyone," he said in a low voice. "The insurance companies. Her office. There's so much to do."
She kissed his cheek. "Don't think about that now. They're going to take you home now."
"We'll have to move all her stuff out of her apartment. We'll have to store it, or start selling it off."
Mike was in a state of shock, trying somehow to hold his thoughts together. A natural reaction, Claire thought, realizing how dangerously close to the edge she'd come herself. The terrible thought crossed her mind that she was maintaining control only because Mike was losing his.
Trotter came up to them, his face uncharacteristically drawn. "I can have an officer take each of you home, okay?"
"We'll go to Mike's house," Claire said. "I won't leave you, Mike."
His eyes were wide and glassy. "Is it safe?"
She shivered to herself. "I don't know."
Slowly, he stood, stretching his arms. She helped him on with his coat, then softly asked him for her spare key to give to Trotter. After handing it to the detective, she took Mike by the hand and walked with him to the main entrance, where two officers waited to escort them to a police cruiser. Pity the poor Hernandezes, Claire thought, but if she could have foreseen what would ensue, she would never have poked her head out from under the covers the morning she'd first heard that awful, raspy voice.
As soon as they stepped outdoors, a blast of cold wind hit them, nearly pitching them back inside. The lights from the nearby buildings glared ambivalently at them; at this hour, the city seemed lonely and forlorn, with scarcely a car passing on the street. Officer Penrow, the woman, opened the back door of the police car for them, then slid behind the while, asking for his address.
Mike mumbled his street number, peering out the back of the car toward the building that held Nancy's ruined body. A few moments later, they were headed toward the Eisenhower Expressway, leaving the hulking structure behind. Claire wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close; he laid his head upon her breast as if he were a little child.
They rode in silence, the occasional chatter from the police radio the only sound above the rumble of the engine. By the time they reached Mike's house, fifteen minutes later, he had drifted into an uneasy sleep. Claire was almost reluctant to wake him, but with a gentle shake, she whispered, "We're here, baby. Let's go now."
He stirred and sat up, his face momentarily brightening as if he'd just come out of a pleasant dream. But when he realized where he was, his eyes glazed over again, and a sigh cloaked the sob that tried to escape.
As they exited the vehicle, Officer Penrow got out to walk them to the door. Claire held onto Mike, steadying him as they stumbled up the walk. As Mike fumbled with the lock, Claire gave the woman copa low, "Thank you."
"No problem, ma'am." She turned and walked slowly back to the car as Mike and Claire stepped into the familiar warmth of his house.
She led Mike straight to the bedroom, where she helped him undress down to his shorts and tucked him in like a dutiful mother. He offered no resistance — and was asleep literally by the time his head hit the pillow. Claire gazed at him for a long moment, almost numb now, barely remembering her own sorrow and pain. What horror he must feel, what incredible grief; she thought she understood, for she'd felt the same way after Sean's disappearance.
No, not quite the same.
They'd never found Sean's body burned almost beyond recognition. Was it better not to know his true fate? Or was it any easier to cope with her imagination, which had played every conceivable manner of death in front of her eyes time and time again?
She leaned over him, her heart aching, for him and for her own life that could never be the same again. She kissed him on the cheek, and she thought it might have registered, for he sighed deeply, and the grimace etched on his face softened slightly.
She studied the clock radio controls briefly, then set the alarm for eight. She would have to call in sick tomorrow; Lord knew how that would go over. And she'd call Mike's office for him and explain that there'd been a death in the family. That should get him out of any hot water with his people.
She slipped out of her clothes and under the covers, snuggling up close to Mike. Immediately, warm waves of sleep began to wash over her, as if to spite the terror that had consumed her seemingly for ages. And within moments, a melodious dream voice rose from somewhere in the distant reaches of her consciousness, carrying her into peaceful—forgetful —places where she wanted to remain for at least the rest of the night. But all too soon after passing into the depths of slumber, a low, ominous voice began speaking to her, at first unintelligibly, as if from some cavern miles beneath the earth; soon, however, the words became clear. “I took him from you, and brought him before the Master. I flayed him with sharp blades until the sweet blood flowed. Then Balak devoured the child's heart, swallowed his brain, swallowing his body, swallowing his soul. And now the child screams beautiful songs of agony to last forevermore. If you listen, you will hear. It wants you to join it."
And Claire did hear it: the far-away, screeching cry of a baby in the throes of torment. In her dreams, she screamed and wept.
Outside Mike Selby's house, having been passed unseen both by the policewoman and her charges, a huge, hump-backed figure stared fixedly with one eye at the darkened windows, consuming with deep satisfaction the dread and sorrow radiating from the house like ripples in the water caused by a hurled stone.

Chapter 22

Claire awoke to the sound of obnoxious morning DJ chatter as the alarm went off at eight A.M. Rolling over expecting to find Mike sleeping next to her, she was surprised to discover his side of the bed empty. She slid out from under the covers, immediately chilled by the cooler air upon her naked body. She smelled coffee. Rummaging through Mike's closet, she found a bathrobe that fit adequately, and made her way to the kitchen, figuring he must have decided to start some breakfast.
But the kitchen was empty too —and the house was dead silent. Damn! She hadn't expected him to be up and out so early. Then she saw the note on the kitchen table; picking it up she read:
Claire —couldn't sleep. I've already called in at the office. Gone to my aunt and uncle's in Wheeling. They're our closest living relatives, and won't know about Nancy. I didn't want to just call them. I'm going to look into funeral arrangements while I'm out, too. I'll try to be back by noon. Make yourself at home, but do me a favor and just stay inside. It's safest.
She found fresh coffee made; he must have left only a few minutes earlier. He should have woken her, dammit. But then she realized that he hadn't asked for her to be here; he likely wanted the time to himself, to grieve, and reflect. Under the circumstances, it's probably what she would have done.
She called Bill at her office, told him she was sick and would be out today and probably tomorrow. He seemed understanding enough; business wasn't hopping, so they could manage without her. It hardly made her feel like a vital component of the office machinery, but at least she was spared having to fabricate some long and detailed excuse to an indifferent superior.
She expected to hear from Trotter this morning about her drug tests. She'd made up her mind that the tests would be negative; whatever was happening, she was certain it wasn't drugs or hallucinations or paranoia. The jitters had already taken hold of her, and she could barely drink her cup of coffee. How could she relax while so much remained unsolved? One thing was certain—She wasn't going to so much as set foot outside the house; not that she particularly felt safe even here, since there seemed to be no place the Church couldn't invade at its whim. The Church, she'd thought; as if it were a living entity in and of itself.
Best to focus on Mike. He would need her to be there for him. At least here, in his house, she felt close to him, could smell his unique scent in the air around her. They'd shared a closeness through this ordeal unlike any she could have ever anticipated. She wasn't sure yet....
But she had a pretty good idea that she was falling in love with him.
Maybe after all this was over, somehow, their lives could begin returning to normal, and they could explore their feelings for each other, fully, guiltlessly, without an air of impending doom surrounding them as it had for seemingly forever now.
It was at eight-forty-five when the doorbell rang, stopping Claire's heart with a blazing chill of surprise and terror.
Though her rational mind assured her that agents of her enemy would not merely come knocking, her every instinct urged her to flee. In the end, her instincts prevailed, and led her to hide, sobbing, in Mike's closet.

Chapter 23

Trotter arrived at his office an hour later than usual, having allowed himself a little extra sleep after last night's ordeal. To complicate matters, his wife Lynette had been harassed on her way to work this morning by a gang of local white teenagers; a bunch who'd caused them trouble before because the Trotters were black and he was a cop —the worst possible combination to their diminutive brains. As if he didn't have enough on his mind with the case of the "demonic church."
When he sat down at his desk, he found a small square of blue paper taped to his computer screen. On it, a scribbled note read, "Please call Fred Varley ASAP. Cleo."
Trotter picked up his phone, thinking that maybe, just maybe, it would be something good this time, something to offer a glimpse of light at the end. He punched Varley's extension, waited for a couple of rings. When the lab assistant answered, he asked for Fred the Head.
"Morning, Ing," came the deep voice moments later.
"What've you got?"
"I know you didn't pull the cube photos and the negs from the darkroom storage last night."
"No."
"And you didn't delete the analysis files from my directory, did you?"
"Hell no, Fred. What's going on?"
"The results of the tests we made on your little cube. All gone. Photos, negatives, spectrometer scans. Everything."
Trotter leaned forward to his computer, logged onto the department network and entered the forensics folder. He went through the directory listing, knowing that if Varley couldn't find the files, he wouldn't do any better.
"When's the last time you accessed them?" he asked.
"Yesterday afternoon.""How about back-ups?"
"All gone."
"Any other system faults? Any other files missing?" Trotter asked, already knowing what the answer would be.
"No. Everything else is fine. No firewall alarms, no unauthorized access."
"Hard copy vanished too?"
"Hard copy vanished too."
Now, Trotter felt the way Claire must have when she tried to tell him about the figurine and the cryptic verse that had disappeared from her apartment. If anything, wiping out the computer record would take a certain amount of specialized knowledge that few people — certainly no one outside the department—could possibly have. Either he was playing with someone who had the extremely dangerous ability to invade their system and destroy sensitive information, or an error by Varley—or even he himself—had wiped out the last evidence they had on the Church of the Seven Stars.
The chances of the latter were slim and none. Yet a deliberate infiltration of the system, not to mention the lab and darkroom, was simply beyond the realm of plausibility.
"Fred, I'll call you back." Trotter hung up, suddenly feeling as if he'd entered a whole new, deadly game —one with bizarre, unknown rules. While he'd had his suspicions last night, he now felt more certain than ever that Nancy Selby's death had been no accident.
Unfortunately, the investigative detail's preliminary report revealed nothing helpful in Ms. Challis's apartment. Other than a spilled pot of spaghetti sauce in the kitchen, nothing appeared out of order. No trace of Nancy Selby ever having been there; no strange figurine or Biblical verse; not even the wrapping paper Ms. Challis had supposedly left in the kitchen. Ms. Challis's drug test results wouldn't be ready for another couple of hours, at least, and the ME would be on the Selby girl's body most of the morning. Until last night, Trotter had become more than weary of Mike Selby and had considered taking measures to keep him away from this case altogether; now, he felt truly sorry for the young man, realizing that,impulsive as he was, Selby had been acting in what he thought were the best interests of his friends and family.
Dammit! If Mike had just left the whole business alone, his sister would probably be alive right now.
Det. Geoff Patterson had been examining missing person reports since yesterday, identifying cases where young children had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. The number from the last few months was aberrantly high, so Patterson was going to set up interviews with parents, hoping to find some connection, however tenuous, with the Church of the Seven Stars.
Trotter picked up his phone, dialed the number for Securitek, the company that provided tech support for the department computer network. When the rep answered the call, Trotter asked them to send a systems analyst over right away, knowing it was a futile gesture but would satisfy the department bureaucracy. Thanking them ever so much, he hung up, wondering now if he should try calling in somebody with knowledge of cults and religious extremists who could help him do some digging. He'd worked with a couple of deprogrammers before, when dealing with a group that had seriously brainwashed a young man back in the 80s. That cult, if he remembered properly, called itself "The Secret Hope," and was nothing but a group of ritual starved secular humanists pretending to be Satanists, performing animal sacrifices and endorsing violence against local political figures; their one strength had been their ability to influence impressionable young minds. One of their inductees had murdered a city alderman.
But he didn't need a deprogrammer now. He needed someone with an encyclopedic knowledge of deviant religious doctrine, especially any that might be inclined toward abducting children. The department employed its share of specialists to handle ritual killings and other crimes relating to devil worship and witchcraft; his research into the Church of the Seven Stars had so far yielded nothing. Obviously that particular institution had failed to bring itself to the attention of law enforcement, at least since the days of Prohibition.
So. It appeared that he, Lt. Ingram Trotter, was going to be the one to put this Church back on the books.

Chapter 24

At 9:35 A.M., a young, attractive woman with long dark hair under a stocking hat, wearing a black leather coat with fur collar walked into the Trailways station on Clark Street, carrying a single hard-shell suitcase. Appearing somewhat nervous, her deep brown eyes batting back and forth almost constantly, she fell in behind several people waiting to buy tickets, her fingers clutching the bag handle so tightly her knuckles went white. Most of the people in the station sat in the rows of seats behind a rope cordon, a few of them asleep, many having waited most of the night for late arrivals. Telemonitors on the wall behind the ticket counter displayed the status of departing and arriving buses, and occasionally a female voice would blare over the intercom that a bus had just pulled in and passengers would be disembarking shortly.
The raven-haired woman's eyes on several occasions turned to the escalators leading up to the main entrance level, her features darkened with apprehension. When she at last came to the ticket counter, she pulled a thick roll of bills from her purse and shoved it in front of the droopy-eyed man regarding her apathetically.
"I called this morning to reserve a ticket to Phoenix." The departure schedule showed that bus 264 would be leaving for Phoenix, Arizona at 10:05. "Is it on time?"
"Pretty much," said the man. He typed something on his keyboard, then asked, "What's the name?"
"Challis. Claire Challis."
He shuffled some paper. "Here it is. One way?"
"Yes."
"Just one suitcase?"
"Yes."
He typed the information into his computer and a few moments later, a printer rattled off her name and the appropriate information on a red and white ticket. He slipped the ticket into a Trailways envelope, tied a destination tag to her suitcase handle, and stapled the claim check to her envelope.
"That's a hundred and forty-five dollars, Ms. Challis."
She counted out the amount in fives and tens, tucking the rest of the sizable roll back into her purse. The agent gave her a look of warning, which she ignored. More than a few unsavory-looking characters wandered around the bus station.
"You've got about eighteen minutes. The bus leaves from gate A-4, which is just down that hall." He pointed to a sign that read: ONLY PASSENGERS WITH TICKETS BEYOND THIS POINT.
"Thank you for traveling Trailways, Ms. Challis."
The young woman nodded, took another look around the station. A few people hung around the door to the gift shop; she studied them carefully, as if searching for a familiar face. Satisfied all were strangers, she clutched her purse firmly under one arm and went down the corridor the man had indicated, turning to look back a final time as she reached the gate.
At 10:15, only ten minutes late, bus 264 pulled out of the station carrying a full load of passengers, including a young woman whose ticket—as well as all her personal effects — identified her as one Claire Challis of Chicago, Illinois.
The agent who sold her the ticket later remembered her because she'd seemed so nervous and because she'd been carrying an awfully large roll of bills without much regard for who might see them. Young women traveling alone with that kind of money had to be, at best, poor, naive souls; or, at worst, damned, ignorant fools.

Chapter 25

Trotter got the call from Marie Solomon at 11:45; they'd found something odd during the Selby autopsy. He rushed to the morgue at express speed and went immediately to Solomon's office, where the doctor was waiting for him at her desk.
"Preliminary results show no traces of drugs," she told him. "Not of any kind. Nor in Ms. Challis's samples. Frankly, I'm not surprised. There are few drugs that could produce a hallucinogenic effect by absorption through the skin, unless we're talking about serious quantities, and then with other side effects. But we do have something unusual." She produced a set of photographs taken of the girl's body prior to the autopsy, handing Trotter a close-up of the ruined face. With her finger she traced a long, jagged gash along Nancy's cheek. "This wound could have happened in the accident. But the team checking out the car and the accident site could find nothing to cause such a mark. Take a good look at it."
"Yeah, I see. You don't think this happened in the crash?"
"Well, the evidence doesn't quite support it. These wounds were made by something that put pressure on this part of her face, pushing the skin in, and puncturing it. Then, her head was twisted around, for there are signs of some slippage here." She pointed to the jagged corners of the gash. "If this had happened in the wreck, her head probably would have made a quick impact, and either bounced away from whatever surface caused this, or been pinned to it. In which case, there would be deep perforations in the skull."
"And there aren't?"
"The skull shows some scoring, but not what I would have expected. Also, her neck muscles have been torn, apparently by the force that twisted her skull. Again, it could have happened in the crash, but I'd call it unlikely. It's more like a large, toothed clamp exerted a great amount of pressure on her head, twisted it back and forth, then released her. You see the marks? They were made by several thin, triangular shaped wedges, irregularly spaced.” Trotter felt an inexplicable chill run down his spine.
"We can't find anything like that in the car of at the sight of the accident," Solomon said.
"Anything else?"
"Something very odd. There were traces of tomato sauce on the girl's arms and hands. Furthermore—you know that sauce spilled in Ms. Challis's apartment? We found a fair amount of blood mixed in it. It matches Ms. Selby's blood type."
"Jesus. But she didn't die there."
"No. It's possible she was driving with an injury. Perhaps she was in a panic, bleeding, trying to get home or to a hospital. Difficult to prove that, though."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, the car was pretty well burned up, so we can't really tell if there was much blood in the car prior to the wreck. But the blood in Ms. Challis's apartment would suggest a fairly extensive injury."
"So, Marie. Any theories?"
The doctor chuckled mirthlessly. "You're the one who puts the puzzle together, Lieutenant. I just provide a few pieces. However, being shrewd of mind and kind of heart, I will tell you this much: be wary of your witness."
"You mean Ms. Challis?"
"She isn't telling you everything, Ingram. Maybe she doesn't know what to tell. Or maybe she doesn't want you to know."
"You've got a real gift for insight, Marie."
"And I'm up to my neck in alligators today, too. Leave now."
Bidding the examiner a fond but cheerless adieu, Trotter drove back to his office, more frustrated and depressed than ever. Since dawn, Patterson and one of his men had been keeping an eye on the Church; so far, no reports. He feared that Mike's visit last night might have warned the priest and his crew that something was brewing and now they'd be laying low.
But he couldn't shake off the darkest of thoughts that had begun nagging at him—that Claire Challis wasn't quite the victim she seemed to be. Her own son had vanished a couple of years before. She was the only one who could be positively placed at the scene of the Hernandez child's disappearance. And she had been alone with the Selby girl prior to her death.
Could Claire Challis have ties to the Church of the Seven Stars that he didn't yet know about?
His instincts told him he was wrong; deep down, he believed her—at least, that she was being victimized by parties unknown. But he could not turn a blind eye to the circumstantial evidence.
Trotter's desk phone rang. He snatched it up. "Yeah?"
"Patterson here. Got something for you. A young woman matching Claire Challis's description showed up at the Church about eight this morning. Thirty minutes later, she leaves with a suitcase. She goes to the Trailways station downtown, where she gets on a bus to Phoenix. One way. Name on her ticket was Claire Challis."
"No way!" Trotter said. "The girl's leaving town? You're certain?"
"No question. The bus left more or less on schedule. She was on it."
"What else?"
"A handful of visitors to the Church, in and out, mostly. Appears to be almost all lowlifes. No sign of your priest."
"Any Church employees? Custodian? A deformed-looking black man, by any chance?"
"No. The front doors opened at eight when the girl got there, and just those few visitors. Otherwise it's been quiet."
"Okay. Stay on it. Check in at thirteen-hundred."
"Gotcha."
Trotter slammed the phone down. Damnation! Ms. Challis had assured him she had no plans to leave town. A lie? Just another in a long string of lies?
Well, this meant making another call to Mike Selby, which was the last thing he'd wanted to have to do. He looked up the number and reluctantly dialed it. Mike's familiar voice answered, but a second later, he realized it was just the answering machine.
"Hello, you've reached the home of Michael Selby, paralegal. Please leave your name...."
The tape abruptly ended, and for a moment he thought someone was picking up—but only the sound of dead air followed. No, the receiver had definitely been lifted; was someone breathing on the other end of the line?
"Hello, Mike?"
No response. Trotter listened for several moments, hoping someone would finally answer. No such luck. Had the tape in the machine merely run out? No, there's someone there.
"Mike, this is Lt. Trotter. Are you there?"
A few seconds later, after a few clicking and rasping sounds, the phone went dead. Just a normal dial tone followed.
But Trotter slammed the phone down, not sure if he'd finally let the stress of this case get to him; for amid the indistinct noises on the phone line, he was sure he'd heard a deep, hollow voice mouthing unintelligible syllables just before the line had gone completely dead. He didn't allow himself to be influenced by the situations of those he investigated or aided; he was a seasoned professional, and his mind never played tricks on him.
He'd heard: "Rheh v'aah aiiee."
No.
It could not possibly have been the voice that Mike Selby claimed to have heard on his sister's answering machine the night before: the voice he'd heard about the same time his sister had been killed in a car crash on Lakeshore Drive.
Interlude
"Because of their chaotic nature, the Others are often difficult to summon and control. Certain entities are particularly dangerous, and there are those with whom contact must never be made, or the seeker will surely be destroyed. The very utterance of certain names will set up a vibration that may be sufficient to draw those Others to an individual with horrifying consequences."
"I have, in fact, witnessed one such event."
— Maurice Zann
The Spheres Beyond Sound

Chapter 26

Lazar had become aware of the officers watching the Church within moments of their arrival; he had been expecting a surveillance team following the police lieutenant's transparent questioning the previous day. The pair of undercover men, while reasonably well-camouflaged in their nondescript automobiles stationed strategically around the Church, could hardly escape the notice of one who perceived his environment by means far beyond the five primitive senses. The spiritual vibrations running like an undercurrent beneath the perceptible waves of sound whispered grave secrets to Lazar, sang to him in voices sweet and wise, guiding him, serving him. His mind opened itself to them and they flowed into and through him like dancing ghosts.
He stood before the altar, his gaze fixed on the glowing, crystalline star, known as the an-abzu-qip: the bridge between the small, prosaic corner of reality occupied by man and the vast unknown beyond. The complex geometry of the symbol reflected the interweaving of infinite spiritual planes with those of the corporeal; Lazar's attunement to these varying frequencies had refined itself over the years, and was continually developing. Still, his own power could not begin to rival that of John Hanger, whose lifetime spanned many of Lazar's own. And Hanger, too, continually sought a deeper, more complete understanding—and mastery —of those forces that mortal minds could scarcely imagine.
To possess such power would be the culmination of Lazar's dreams. In idle fantasies he sometimes usurped John Hanger's place as his patron God's most favored; yet a realist, Lazar knew that taking his master's place lay far beyond the range of possibilities. To even indulge in such thoughts was dangerous; while Hanger did not read minds per se, he interpreted impressions with frightening precision. If he for one moment doubted Lazar's loyalty, he would not hesitate to end the priest's life in ways best left unimagined.
So, Lazar had undertaken his most recent task, and through Nyle had invited that which he had dubbed the Conqueror Worm—its actual name could not be spoken without dire consequences — to procure his master's treasure. She had been located and extracted from her haven, and should at this moment be in transit to the Church, courtesy one of the congregation's faithful members. Naturally, she could not be brought onto the Church grounds without alerting the watchful officers on duty; therefore, she would be transported to the parishioner's nearby house, which was connected by subterranean tunnel to the network beneath the Church. The operation had proceeded as foreseen; the police now believed that Claire Challis had left for Arizona. They had no way of knowing that the individual on the bus, one Rita Flaherty, was a recent inductee to the congregation; formerly a runaway from Des Moines, Iowa, she resembled Hanger's treasure sufficiently to confuse the eyes of the human law that had —only for the present—turned toward the Church.
For the next twelve hours, the police could not be allowed to interfere with the sequence of events Lazar had meticulously plotted. Then, by dawn tomorrow, it would no longer matter. John Hanger's designs would have come to fruition, and he, Lazar, would hold a high position in a New World Order, to coin an appropriate epithet.
Nyle had expelled the Conqueror Worm as soon as it had accomplished its goal. It had been a difficult summoning and an even greater task to maintain control over the chaotic force from the other side. The ordeal had exacted an incredible toll on the half human, who now resided in the catacombs, replenishing himself through communion with Golgolith. Compensating the Conqueror Worm for itse services would doubtlessly involve several more human offerings.
One of them would be the young man who had stolen the Taqith font from the Sanctuary and witnessed the Assembly of Golgolith.
That particular event would be interesting, for —assuming Lazar's plans came to fruition with their with customary accuracy—young Mr. Selby would by his own actions deliver himself to them.
Lazar finally bowed once, then turned away from the an-abzu-qip, taking from the altar the bound copy of Zann's The Spheres Beyond Sound and seating himself in his chair behind the pulpit. The old tome was one of several that served as a foundation for the Church's organization. To the layperson, it might be considered a grimoire; yet it was far more. Like the Bible, the Book laid the framework for the laws and rituals of the organization, while also providing a history — and a partial index — of those strange and fabulous entities that existed beyond the walls of the three-dimensional universe. It also provided thecrucial formulae for interacting with those beings who were in many ways indefinable, but indisputably alive.
Using the book, one with sufficient knowledge could manipulate an energy force that could even infiltrate a system such as the police computer network, to selectively purge desired caches of information; and with the aid of the half-human Nyle, could summon a force that might destroy—or more properly, render nonexistent—certain physical evidence.
Lazar engineered his plans with the utmost care and confidence; yet as the hour of the Rite of Golgolith approached, an unaccustomed, icy anxiety had begun to steal into his blood that even communion could not assuage. He feared no human threat, for even in a worst-case scenario, he could thwart any would-be captor or even executioner. No; it was Hanger's wrath that he must avoid at all costs. It was Hanger who could condemn him to an eternity of torment and suffering should he fall into disfavor.
Therefore, he sought refuge in the Book. He read how, in the year 1897, the book's author, Maestro Maurice Zann, had fashioned the an-abzu-qip from a pattern revealed to him in a revelatory vision, one he believed had been sent specifically to him by those Others from beyond. He had created the original model of the star—now lost—from a piece of material, known to some as the Shining Trapezohedron, which he claimed had originated in some outer dimension. The exotic geometry of the figure set in motion perpetual waves of sound that could be received, transformed, and in turn transmitted by one attuned to its fantastic properties; only a handful of human beings, Lazar among them, had ever mastered the process. Zann referred to his creation as the Transonifier, but the Church had adapted its formal title, an-abzu-qip, from the ancient Sumerian term meaning "the Gate of the Gods."
But Zann himself had been a pupil of John Hanger, who at that time bore another name. It was Hanger who had enlisted the musician to write the definite volume of knowledge to form the foundation of the modern Church of the Seven Stars. Thus, in 1927, The Spheres Beyond Sound became a reality. And on the day of the book's completion, Maurice Zann and the original Transonifier vanished, never to be seen again.
One of Lazar's personal quests was to locate the lost author/musician. In his spiritual ventures into the other-realms, he had found signs that Zann had passed the same way. Somewhere, in the vast gulf beyond this existence, Maurice Zann's spirit still wandered. But whether in a self-attained state of bliss or as one exiled to eternal torment at the hands of cruel puppetmasters, Lazar had no way of knowing.
So now, awaiting the arrival of John Hanger's most recent acquisition, Reverend Lazar read of Maurice Zann's travels, searching for clues in the text that might eventually lead him to the lost prophet. As he read, soft, melodious musical notes began to emanate from the star upon the altar.
And Lazar was carried away.

Chapter 27

When Mike arrived home, Claire was not there. It had been a terrible morning; first, his relatives in Wheeling—his mom's brother and sister-in-law—had taken the news of Nancy's death even harder than he'd expected. The family hadn't been very close since Mike's parents had died, over five years ago, in one of the most publicized plane crashes in history (but that remained unsolved); yet their anguish at the loss of another family member ran deep. Reluctantly, Mike had promised to stay in close touch with them during the trying days to come. Then he'd gone to the church Nancy regularly attended to inform the minister of the situation and set up a memorial service; of course, no definite arrangements could be made until the police released her body, but they would at least be prepared for the event.
When he arrived home to find Claire gone, a chill of apprehension seized him, yet he forced himself not to immediately fear the worst. He'd asked her to stay put, but he could hardly expect her to remain against her wishes. But wouldn't she at least have left a note? Deciding to at least try calling her house, he found the message light on his answering machine flashing. Of course —she'd probably left him a message. But to his surprise, when he played the tape, it wasn't Claire but Lt. Trotter.
"Mike, I haven't been able to reach your cell phone. Give me a call immediately. It's about Ms. Challis."
God! Now he felt a surge of panic and dug into his pocket for the card with Trotter's number on it. He'd left his cell phone here this morning. No wonder Trotter couldn't get him. By the time he punched out the number, he could barely hold the receiver in sweat-slicked palms.
"Mike, I was just about to try calling you again. I have to know. Are you aware that Ms. Challis has left town?"
A stab of disbelief seared Mike's gut. "What?"
"One of my men reported that she left on a bus for Phoenix this morning. But she stopped at the Church first. What do you know about this, Mike?"
"Lieutenant, this can't be right. She was here this morning. I just got back, I expected her to be here."
"What time did you last see her?"
"I left the house a little after seven. She was asleep."
A long silence followed. "They reported her at the Church at eight. Unlikely she could have gotten there in that amount of time—but not impossible."
"It's got to be a mistake!"
"It was her name on the ticket, Mike. And as near as I can tell, the witnesses gave an accurate description of her."
"Lieutenant, I'm telling you, that couldn't have been her."
"Has she ever spoken to you about any friends or relatives in Phoenix?"
"No, I wouldn't know anything like that. This is fucked up, Trotter."
"I've put in a call to the Trailways station in Phoenix. They're to alert me the moment that bus gets there. I want to know if she's on board."
"What good is that? Look, Lieutenant, that's gotta be a thirty-some hour bus ride. You can get somebody out there on a plane well before the bus arrives."
"Mike, I don't have that authority. Look, if she's trying to blow town because she's afraid —of the law, or someone else—what's to stop her from getting off somewhere else? There's probably a dozen stops on that route."
Mike's thoughts reeled, all reasoning scrambled. "Why, Lieutenant? Why would she do anything like that?"
Another long silence. "Mike, how much do you know about her? I mean, the real girl. I can't be positive she doesn't know a hell of a lot more than she's told us."
"You're suggesting she's involved with the people at the Church? That's crazy. No, they must be setting her up."
"No way to prove that, Mike."
"They've proven it to me. Look, if Claire was splitting town to throw someone off, why would she use her real name at the bus station? It doesn't make sense?"
"Let me ask you this. Do you know any reason for her to stop at the Church on her way downtown?"
"She's terrified of the place, Lieutenant. She wouldn't go there."
"I've got men watching the place, Mike. And I know what you're thinking. Don't you dare go down there —or I'll have you arrested. Is that perfectly clear?"
"Yeah, it's clear, Trotter."
"See that it is."
"If you find out anything else, call me. Will you do that much for me?"
"Yeah, Mike. I will."
"I mean it, Lieutenant. It's that... she's important to me."
He heard the detective breathe softly. "I know. I'm sorry. And if you hear from her, call me immediately. No matter what, all right?"
"Yeah. Okay."
He hung up. Then he kicked the phone table over, sending the phone, the answering machine, the notepad and a jug of pencils and pens flying across the room. The receiver clattered to the floor, buzzing loudly like an angry hornet. He stared emptily at the mess, swearing silently.
It's the Church, it's the fucking Church.
What had they done to her?
Had they killed her, like they must have —somehow—killed Nancy?
Was he to be next?
There were answers to be found —somewhere. And the only place to look for them was forbidden territory. Trotter wouldn't bullshit him, he knew that; if he went down there, the detective wouldn't hesitate to arrest him. But Trotter couldn't begin to understand the inexplicable power that damned Church could exert on someone's mind.
He saw his sister's body on the slab at the morgue, his mind screaming, no, it couldn't really be her. Her beautiful face could not have been ruined like that thing he'd seen ... no, that wasn't his baby sister, no, no....
Nancy, I miss you. I love you.
Mike was eight years old; Nancy, almost five. They'd been playing in the back yard —or rather, Mike was having his fun bullying his little sister unmercifully as she put a tiny blue raincoat onto her favorite stuffed bear. She had dared to trespass beneath the shade of the old maple where he always set up his toy armies. As far as he was concerned, the tree was Mike's territory.
He'd punted her little bear over the fence to the next door neighbor's yard, called her every name in his childhood catalog of insults, and threw dirt in her face. She'd burst into tears, calling, "Oh, Bear!" and tried to climb over the fence, not realizing all she had to do was go around front to the open gate.
"You sissy-ass little gnat," he taunted her, tossing dirt into her silky golden curls. "I'll kick you like a football." He came up behind her and planted a foot into her exposed rear end, sending her sprawling over the top of the low chain-link fence and into the grass on the other side. She began to yowl like a Siamese cat, so Mike thought.
He didn't realize she had sprained both her wrists in the fall.
Under the hail of his torments, Nancy hobbled to where her bear lay, and with shaking, pain-crippled hands, she picked it up and began running as fast as her unsteady little legs would carry her. She disappeared around the far side of the neighbor's house, her high-pitched voice wailing in sorrow and pain.
"Go on, you little turd," he grumbled, going to the back porch to collect his chest of miniature soldiers. For all he cared, she could run to Wisconsin, preferably down the center line of some busy highway. She'd been nothing but a loud-mouthed, slobbery little thorn in his side since the day she'd been brought home. He'd wanted a neat younger brother and, instead, he'd gotten a snot-faced nuisance of a girl. He'd heard a few swear words from the lips of his father on occasion and this seemed like the best moment to try it himself. For the first time in his life, Mike said, "Goddamned bitch."
A second later, his blood was frozen, for the icy voice of his mother came down from the kitchen window: "Michael Selby, where is your little sister?"
He merely shrugged. It would not have done to say, "Gone for good," which was his first impulse.
"You mean to tell me I leave you alone for three minutes and she runs off? My God."
Mom came out in her apron, having gone inside only long enough to get dinner started. Her eyes were wide with worry, her lips parted in a little "O," her hands set sternly upon her hips to let Mike know of her displeasure in no uncertain terms. She called Nancy's name, received no answer. She started around to the front of the house, calling for Nancy over and over.
A couple of minutes later, she came back, her face drawn with worry. "Where did she go, Mike? Why didn't you come tell me?"
He shrugged again and pointed to the Tate's house, next door. "She went around there somewhere."
"Why?"
"I guess she was mad at me."
With a heavy sigh his mom turned and stalked back to the front, this time turning down the street in the direction Nancy had run, calling her name frantically.
For a full five minutes, neither his mother nor Nancy reappeared. And though he was reluctant to admit it, he was starting to get worried. True, his first concern was what kind of trouble this was going to mean for him; but what if something really had happened to his little sister?
Half-heartedly, he called out, "Nancy?"
She could have run out into the street, he supposed, though there hadn't been any nearby screeches of brakes or screaming or anything like that. On the other hand, their parents had always forbidden them to go out of the yard because there were bad people out there who would happily do them harm. For one quick flash, Mike thought, "Hey, great!," only to regret it instantly. He didn't really want something bad to happen to his sister, did he?
She sure had been gone a long time now.
It seemed another fair portion of eternity before Mom came back into the yard, eyes filled with tears, a tissue in her hand. She gazed at Mike, a look of both deep grief and unprecedented anger — directed at him. "I can't find her. She's gone."
Somehow, seeing Mom like this brought home the dreadful reality of what he'd done. He burst into tears, peering with blurry eyes over the fence, and began calling, "Nancy! Nancy!"
"I'm going to call the police," said his mother, turning to go into the house.
But at that moment, a youthful, masculine voice called, "Over here, Mrs. Selby."
Both Mike and his mother turned to see Matt Southworth walking into the back yard, carrying on his shoulder a small, trembling figure with dirty blonde curls. Matt was a high school senior and football player, who lived several houses down on the block behind theirs. Nancy really had gotten a long way from home!
"I found her running through my yard/' the young man said. He was tall and muscular, red-headed, with a crewcut and widely spaced green eyes. "She was crying pretty hard. I think she's hurt her wrists." He set her down feet-first, and she ran straight to her mother, carrying stuffed bear in one stiff arm.
"Oh, no, what happened to you?" cried Mom, kneeling to take her daughter in her arms. "Are you hurt?"
"I fell/' Nancy said, looking straight at Mike. "I fell down."
The back of Mike's neck began to burn. She wasn't going to tell on him? But that didn't even matter. He could hardly believe the relief he felt now that she was back. He went to her and smiled, brushing some of the grit out of her hair. "I'm glad you're okay!"She gave him a tiny smile, then looked back to her mother, eyes starting to swell with tears again. "Mike kicked me down," she cried. "Mike hurt me!"
Mike's jaw dropped and his relief evaporated.
As his mother's strong hand took his wrist in a vise-like grip and led him to the worst spanking of his entire life, his mind formed the words that never quite made it to his lips: "Goddamn bitch!"
The memory was more than Mike could bear. He fell onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. The tears that burst from his eyes were fiery and bitter, born of regret for all the things he'd done to hurt his little sister in his life, and for all the apologies left unsaid. After all, that one episode had been the first of a long series, some serious enough to cause real strife in the family. True, since they'd become adults, they had grown to like and respect each other, yet within him, a deep-seated guilt burned perpetually, a guilt that only a confession and sincere apology could ever absolve. He'd been meaning to tell her that sometime. That he truly was sorry, he'd just been a mean-spirited, nasty little kid, and he didn't mean any of it.
No, at the time, he'd meant every word of it. But he'd been stupid. Stupid. Being a kid was no excuse.
But there had been so much time ahead of them. They were still young, and he'd never quite figured out how to tell her what he felt without sounding maudlin. All he'd needed was a little more time.
"Oh God, Nancy," he moaned. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Forgive me."
He wept until his tear ducts ran dry. Eyes red and swollen, he sat up and stared vacantly out the window, now seeing the blackened flesh, the twisted limbs of the thing at the morgue. Why did Trotter have to show him that? Why?
And poor Claire. Jesus, where was she?
Somehow, he had to fix things. He couldn't sit back and wait for Trotter to make things happen. If it was too late for his sister, maybe it wasn't too late for Claire.It was just past two. Where was she now? On a bus somewhere in Iowa or Missouri? Impossible. But if they'd somehow gotten to her and taken her to the Church, she would have been seen by the cops.
Wouldn't she?
Trotter said they'd seen her at the Church early this morning. That was the biggest mystery of all. She would never, ever have gone there of her own volition.
Somehow, the answer lay no farther than the Church of the Seven Stars down on Seminary. That was where he had to look. But how to do that, having been handed down the edict by Trotter?
Maybe....
Maybe there was a way.
With a spot of good luck, he figured he could by with it. The whole idea seemed ridiculous, but he didn't know what else he could do. The face in the mirror was still his, but unless someone who knew him looked closely, they would see only a filthy streetperson, indistinguishable from all the others that littered the cityscape.
He'd gone down to the shops on Harlem, stopped at a little boutique and picked up a long, black wig, which he'd brought home and trimmed to make it ragged and tousled. With some stamp pad ink, watered down to a thin gray, he smeared his face until it looked suitably grimy. Then, digging through his closet of stored clothes, he found the old army coat he'd bought six or seven years ago that he'd fondly called his "vagrancy coat." And donning the pair of tattered jeans and ratty-looking tennis shoes he'd been meaning to throw out but never had, he reckoned he could easily pass as a wino; he'd even picked up a bottle of Thunderbird wine and put it in a paper bag as a finishing touch.
It was after three now, and rush hour would be starting soon. He didn't want to run into extensive delays, so he set out immediately, plotting his upcoming moves as he drove. First, he'd have to park a street or two over from the Church, so there'd be no chance he might be identified by his car. He'd then wander toward his goal,  take up a position in the alley where he'd been chased by the hideous humpback; even that ugly son-of-a-bitch wouldn't recognize him now. It might even be possible, he thought, to get inside the building, and if so—just maybe—he could get past the sanctuary, into the offices or classrooms or the cellar.
Because, his heart told him, that's where he'd find his answers.
As a precaution he'd hidden in his inner coat pocket one of his best kitchen knives, and in an outer pocket, a small, pressurized can of butane lighter fluid and a Bic; together, they'd make a crude but effective flamethrower. Given provocation, he wouldn't hesitate to use it, either. If the law had a problem with that, the hell with them.
Thus prepared, he set out driving down the Eisenhower, praying the inbound traffic wouldn't be moving at a crawl. Fortunately, the way looked reasonably clear as he headed down the ramp into traffic. Barring unforeseen delays, he could be at the Church within half an hour.
He received a few dubious glances from passing drivers. He had to admit, his face and his car made an incongruous combination.

Chapter 28

O'Herlihy's on Clark Street was a little better than a dive bar, its clientele an odd mix of business suits and unwashed rags. Hardly pretentious, its dimly lit interior provided a warm haven for those with no place but the cold outdoors to go. Autographed photos of all the movie stars that had apparently ordered O'Herlihy's famous spirits cluttered the wall opposite the bar; most of the featured names were passe or just plain gone: Robert Morse, Beverly Garland, John Agar, Simon Oakland. Lt. Detective Ingram Trotter stopped in periodically for a drink or two after work, but he'd never seen any movie stars hanging around. He also came here to work, when the need arose.
Only a few scattered patrons sat at the bar and tables. Too early yet for the after-work crowd, and on Wednesdays, even the regular customers didn't exactly beat the doors down. As Trotter came in from the cold and his eyes adjusted to the dim, cheap-chandelier lighting, he caught sight of old Leonard Ritenis seated at the far end of the bar, nursing a beer and smoking an unfiltered Camel. Trotter took a seat next to him, receiving a leery glance from the leatherfaced nomad.
"Hello, Trotter," he said unenthusiastically, voice like an old Chrysler cranking up. "If it's Carmen you're looking for, I haven't seen him."
"No," he said softly. "Carmen's put away, you know that." He was referring to one of the local drug dealers with a penchant for guns he'd taken off the street a short while back. Ritenis was a former junkie who claimed to have a place of his own these days, but at any given time of day could be found either in a bar or on the street; he was good for keeping an ear to the ground and his eyes on the crowd.
"People like Carmen don't stay put away. They always come back."
"No time soon. Not during your lifetime, old sir. Right now I'm just looking for a little tip."
"Don't think I can help, chief. I do real work these days."
"I'm sure you do. But I want to partake of your vast cup of knowledge and insight."
"I'm sure you do," he retorted mockingly. Ritenis' gruff voice was touched with an eastern European accent; he'd come from Latvia when he was a teenager and had never bothered to lose the mannerisms of “the Old Country."
"Come on. What's that you're drinking."
"An Old Style, what the fuck does it look like?"
"Pisswater." Trotter waved to the chubby, auburn-haired barmaid. "Give him a Guinness Stout." She nodded and took the beer from the cooler, placing it in front of Ritenis. Trotter slid her a five and told her to keep the change.
"Thanks, chief," mumbled Ritenis. "My favorite."
"I know."
Ritenis downed the rest of his first glass, then took a long swallow from the new bottle. "So. What do you want?"
"A few answers. What do you know about the Church of the Seven Stars?"
"The what?"
"Church over on Seminary, a few blocks from here. I'm sure you've seen it."
"Yeah, I seen a church over there."
"Ever been there?"
"No, why would I ever go there?"
"Know anyone who goes there?"
Ritenis lit another cigarette. "How the hell would I know anybody what goes to church?"
"Because I know what good company you keep."
He snorted. "Only the best."
"Seriously. What about it? Anybody you know ever go to a service there?"
"Maybe, a while back. What's the deal, anyway?"
"Well, I'm told it isn't what you would consider an 'ordinary' church—I mean, a Christian church. I hear things, you know? Like maybe some bad shit happening over there."
"You mean like devil worship or something?"
"Now that's an interesting way to put it."
Ritenis nodded. "Well, I know that once in a while they offer food to the homeless. And they sometimes pass out their flyers to people—not very often, maybe two, three times a year. Never been inclined to go there, though."
"But you know somebody that's been to a service there? Accepted handouts from them?"
"I think Johnny Loomis might have gone there once, long while back. But I ain't seen Johnny in ages. I figure he's moved on somewhere."
"Anybody else?"
"Not that I know personally. So how is it you bring up the subject of devil worship?"
"I didn't. You did."
"How would I know about devil worship? That shit's for loonies, man."
"And I'm sure a man of your caliber wouldn't know any loonies. None at all."
"What, you making fun of me, chief? Okay. So a long time ago I did hear stories like that. It was when I was doing dope, and I didn't give two shits about anything, if you know what I mean."
"Now why do you suppose stories like that would have gotten out?"
"Well, the only people we ever seen go into that church was poor; the homeless, you know — like I used to be. Most folks that went there we never saw again. But that never meant a thing to me. People with no place to go lotsa times just keep going, you know?"
"You never took food from there, when you were on the street?"
"Well, no. That kind of made you feel obligated to them. I didn't starve, not with the kitchen over on Halstead, and they never made you obligated for nothing."
"How do you mean, 'obligated'?"
"Some people said that if you took food from them, they'd want you to come back and help them out in exchange. You know, do work for them, or pass out their tracts, or whatever. Nobody I knew wanted any part of that. Afraid they'd try to convert us, you know. And what with those old stories...."
"You telling me you were afraid?"
Ritenis laughed hoarsely. "Afraid, hell no. I was too messed up most of the time to care. Now, most people on the street don't mind doing an honest day's work to eat. But I reckon most didn't see what they were offering quite that way."
"Interesting. When's the last time you heard any of those 'stories'?"
"Oh, long time back. A coupla years, anyway. Not since I straightened out. And before that, like I said, I was pretty messed up. Those stories ... they didn't mean anything to me."
"Yeah, so you say."
"So, what's your story, chief? They doing human sacrifice or something there?"
"What makes you ask that?"
"Looks like they'd have to be, to get you in after 'em."
"I'm just sorting a few things out."
Ritenis picked up his beer and took a long swallow. "This all I get for you tapping my vast cup of knowledge?"
"Depends," Trotter said. "Your cup doesn't exactly runneth over."
"There is one thing," Ritenis finally said. "A long time ago."
"Oh?"
"Cost you twenty."
"How do I know it's worth twenty?"
"What I gave you already is worth twenty. You're lucky I don't hit you for fifty."
Trotter laughed. "I'll give you ten, Leonard.
"You're a cheap nigger. Twenty."
"Don't get ugly," Trotter said coldly. "Okay. Let's be generous. Fifteen."
"And another Guinness."
With a sigh and a chuckle, Trotter said, "Okay. Another Guinness."
"At least you're not a stupid nigger. Nothing worse than a stupid nigger. All right, buy me the beer." He downed the rest of the bottle and tossed it over the bar into the open trash can. It crashed to the bottom but didn't break.
Trotter ordered another beer. When Ritenis had chugged half of it, he finally said, "Musta been five, six years ago. I used to buy shit down by Wrigley Field, you know. Some of these neighborhoods got alleys, with these storage sheds and garages, that sort of thing. You know, where a guy can at least get outa the rain."
"Yeah?"
"Sometimes we stayed down near the church. And once in a while, you could hear babies crying. Not just crying. I mean screaming."
"Maybe they had a nursery."
"Not hardly. I'm talking about horrible, suffering kind of screaming. And always at night. After midnight. Then, one day, old Niall Davidson, he found some tiny bones out in the alley. Human bones."
Now how do you know they were human bones?"
"Chief, even a drunk, drugged-out old faggot knows a human hand when he sees one. A tiny little hand, all bones."
A cold finger passed down Trotter's back. "And where is this Niall Davidson?"
"Long gone. Went on his way, I reckon. Shortly after finding the bones."
"And I suppose he took the bones with him?"
Ritenis cracked a smile. "Must have."
"And this never struck you as serious enough to warrant telling me about it?"
"Chief, the only thing serious to a man in my state was where to get the next fix, where to find food, and where to lay a blanket, in that order. Besides, as you know —I'm a born skeptic. Even when I could understand what any of that shit meant, I never believed it. I told you that."
"Yeah. So ... anything else?"
"Now, I'm not saying it's true. Far as I'm concerned, it's pure bullshit. But some said that there was a man who lived in that church that, uh, like, ate ... people. Babies, mostly."
Trotter felt like he'd been kicked in the gut.
"You know, though, chief, when you're living among addicts and drunks, the tales fly. The bigger, the better. You know what I figure? If a kid got ate, it was ate by rats. There's rats in the city, you know?"
"Brilliant, Leonard."
"Don't fuck with me, chief. I told you what you wanted."
"Yeah," Trotter muttered. He pulled a ten and five from his wallet, dropped them on the counter in front of Ritenis. "Man's gotta be good for his word. You good for anything else?"
"All out. Drop me another five and I'll tell you the time."
"That, I've got. Thanks, Leonard."
"My pleasure." Ritenis gave him a sour scowl.
Trotter stood up, took his overcoat and hat from the stool beside him and started to put them on. As he did, the front door opened with a jangling of bells and a familiar, squat figure bundled in a heavy coat and muffler blew in with a gust of cold wind. A gloved hand reached up to remove a black toboggan, exposing a gleaming bald pate. Trotter started toward him, leaving Ritenis to grab up his money and order another beer. As he came up alongside Varley, he wondered if Cleo had perhaps directed him here.
"Hey, Fred, what's the story?" he asked. The bald man turned to him, and with a shock of realization, Trotter saw it wasn't Varley after all, but a near-clone; this man bore more than a passing resemblance to the lab tech but was obviously a different character. The stocky, middle-aged man gave him a questioning frown.
"Sorry," Trotter said, "I thought you were someone else."
"S'okay," said the man; the voice was thin and high, vastly different from Varley's bass boom. "Happens all the time. I was Lee J. Cobb before he died."
Trotter chuckled. "Spitting image. My apologies." He moved past the hefty man and went out the door, into a biting, whistling wind. He lowered his head so the wind wouldn't steal his hat. The sun was well on its way underground, leaving the street dim and shadowy beneath a heavy cloud cover. He hurried to his car, got in and started it up, his first priority to get the heat going. Pulling out of his space, he turned south toward Belmont, to the meeting he'd set up with Patterson. In less than an hour, another pair of officers would be replacing the sergeant and his partner.
He chuckled briefly at his case of mistaken identity, then his mind suddenly shifted gears. Patterson, he realized, never had more than a physical description of Claire Challis; even Trotter didn't have a photograph of her. The girl at the bus station could have been anyone; if the Church were trying to throw them off track, it would be a relatively simple matter to send an imposter using Ms. Challis's name.
Now, the more he thought about it, the more likely the ruse seemed. And if they'd taken these pains to make everyone think Claire Challis had left town, where was she? If Mike Selby was right, and the Church had set her up....
What about Ritenis' story of a child's skeleton turning up near the Church?
It was time to go in. Tomorrow, he'd send an undercover man for a visit, perhaps posing as a streetperson. Patterson had lots of undercover experience; he'd be the man for the job. When he reached Belmont, he was forced to stop and wait for a large crowd of pedestrians to cross, many streaming out of the CTA station on the corner. The after-work crush was at its peak now, the sidewalks crawling with overcoated figures, steam blasting from mouths and noses like rounds of cannon fire. Trotter had to creep along with the heavy traffic until he reached a sidestreet where he could jog over to Seminary, a one-way running north. Patterson's car would be parked about a half-block south of the Church. Trotter found a vacant space a couple of blocks from his destination; from here, he could see the steeple with the glowing star rising above the rooftops.
Patterson's car, a nondescript black LTD, was parked under a tree within easy view of the Church's front doors. Inside it, two silhouettes were visible through a steamy rear window. As he approached, the figure in the passenger seat reached around and opened the back door for him. Trotter slid inside, grateful to find the car reasonably warm.
"Goddamn, that's cold," rumbled Patterson, in the driver's seat. He wore a heavy gray coat and a hat with flaps that covered his ears. "This isn't camping weather."
"No shit," muttered his partner, a young, pale blond man named Curtis. "We should get a bonus for this duty."
"Sorry," Trotter said. "I didn't have anybody else available. Relief's on the way."
"I don't suppose you brought us any dinner?" Patterson asked.
"Afraid not. Listen. I want to know about this girl you saw at the bus station. You say the ticket was issued to Claire Challis. I want to know exactly what she looked like."
"Just like your description. Five-six, five-seven, long dark hair—but she was wearing a stocking hat. Wool gloves, a long leather coat with a fur collar. Nice looking girl."
"What about her eyes? Could you tell what color?"
"I think they were brown—just like your description."
"You said she was wearing a hat?"
"Yeah, that's right."
Trotter bit his lip. "Each time I've seen Ms. Challis, it's been cold. But she never wears a hat."
"You don't think it was really her?"
"I've got my doubts. I'll try to get a photograph tonight. Give you a good look at her, then you tell me."
"Do we get to go home tonight?"
"Yeah. But I want you to stop at the station first and wait for me. If I can reach Mike Selby, I might be able to get a picture for you. I want to be sure on this thing—and fast. So what's happened this afternoon?"
"Nothing. No sign of anyone coming or going, except a low-life or two. But guess what—I found a Church bulletin in the trash out back of the building. There's a worship service tonight; every Wednesday, for that matter." He handed Trotter a crumpled, dirt-smudged sheet of paper with the name of the Church in chancery script printed on the front.
"Son of a bitch," he said, opening it. The bulletin looked like any other; it was apparently from the previous Sunday's service. It all seemed ordinary enough: "Organ prelude," "Scripture reading," "Opening hymn," "Collection of offerings," "Sermon," "Benediction," and "Organ postlude." In the announcements, the names of members in the hospital were listed. A youth meeting was scheduled for Friday night. A budget meeting had taken place yesterday morning. Then: something called "Assembly of Ubbo-Sathla," coming up on Saturday morning. Here he saw that, indeed, regular services were offered on Sunday, both morning and evening, and on Wednesdays at 7:00 P.M. Also, at the bottom of the page, a single line in bold type stood out, belying the generic appearance of the bulletin: "He who desireth understanding must sign in his blood ye book of Azathoth and take a new secret name, and thereafter he shall never be alone."
Trotter might have chuckled if he hadn't come to think of the Church as something dangerous and perverted. He'd dealt with cults whose activities were overtly depraved, resulting in suffering, even death. Yet, somehow, his instincts told him that this Church was far more insidious than even the most extreme cult he'd encountered in the past. Perhaps it was the hints of dark rituals, the facade of prosaic religious trappings that masked a diseased heart, never fully seen but briefly glimpsed. It was a spiritual fear, born of something greater than the sum of the loosely connected facets of the case.
"Hey," Patterson said suddenly. "We got somebody."
Trotter's gaze followed the sergeant's upraised finger. Down at the Church, a solitary figure shambled toward the front steps. He looked like your average streetperson, Trotter thought: shaggy mop of black hair beneath a frayed brown toboggan, ancient army coat, dirt}7 face and hands, old jeans. Looked to be between twenty-five and thirty. Slight stagger. Carried a bottle of wine in a paper bag.
"It's four-thirty-five," Trotter said. "If he goes in, time him."
"That's the same guy we saw go around once before," Curtis said. "About half an hour ago. Went up to the doors, looked around, then back down the alley."
"Maybe he's hoping to get in for the service tonight," offered Patterson.
"Probably wants to get in to keep warm," Trotter said.
"Yeah. If he was begging for money, he'd be over on Sheffield or Belmont. Not on a residential street."
Trotter nodded. "Unless he felt he'd get more for the effort here."
The ragged figure hovered by the doors for several moments — rather nervously, Trotter thought—then wobbled down the stairs, turned the corner of the sidestreet and shuffled along the side of the building, pausing at each of the four ground-level windows as if to listen.
"He's up to something. Let's keep an eye on this one."
"Think he's one of them?" Patterson asked. "A lookout?"
"Don't think so. Looks like he's more interested in what's happening inside the place."
"You want to have a talk with him?"
"No. Let's just see what he does."
Trotter watched the cadger turn down the alley behind the Church, quickly disappearing from view. When it appeared that the man was not immediately coming back around, Trotter said to Curtis, "Ed, take a walk around the block. Get a look down the alley, see if you see him. Just a fly-by. That's all."
"Shit, you could've at least brought me some hot coffee," Curtis grumbled. "It's cold out there." But he dutifully opened the door, took a surreptitious look around, then started walking at a casual pace. As he drew near the Church, he slowed, glanced into the alley beside the building; walking on, he shook his head to indicate the alley was empty, then hurried on his way toward the end of the block. A few minutes later he reappeared on the sidestreet, having come full circle, and hustled back into the car, admitting a rush of biting wind.
"No sign of him. There are lights in the parsonage behind the Church, but no movement. He didn't show up again while I was going around the block, did he?"
"No."
"Then the only place he could be is in the rear courtyard or inside."
"Could've gone into the parsonage," Patterson said.
Trotter looked at his watch. "It's four-fifty-three. Keep a log on this fellow. I'm going to give Mike Selby a call and see if I can't get a photograph of the woman—" He suddenly paused. "Damn, I've still got her key from last night. She had photos in her place, if I recall."
"You're not going to just walk in and take one, are you?"
"I've got permission. She gave me her key."
"Technicalities."
"Look—Hanley will be here within the hour. Give her a complete rundown. I'll be back with the photo as soon as I can. If I can make it in time, I may just attend that worship service tonight."

Chapter 29

Mike had finally managed to get the small cellar window open and slip inside, after making several circuits of the building, each time sitting down next to the window for a few minutes and worrying the old, rotting sash upward an inch at a time. Upon discovering the little window near the back of the building, he'd decided that forcing an entry would be his only means of finding Claire; so, using his elbow, he'd broken one of the panes so he could reach in and unlock it. At least one of the people he'd seen passing was surely an undercover cop, so he'd kept his bottle handy to take a highly visible swig whenever someone walked by.
Far more worrisome had been the prospect of meeting that monstrous humpback. But so far, Mike had worked unobserved, and now, standing in the darkness of the cellar, he thanked God just for being out of the deadly wind. His fingers had gone numb, making his work at the window all the more difficult; even if he got out of here alive and well, he thought, pneumonia might be waiting in the wings for him.
Only dusky light penetrated the ding}7 window, and even though it was warmer in here, he could still see his breath. He gently closed the sash and took in what he could of his surroundings: a few folding chairs, a chalkboard, and near it, an ancient-looking, high-backed piano waiting for a player, as it must have for many years, judging by its dense coat of dust. He went to the single closed door and listened, hoping no one had heard the sound of breaking glass. He tried the knob, and the door opened inward with a long, echoing groan. Nothing stirred, and he stepped into a long unlit hallway, keeping a hand on the wall to guide him. Near the far end, he could see pale gray light from one of the lower windows at the front of the building. He began a slow creep forward, pausing at each closed door along the way, listening and praying that no one would suddenly appear to apprehend him.
Since his arrival, he'd seen no one going in or out, nor heard any sounds of movement from within as he made his circuits around the building. He prayed he was alone, yet his certainty that Claire was somewhere nearby grew stronger with every step. By coming here he'd surely placed his life in jeopardy, but his fear for her outweighed any concern for himself. For the moment, at least, he'd have the advantage of hearing the floorboards creaking if anyone were walking above. He finally came to the open door, through which light from the window shone dimly. The hall turned to the left, again disappearing into a black void. Still no sound. Gathering his nerve, he plastered himself against the wall and slowly leaned forward, sliding his head through the door until he could see inside.
It looked much like the room through which he'd entered: bare walls, a scant few chairs and a small circular table in the center of the floor, a podium deposited in one corner. Murky, fading daylight filtered in through a window translucent with grime. He realized that in just a few minutes night would fall, and he would be imprisoned within a lightless, hostile world, totally isolated. His only tools for survival —a penlight, a knife, and a makeshift flamethrower — seemed miniscule, impotent; mere placebos to bolster his confidence. Still, the weapons could be deadly, and should circumstances dictate, he would see that they were.
He started down the dark hall when his eye fell upon a short, square table in the nearest corner of the small room. On it, he saw a pair of objects whose silhouettes defied immediate identification. Stepping back inside, he found one of them to be horribly familiar—from the description Claire had given of it: a jade-green sculpture of conical shape, sprouting numerous, prehensile-looking appendages, covered with engraved scales and fish-like fins, its grotesque, reptilian head perched atop a long, spindly stalk. He tentatively reached for it, touched it with a trembling finger. Its polished surface felt cool and slick, almost wet. Almost alive.
The second object, when he realized what it was, nearly sent him reeling. He shakily picked it up, barely daring to believe his eyes: a cloth wallet, its contents spilling from its ripped stitching.
Nancy's driver's license fell to the tabletop. Her sweet, smiling face gazed at him, frozen in a time that knew no death or horror or misery. He could smell a subtle hint of her perfume, like her essence, wafting from the cloth billfold. He could not stop the tears that suddenly welled in his eyes, nor the rage and bitterness that accompanied them. He stuffed the wallet and license into his coat pocket.
This meant that they were the engineers of her death, brazenly advertising the fact for his eyes. They had anticipated his arrival. In all likelihood, he was being watched at this very moment. And the worst thing of all, he thought—paranoid or not—he couldn't be sure that the hidden eyes upon him would be human.
The car crash had somehow been a ruse, something they'd arranged to discredit Claire, to divert attention from the Church itself!
But how could they have done it? How?
His first instinct was to take the wallet, the weird figurine, and run away from here, find Lt. Trotter—bring the whole police force, even—to destroy the entire Church. To burn it to the ground, if necessary.
But he could not. Claire was here, he was certain of it—assuming they hadn't already taken her life. But what if she was already dead, and he was himself walking straight to his own end, a mere pawn in some dreadful game to which only the Church of the Seven Stars knew the rules?
No. He couldn't afford to think like that.
It was all he could do to keep from calling out her name. Perhaps she'd been secreted in one of the sealed rooms down here, only a few yards away but unable to move or speak. Or maybe Lazar or one of the others lurked around the next corner, waiting for him to walk into their open, deadly arms. Peering down this corridor, he could see no movement, hear no sound. As he took his first step forward, he seemed to be walking into an abyss, within which some unearthly, malevolent entity waited in silent expectation.
Every few steps, he stopped to listen. Finally, he fumbled for the penlight in his pocket and, risking all, switched it on, sending out a tiny beam that illuminated only a narrow swath through the solid gloom. He made out another closed door to his right; to the left, solid wall. An opening ahead indicated that the corridor turned to the left, to parallel the hallway he'd first entered. Turning this corner, he could see a wide, arched portal in the left-hand wall, from which—to his cold surprise —a dim light flickered.
Quickly but silently, he stole through the archway, into the large chamber beyond. Here he found only a few tables and chairs arranged haphazardly, all filthy with dust and cobwebs; but upon a small circular table, a single candle burned, illuminating another portion of what he now knew to be a lure: a brown, leather pocketbook, its contents partially spilled across the tabletop.
Claire's.
Her hairbrush, compact, keys, a pair of leather gloves. Her wallet. He grabbed up the last item and tore it open. Yes, there was her photo ID card. The face in the photo looked sullen and despondent; he realized then it had probably been taken shortly after her little boy had disappeared.
Mike's every instinct screamed, trap! Yet he had the proof he needed that Claire was here —and, he suspected, still alive. They meant for him to come here, to find this; there could be no doubt. Again, he had to fight down the almost overpowering urge to flee. He could never stand up to such a force as this, one that could foresee his own actions, draw him so readily to precisely where it wanted him. But he was so close now. If he abandoned her, they'd simply kill her, cover their tracks again and leave Mike with no hope of ever convincing anyone of the truth. Then perhaps they'd come after him, and he would die having done nothing for Claire except sign her death warrant.
As he backed away from the table, the tears in his eyes turning the candle flame into a glittering, faceted gem, he suddenly sensed a change behind him. Not a sound or movement; merely a hollowness in the air —perhaps merely a shift in pressure. He stopped and quickly spun around, only to find himself an inch from the edge of a yawning black chasm: a gaping, rectangular opening in the floor that he was certain had not been there moments before. The beam from his light touched the upper step of a descending staircase before being swallowed by the consuming darkness below.
As he stood there, a sound rose from the depths; a voice, or voices, he thought, a low-pitched drone rising and falling, muted by distance. He quickly doused his light, standing like a piece of stone on the precipice, not daring to move for fear of toppling into the pit. After several moments, once he felt sure the sounds were not drawing nearer, he risked his light once again, shining it into the opening. He realized this was actually a trap door, for a square of stone, now angled inward, served to conceal a stairway hewn from the solid rock beneath the foundations. “Son of a bitch' he whispered, his voice echoing eerily into the lightless depths. He glanced around the room again, suddenly afraid someone might appear and hurl him into the malevolent, gaping mouth. He slid his hand into the inside pocket of his coat, touched the handle of his knife, hoping it might offer some reassurance. It didn't.
This was it then. No way to go but down. And no way to turn around without condemning Claire. He could not deny the virtual certainty that if he took the first step down, he would never return alive.
But at least he would die with Claire. Better that than the other way.
He summoned what remained of his courage, took a deep breath, and started down the stairs.

Chapter 30

Claire had managed to lift herself from the stinking mattress and feel her way along the slick, moldy wall until she reached what she thought was the door; a tiny gleam of golden light shone from the crack underneath. She placed her ear to the wall, hoping to hear something—anything—from the other side. Nothing. She moved away from the door, tentatively feeling the walls on either side, searching for any feature, any hint of other means of egress. But she touched only bare stone and a few cobwebs, which she prayed were empty. She wiped the sticky silk onto her jeans leg.
She had no idea where she was, or how she'd gotten here. The last thing she remembered was the sound of the doorbell ringing ... hiding in the closet... then a horrible crash and a terrific, noxious odor, as if the door of charnel house had suddenly burst open. Then—that face! That evil, hideous black face, one eye drooping over a crushed cheek, the other glaring fixedly at her with such deadly purpose....
She must have passed out—or been knocked out—immediately thereafter. She'd woken up in this miserable, stinking cell with a horrific headache, which—thank God—was at last beginning to abate. She'd thrown up shortly after waking, and the awful stench of her vomit wafted to her nostrils, seeming to cling to her. She'd wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her wool sweater. She wore a black turtleneck underneath, and though the room felt dank, it wasn't cold, so she pulled soiled sweater off and tossed it away. She didn't want to go back to that filthy mattress, but her legs still wobbled. She settled into a sitting position on the hard floor near the door, running her hands through her tangled hair, then wrapping them around her legs, bringing her knees up to her chin. How long would she have to wait in this crypt for whatever was going to happen to her? Or was this, in fact, simply her tomb, a place where she would die of starvation and thirst, to rot away in solitude without hope of anyone ever finding her?
That wouldn't make any sense —as if anything did now. She'd surely been brought here for some other purpose; she sensed—felt—the end of her life racing inexorably toward her. Would she end up like Nancy, an unrecognizable husk of flesh and bone, a victim of some "accident," the truth of which would never be known to anyone outside a small circle of evil men? If I must go, she prayed, at least give me the chance to take one of them with me.
Beyond the door, something rattled, and the unmistakable clatter of footsteps descending a staircase drifted to her ears. Someone was coming for her.
She slid toward the wall and struggled to her feet as the footsteps drew to a stop outside the door. It sounded like more than one pair, probably two. When they opened the door, she would try to take on at least one of them; hopefully, she could surprise the first one through the door, maybe get her fingernails into his eyes. She knew she was still weak. If only they'd given her another hour, she thought, her energy would have returned sufficient to offer a real fight. Now, the best she could hope for was inflict a quick, disabling wound before they finished her.
From outside came a clicking sound, then a metallic rattle. And the sliver of light at floor level began to widen slightly. Damn it! Her eyes couldn't immediately tell which way the door was swinging. She didn't want to be illuminated by the light outside. She sidestepped quickly to her left.
The door opened outward, which put her at a slight disadvantage for a surprise attack. Swearing silently, she pressed herself against the wall, waiting for the telltale shadow to come into view on the floor. She took a long, deep breath and curled her fingers into claws; her nails were long and sharp enough to rip flesh.
But it wasn't like she'd ever done this before.
She waited. And no one appeared. No shadow in the dim, golden rectangle cast upon the stone floor. And no further sound from outside. What the hell?
She didn't dare relax her posture. They must have anticipated her attempt. They'd anticipated everything else. But who was out there? Was it Lazar? He was the one she wanted most of all, for her every instinct told her it was he who had taken her Sean. Certainly, he'd been the one who'd taken Paul Hernandez — the event that had led to her being where she was now.
Suddenly, a raspy, disembodied voice echoed from beyond the door: "Ms. Challis, please step into the center of the room and make yourself visible. You cannot harm me, and I do not wish for you to be damaged. Please obey me."
The voice sounded sickeningly kind and harmless. She felt involuntarily compelled to obey his command, but some surviving thread of will held her in place. She did not speak or breathe.
"If you choose to play silly games, you will not appreciate the result. I have not come to harm you. Quite the contrary, in fact."
The power of the voice was almost overwhelming. She could not force herself to remain in her attack posture. Like a puppet drawn by invisible strings, she stepped away from the wall, into an arena of light. She saw a tall, thin silhouette standing several feet outside her cell, its shadow stopping just short of the open door. Her legs nearly buckled, and she realized how weak she still was. She wouldn't have stood a chance even against the old man.
Lazar stepped into the doorway, his features still hidden by darkness. He wore a black cassock and some kind of medallion that she couldn't quite make out around his neck. He carried what looked like a small bag in one hand. From the dark pit of his face, his watery eyes gleamed at her.
"I know you are frightened, young lady. Please be at ease. I will not hurt you."
She leaned forward, trying to peer past him. She could see no one else in the dim hall, but she thought she could detect the faint sound of breathing.
"That is Nyle outside the door. He is here only to prevent you from injuring yourself, should you attempt anything rash."
"Why have you brought me here?" she managed to whisper.
"Your questions will be answered, I assure you. I realize you are not in the most comfortable of accommodations, and I apologize. However, that is how it must be for the time being."
"Where are we?"
"In a place that no one can find. I'm sure you realize you will not be rescued. Not by the police. Not by your gentleman friend. I tell you this because I am compelled to be honest with you. I myself wish you no harm, and to the best of my ability, I will help you."
"If you want to help, get me the hell out of here."
His lips spread to reveal shiny white teeth, standing out eerily in the darkness. "That I cannot do. I can only give you some measure of comfort."
"How?"
"I have something for you. Something that will help you relax." He lifted the small leather pouch for her to see. "And to ease your mind."
She shuddered at the thought of being touched by him. "I don't want anything from you. Go away."
"You do not understand. In just a few hours, you will desire this most ardently, I can assure you."
"What do you mean?"
"I only wish to spare you as much ... discomfort as possible. It grieves me to see a lovely young woman such as yourself suffer."
"The only thing I suffer is your life," she hissed. "End it, and I'll be quite happy through any pain your friends can inflict."
Lazar heaved a sigh. "That is sad. I would rather you not be so bitter."
"Fuck you."
"Please, Ms. Challis. I've come to show you kindness. It is the least I can do for you."
"Mother fucker. Bastard."
He sighed again. "Very well. Act as a child if you wish. I thought you might want a few answers."
Claire's tongue froze. The tall silhouette looked like a corpse planted on its feet. "What do you have to tell me?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Why do you kill little children?"
"We do not kill, not in the way that you think. True, the bodies we take are destroyed —or more correctly, changed—but the essence of life is preserved, in a very special way. It is a glorious existence we have, Ms. Challis. Those we take share that existence."
"What are you talking about?"
"The souls of those we consume, for want of a better term, retain their identities, their feelings. But they become a part of something far greater than any individual. Something quite wonderful."
"And what is that?"
"I will do you a rare service, Ms. Challis." He leaned forward almost conspiratorially. "I will tell you its one name. It is not spoken except with reverence and thanksgiving. And it is never taken in vain. It is a word of power. And it is ancient."
"Well?"
"It is called 'Golgolith.' The only term one could apply to it that you might understand is 'god.' It is a god, one of many great, ancient ones who once ruled this world, and every other; but it is also a great power that binds those who follow in faith. I am a leader of that faith. And soon—tonight—you will become a part of that great body." He chuckled lightly. "In a way, you will be reunited with your son."
A burst of horror exploded in Claire's heart, finally causing her legs to collapse, dropping her like the blow of a sledgehammer. Tears pooled in her eyes, ran down her cheeks in sorrowful rivers. She turned away from the priest, unable to look at him without feeling sick to her stomach.
"You son of a bitch," she whispered. "You took my son."
"That is true," he said softly. "We have special needs, Ms. Challis, and we do not hesitate to take what we require."
"You can go straight to hell, you bastard. You and your fucking Gagarock can burn for eternity."
"I understand your anger, and your pain. But what is done cannot be undone. That is the law. You should be honored, young lady. To serve Him is an honor."
"Get out!" she cried, rising enough to point an accusing finger at him. "Get the hell out. Now!"
With unwavering patience, Lazar said, "I certainly didn't wish to cause you such distress, Ms. Challis. Won't you let me help you to relax? You'll feel so much better."
"I don't want to feel better."
Then, voice rising sternly, he said, "Then be aware of what is going to happen to you tonight. At midnight, you will be brought before Balak, the Master. You will be stripped naked and bound to the altar. There, while you are alive and quite aware, you will be devoured by the Master, and your agony will be quite exquisite, young lady. When he is done with you, I will myself strip the remaining flesh from your bones and lick every last drop of your blood from the altar. Then I will throw your bones to Nyle, who will gnaw them until nothing remains. And your soul will shriek for all eternity in the body of Golgolith, along with all the other souls that now belong to him, including your little boy."
Claire screamed. But his voice rang in her ears, drowning the sound of her own. Her stomach heaved again, but nothing remained to come up. Her fists pounded the floor, as if of their own volition. Pain spread through her limbs as if every nerve were being raked by daggers.
She didn't see when Lazar made his exit, leaving her again in pitch darkness.
After a time, the paroxysm passed. Still, her arms and legs trembled violently, and every breath she took nearly gagged her. Her ears rang with the echoes of her screams. A voice in her head tried to convince her that the priest had lied, that everything he'd told her was an insane fantasy. But in her heart, she could not disbelieve the old man after all that had happened.
Tonight, she would die.
And then, suddenly, Mike's face formed in her mind's eye. He tried to smile at her, but his own eyes were full of tears for his sister, and his inability to help her. Where was he now? What was he doing?
"God help me," she whispered at last.
But the darkness remained unbroken and silent, and some interminable time later, she began to drift into an exhausted sleep.

Chapter 31

Mike had no idea how far below ground he'd gone once he reached the bottom of the long stone staircase; he knew he'd been descending for ten minutes or more at a reasonably steady pace. The stairs twisted and turned erratically, and many steps were of uneven size, as if the staircase had been designed specifically to disorient. Now, his little penlight penetrated only a short distance into what appeared to be a wide passageway. Low sounds still issued occasionally from the distance, but he never seemed to draw nearer to them during his descent. Increasingly, though, he felt on the verge of a potentially violent confrontation; he finally drew the long knife from his coat pocket, clutching it fiercely in his right hand while thumbing the flint of the lighter in his pocket with the left. He almost wished the sounds he'd heard would repeat themselves, if just to give him some idea of distance and direction.
Hugging the dank wall, he crept forward, occasionally brushing past tattered cobwebs and fingers of mold that clung to the stone. He could see no footprints or other signs of recent passage on the stone floor, though his own tennis shoes made moist squishing sounds with each step. Every few yards he stopped and turned off his light, both to conserve batteries and to minimize his own visibility—not that it made much difference, he thought wryly; anyone or anything that could exist in these catacombs wouldn't hold light in very high regard.
Finally, after something like ninety paces, his beam illuminated an archway opening to a much narrower passage turning to the left. And from here, he now heard another murmuring sound — distinctly a voice, but still unintelligible. They're leading me, he thought; yet aware of the bait, he followed it, unable to do otherwise. It was a different world down here, he thought, like planet so far from the sun that no light and no warmth ever reached its stone heart. A world of the insane, of people and creatures that had no place in the world of daylight.
On and on he walked, deeper into the stone esophagus, still never encountering the source of the elusive, murmuring voice that stole up from the darkness. He smelled a faint, sulfurous odor, as if from a sewer. Shortly, his flashlight beam revealed the black sheen of moisture on the walls. The stench emanated from here.. He must indeed be either in a long-forgotten part of the sewers or close to a major underground line. He had to pick his steps carefully now to avoid slipping on the wet stone.
Ahead, finally, he saw that the corridor ended, and in the floor, another gaping mouth opened to another stairway leading down. He must be reaching incredible depths by now; his ears had begun to ache from the change in pressure. The thought of descending still further sent him closer to panic. He feared his heart couldn't keep pounding for long without bursting. Again came a low murmur from the opening, and again he followed it, stowing the knife back in his pocket so he'd have a free hand to brace himself against the wall.
This stairway went down in an uneven spiral, as if the passage had been formed by the burrowing of a monstrous worm. The slime on the walls only strengthened that impression. This staircase only took him down thirty steps or so; but when he saw what now faced him, his remaining resolve fled and left him panting on his knees, dangerously close to hyperventilating: six openings in the walls led in different directions, all as dark and empty as gateways to outer space, none issuing so much as a glimmer of light or hint of sound to facilitate a decision. He was merely a rat in a maze, with no concept of the reward or punishment waiting at the end.
Claire, where are you now? his mind cried. I have to know.
Then, as if in answer, he heard something—a low, warbling hum from one of the passages. He listened at each opening frantically, trying to determine from which the sound had originated. Useless. It seemed to have no source, coming from everywhere at once. It wasn't a human voice, he realized; his initial impression had been wrong. Anything that could issue such sounds would have to be considerably bigger than a man.
For one terrible moment, he began to question whether or not finding Claire was worth losing his own life.
It was only disgust for his own doubt that impelled him to finally choose a passage and enter it, clutching his knife in a grip that would have broken the arm of the world's strongest man.

Chapter 32

So. Both of them were now in the Church's confines, one of them bound for sacrifice, the other on his way to death in an endless labyrinth, where he would wander until he arrived at the fate John Hanger had chosen for him. Even if by some unlikely chance the young man achieved the path that led straight to Claire, Nyle or one of his minions would stand between him and the object of his desire. Lazar savored the flavor of true hopelessness, tasting it as if it were a rare delicacy to his every heightened sense. John Hanger would certainly be pleased with the result of Lazar's mission and reward him accordingly.
Shortly, Nyle would dispose of the young man's car; a number of Mr. Selby's belongings had been discreetly removed from his house, so at least the initial investigation of his disappearance would lead the police to believe he'd left town. An appropriate amount of Ms. Challis's blood and an article of her clothing, placed strategically in Mr. Selby's house would yield the impression that he had taken her life, disposed of her body, and gone on his way. With the police already in doubt of these young people's integrity, they would find the entire account of the Church's involvement tenuous at best, and at last remove themselves as possible obstacles to the impending realization of John Hanger's —and the Church's — destiny.
For forces of the law, an untidy case with all too many unanswered questions; for Lazar, a satisfactory denouement to a painstaking operation.
In spite of himself, Lazar could not deny feeling somewhat sympathetic toward the young woman who would die tonight. He had spoken in earnest when offering her the elixir to alleviate the agony she would suffer as she was eaten alive. It was indeed a horrible death, as Lazar could testify, for he had stood witness to many such sacrifices while in Hanger's service. He was also quite satisfied to accept whatever remains the Master threw him, for the consumption of blood brought great power and great joy, catalyzed by the energy transfer with their patron God. Tonight's celebration would be wonderful indeed.Lazar's intuition told him that one or more of those agents of human law might make his presence known tonight, but under no circumstances would he deviate from the prepared evening schedule; certain rites were required to invite the avatar of Golgolith into the presence of his children. John Hanger would abide no hindrance.
Perhaps he could make one more attempt to persuade his captive to partake of the elixir he had offered, Lazar thought; even after so many years, some small part of his heart had yet to harden to the horror of the sacrifice. John Hanger would consider it a weakness; yet Lazar still secretly valued that small tie to the compassionate being he had once been, but had abandoned in his search for the transcendent—for the power that waited to be discovered in those magnificent spheres beyond sound.
If she refused his offer, then he would abandon her, as well, to suffer the consequences of her decision.

Chapter 33

"Damn it," muttered Trotter, switching off his car phone after his third attempt to reach Mike in the last ten minutes, each time getting only his answering machine or the unanswered ringing of his cell phone. He'd left a message, but he had a bad feeling that Mike would not be hearing it tonight. It was six-thirty; he still entertained the idea of attending the Church of the Seven Stars's worship service at seven. He'd requested that Patterson and Curtis work a couple of hours longer tonight—much to their chagrin—and maintain their positions outside the Church, along with detective Hanley, who'd parked her own vehicle just around the block. Patterson had turned particularly ornery at the request, but Trotter had finally sprung for some hot fried rice and an extra large coffee, so Patterson shut up and agreed to stay as long as necessary.
He'd checked in at the station, learning that Securitek had awarded the department's computer network a very clean bill of health. They could only attribute the missing files to human error; Trotter knew better but was at a loss to offer an alternative explanation. And for the missing physical evidence, IAD was conducting an investigation; in other words, it would be an open case until Trotter reached retirement age.
He had procured the desired photograph of Ms. Challis from her apartment, berating himself for not having thought of it the previous night, while the investigative unit conducted its search. Of course, at the time, he'd had no reason to believe he would need one.
He dialed the number to Patterson's car. A moment later, the sergeant answered.
"What's happening?" Trotter asked.
"A couple of early arrivals for the service. Just went in a few minutes ago. Nobody else around."
"Have you seen the priest?"
"No."
"How about the beggar we saw at five?"
"Nope."
Trotter sighed. That particular character bothered him. "I'm on Belmont, five minutes away. Hanley in position?"
"Sheila's doing a walk around the block. Nobody's getting in or out that we don't see. Looks like they've just opened up the front doors."
"Okay. Be there shortly."
He hung up, braked to a stop for the light at Ashland. He noticed the street sign was gone. It had just been replaced two weeks ago. Stupid fucking kids. And people wondered why their city taxes were so high.
Reaching Racine, he found the sidewalks teeming with pedestrians, in spite of the cold, the hustling bodies splashed with pink and orange from the streetlights. Glancing to the right, he caught a glimpse of a glowing red star shrouded in a smoky haze hovering above the rooftops, quickly hidden by buildings as he passed through the intersection. For one disconcerting moment, he felt strangely small, as if that brief sight of the Church's steeple served to remind him of some vast, dark unknown of which this sect was but a tiny part. But the sensation was fleeting, and a figure that suddenly appeared in front of the car drew his attention back to the moment. The figure barely dodged the car as he hurried past, and Trotter swore furiously. It was a Latino youth, who grinned at him impudently, then leaped between the cars moving in the opposite direction. An angry horn blasted at him.
Stupid ass. The chances of that guy being engaged in a legal activity were slim to none. The young man disappeared down a walkway between the buildings; Trotter would have loved to follow him if he weren't otherwise engaged. So much shit being dealt on these streets recently.
Didn't used to be so bad here.
The Church's influence on the locality, perhaps? Or just more of society falling apart? Certainly the latter, he was forced to admit. One could not blame the whole sea of darkness on a single perverted entity just because it swam there. He turned down a sidestreet to make his approach to the Church from the south. The troops were in position. It was six-forty-two.
"Is that her?"
Patterson studied the photograph of the dark haired young woman standing between a handsome, late-middle-aged couple that could only have been her parents. Claire was obviously a few years younger in the picture, but there could be no mistaking her attractive, if rather sad-looking features.
"Could be. But I don't think so."
"You don't think so? You're not positive?"
"Christ, Lieutenant, she was bundled up. But no, it isn't her. Our girl had a longer face, broader nose. Not her."
"Now you're sure?"
"Yeah. I'm sure."
"Okay. I'm taking your word for it. Now, while I'm inside, you keep a sharp eye out. Nobody gets caught off guard here."
"Gotcha."
Trotter leaned close to Patterson. "I'm serious. You may think we've got a bunch of wacko cultists or something, but I say these people are playing the real game. For keeps."
He looked at Curtis, received a nod of agreement. The younger man's eyes then shifted, and he said, "Lookie what we've got."
Following Curtis' gaze, Trotter saw a tall, blonde figure approaching the car at a good clip. It was Officer Hanley, no doubt coming off her circuit around the block. She wore her overcoat collar high, fur hat pulled low over her eyes, and carried no purse. She looked like a hooker who'd given up on fashion but was determined to brave the cold —a cover to which she was actually well seasoned. As she reached the car, she leaned down to the window. Trotter rolled it down halfway.
"I just found Mike Selby's car," she said. "It's on Sheffield, down by Wellington. He must be here somewhere."
"Think he's inside the Church too?" Patterson asked.
Trotter's inner vision, which had seemed muddled over the course of the afternoon, suddenly cleared, and he snapped his fingers. "Wait a damn minute. He sure as hell is here. Your vagrant that was wandering around here a while back. That was Mike!"
"Huh?" Patterson grunted.
"Damn him to hell. Yeah, he's in there, all right. I should’ve guessed he'd pull something like this. Ten to one if he hasn't been caught he'll be at the service." He glanced toward the Church doors. A few well-dressed pedestrians had appeared on the sidewalk heading for the entrance. "Okay, Hanley. Get on back to your car. It's just about showtime."
"Right. Good luck, Lieutenant."
"Thanks."
Hanley turned around and started walking. Trotter kept a sharp eye out, checking to see if anyone appeared to have noticed them. He didn't think so. A few suited figures hovered at the front of the building, conversing among themselves, none looking his way. At six-fifty-nine, they broke their circle and disappeared through the front doors.
"Okay, I'm off," he said to Patterson. "Be sharp."
Back out in the cold, he started walking purposefully toward the old structure. Its tall stained-glass windows glowed as if lit by fire from inside the sanctuary. He saw vague shadows moving within, creating warped, inhuman shapes on the multi-hued panels. The Church doors stood open; a man in a suit waited just inside the narthex where Trotter couldn't see his face. It looked like all the worshippers must be inside now, for he was the only one still on the sidewalk. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his tie, then began to climb the short flight of stairs to the entrance.
The usher wore an ill-fitting, dark suit, his black, greasy hair askew, his face pock-marked and vaguely hostile in expression. Narrow, dark eyes regarded him suspiciously. Smiling back warmly, Trotter removed his hat and gloves and began to unbutton his overcoat. Once he'd hung it on a half-full coat rack just to the left of the door, the usher handed him a bulletin.
"Good evening," the shorter man said, his accent Spanish. "Welcome."
"Thanks," Trotter said, voice just above a whisper. He glanced around, noting another usher standing near the inner doors. A low rumble of voices crept from the sanctuary. From here, he could see only a few scattered heads among the pews. Nodding politely to the first usher, he stepped up to the sanctuary doors just as a loud, throbbing note from a pipe organ boomed through the chamber.
"How do you do?" said the second usher, this one a tall, middle-aged white man with string}7 blond hair and filmy blue eyes. He had a hooked nose and wore thick, wire-rimmed glasses. His cologne, which smelled cheap and flowery, nearly asphyxiated the detective.
Trotter smiled amiably. "Just fine, thank you." As he started through the doors, the usher fell in beside him, a little closer than Trotter liked. He stopped at the empty back row and slid into the first seat on the right. "This is great, thanks," he said to the man, who seemed disappointed that he didn't get to lead the new arrival all the way down in front of the congregation. But the usher smiled thinly at him, nodded curtly, and returned to his post.
The cavernous worship hall looked different than it had when he'd visited the other day. The overhead chandeliers gave off only dim yellow light, leaving the corners cloaked in shadow. Without strong daylight behind them, the stained glass windows appeared as onyx voids, their intricate patterns no longer visible. And from the altar, the blood-red star glowed angrily, seeming to pulse with the rise and fall of the organ music. The notes thundered deeply, in a dark, Wagnerian fugue that seemed only too appropriate for this gothic chamber. Behind the altar, the choir began filing into the elevated loft, each member dressed in a shiny, crimson robe with a black stole. Only a scant few members comprised the choir: five women and three men, plus the director —a broad, balding white man with tiny, pig-like eyes and crooked, jutting teeth. To Trotter's surprise, the entire ensemble looked seedy and undisciplined; virtually all were dirty, with hair unwashed and unkempt. They must have come in from the streets, he thought, and judging by appearances, most of them still lived there. His scan of the congregation disclosed that fully half of the seated members looked like they belonged in back-alley bars or lying in a gutter rather than in a grandiose house of worship.
The other half, ironically, appeared to be extremely well-bred, expensively dressed, even aristocratic. The pews were almost barren, though. They would surely accommodate most of a thousand people, yet there could be no more than fifty here now. Most of the members sat as couples, with a few individuals, primarily men, interspersed among the first few rows. Almost all were white or Latino; he counted a few Asians and only a couple of blacks. His eyes searched the group diligently but found not a single child.
And no sign of Mike. He remembered that the "beggar" had worn a stocking hat over dark, unruly hair; probably a wig and greasepaint. But Trotter was certain now that it was Mike he had seen. He gave a couple of the more slovenly worshippers a surreptitious appraisal, wondering if he might have earlier mistaken one of them for young Selby.
Not a chance.
A moment later, the organ prelude ended, and the Reverend Lazar made his entrance through the door to the right of the pulpit. He took a seat in his chair behind the altar and gazed at the congregation, wearing a rather smug grin on his wrinkled face. When his eyes fell upon Trotter, they seemed to light up with happy surprise, and he nodded to acknowledge his visitor's presence. This didn't exactly inspire Trotter to stand up and sing for joy, but he had anticipated at least being noticed; he did hope, however, that the rest of the congregation would pay him no mind.
Lazar bowed his head for several moments, and each member of the congregation followed suit. Trotter cautiously removed his microcassette recorder from his pocket, started it recording, and placed it on the seat next to him where it would not be obvious to searching eyes. He then took the opportunity to glance through his bulletin. It looked the same as the one he'd seen earlier, the only difference being the details of the service. And at the bottom, a new, cryptic verse read, "Happy is the home where no wizard has lain, and happy is the town whose wizards are all ashes."
Lazar now stood and approached the podium. "Good evening, my friends," he said in strong, bold tones that Trotter could scarcely believe came from the same vocal cords as the weak, raspy voice he'd heard before. "It is a wonderful, joyous night for all of us. The bounties of our Lord are many."
In unison, the congregation replied, "And the faith of His people is pure."
"His word for His people."
"Praise be to Him."
"Let us worship with music," Lazar said. "Together we sing "His Voice Revealed" from the Book of Zann. Together, let us praise Him!"
The organ began again, accompanied by the splashing sound of cymbals coming from somewhere behind the loft. The choir stood, and the congregation followed its lead. Trotter hesitantly joined them, looking around at the seat backs only to find no hymnals.
Had they memorized all their hymns?
But as the music swelled, discordant and inharmonious, almost Eastern in character, the choir joined in with a deep, rhythmic chanting, followed by the voices of the congregation. At first, Trotter thought they must be singing indistinctly, for he couldn't understand any of the words. Then he realized the lyrics were not in English, or in any other language he could place. He would have recognized Latin. Surely it wasn't German or Russian, though the syllables seemed heavy and guttural. The clashing of percussion reached an intensity that almost hurt his ears, and the organ began a wild, raucous piping that sounded disturbingly like the cries of some monstrous, distressed animal. The chorale rose in counterpoint, with virtually every member of the congregation adding his fervent voice.
Then, abruptly, the organ was silenced, the voices of the singers trailing off erratically. Only the cymbals continued to ring, then they, too, began to soften, finally fading into silence. As the echoes of the last notes drifted away, Trotter realized that his heart was pumping frantically, making him so lightheaded that he wavered slightly. He reached for the seatback in front of him to steady himself, then, fortunately, with a great rustling sound, the congregation sat down.
He settled into his seat, feeling winded, as if the cacophonous performance had taken something out of him. As silence returned, the priest gazed out over his flock with stern satisfaction, his eyes briefly falling on Trotter. Lazar softly cleared his throat, placed his hands on the podium and said in his strangely strong voice, "I would like to welcome all of you here tonight. A special welcome to any of those who are visiting. It is always a happy occasion when newcomers join us in worship."
A few faces in the congregation turned toward him, their eyes impassive and unrevealing. Trotter felt a disturbing urge to shrink away from them, to slide down in his seat, as if all those dark eyes were gun barrels focused on his heart. This was not what he had expected; indeed, he'd had no idea what to expect. But in moments, the priest continued his opening oratory, reiterating a few banal announcements from the bulletin and commenting on the generosity of several individuals whose financial contributions gave the Church a "new lease on life." Trotter took note of the names for future reference. Then he sat back to listen as Lazar opened a large book on his podium to begin the scripture reading. Checking the bulletin, he noted that the source was listed as Al Azif, Capitulum XXIII. The voice of the priest resounded.
'"Question not these, our instructions, for we do but prepare ye for ye ways of power, and we know what we do. Take this to thy counsel, for these methods were of an art not so easily learned. He that is most wise in these ways shall know ye greater glory. In ye later days, ye shall be called to please ye priests."' Lazar's eyes rose from his book. "These are words of wisdom, and are of special importance to you, my friends. There are often difficult times for us as individuals as we follow our Lord in faith. But those who persevere and remain steadfast will be greatly rewarded; and of course, those who by thought, word, or deed betray the faith will find their reward of a vastly different nature. And as I speak on this subject, I hope each of you will open your heart to the word of He whose name is most holy, so that you may see with the true eyes of wisdom. Let us pray, and may His spirit join with us on this most wonderful of nights. “The priest bowed his head, as did each member of the choir and congregation. The great chamber fell silent; and the silence went on and on, so long that Trotter began to feel antsy, yet fearing the slightest sound would disturb the entire proceeding. Raising his eyes, he saw not one head raised, nor one pair of eyes open. Then, from the pulpit came a soft, low moan, deep and bass-toned, rising slightly in volume every few seconds. The sound took on a harsher, growling timbre, raw and animalistic. As he watched, he saw Lazar's head lift, his eyes glaring, dropping his jaw to spew the noise with astonishing fury. The drone began to waver and gurgle, and Trotter thought the old man must be running out of breath; but this was obviously not so, for a moment later, the black-clad figure stood up quickly and began enunciating a string of rapid-fire, nonsensical syllables, picking up speed to the point that it seemed beyond the capability of the human tongue.
Like something not human, he remembered Mike Selby saying, in reference to the chanting he'd heard coming from within the Church on his earlier visit.
Words a whirlwind, the priest raised his arms and began to sway, occasionally breaking the rhythm of his movement with erratic lurches and tremors that jarred his body violently. For a few moments, Trotter thought he must be in the throes of a seizure, but then he realized that each member of the congregation had begun to follow Lazar's lead, imitating his movements spontaneously — as if the routine had been expertly choreographed. He'd seen Pentecostal raptures before; this was nothing so mundane. The priest's litany finally began to slow and, as it did, the glowing star on the altar flared brilliantly, burning a vivid afterflash into Trotter's retina. He shook his head hoping to clear his vision, but to no avail; he dared to lift his hands to rub his eyes.
Several moments later he realized the sanctuary had fallen utterly silent. When he could see again, he discerned what appeared to be ghostly, swirling black smoke surrounding the now-dim star like a wispy shroud. The entire pulpit and altar shimmered as if seen through a heat-haze; a vision that seemed somehow disturbingly familiar. But his mind seemed unfocused, disrupted by the intensity of the congregation's performance. He found his fingers clutching the back of the pew in front of him in an iron grip, the dark skin of his knuckles turning white. Every eye in the congregation was focused on the altar star, and every face blazed with the ecstasy of a divine visitation. Lazar beamed at his children, finally raising his arms heavenward and calling out, "The avatar of our Lord is with us! Praise be to Him! Praise Him!"
As one, the congregation replied, "S'elah!"
The organ launched a barrage of dark notes, ascending and descending arpeggios, and then, a long, minor chord that finally softened and dissolved.
After another seemingly endless silence, Lazar finally said, "Let us continue to worship with the presentation of our tithes and offerings."

Chapter 34

The corridor seemed to stretch into black infinity, Mike thought as his aching legs protested the unaccustomed rigor. He again considered abandoning his quest. His body couldn't take much more of this, and he knew that even if he found Claire, he would hardly be able to escort her out of this plutonian maze. His willingness to die at her side had been some kind of stupid, romantic fantasy; it had seemed the noble course at the time. Now he knew that death was the most likely outcome —a terrible, agonizing death in dark isolation, without ever having caught so much as a glimpse of Claire.
He could freely admit now that he was terrified.
The part of him that rebelled against surrender goaded him weakly forward, but its authority was diminishing with every step. His fear compelled him to leave the poor young woman to her fate, to turn around and try to find his way back to the saner world above. What good did it do for both of them to die?
Would Nancy be waiting for him on the other side?
The thought stopped him in his tracks, nearly bringing him to his knees.
And ignited a new desire for revenge against those responsible.
The priest.
Again, from somewhere far ahead came the sound of deep murmuring, of ghostly whispers. He could be as much as a half a mile below the surface for all he knew, and he hadn't come an inch closer to the source of the noises. If he was going to walk straight into a trap, he wanted the opportunity to at least face his adversary, perhaps manage to set the monstrous priest on fire before he met his own end.
He aimed his penlight at his watch; it was only seven-fifteen. He could have been wandering in the darkness for days, his sense of time now hopelessly muddled. He couldn't suppress a wry laugh, for if Trotter or one of his goons had caught him, the wristwatch—a semi-expensive Lorus—wouldn't have gone well with his masquerade. I'm an honest beggar, Lieutenant! Never stole a thing in my life. Trotter should have caught him, he thought; what he would give to be in the custody of the law right now. In his conceit, he had thought to do what the police could not; in reality, he might actually be a complication in some plan of Trotter's that would have saved Claire's life.
Yeah, and the Pope got to be Pope by blowing divine dick. Right.
Goddamn it, if Trotter had just believed them in the first place! With him, it was all rules and regulations and bureaucratic bullshit; no faith in Mike's word, as if he were a common lowlife....
Mike sat and rested, the cold stone wall damp against his back. Calming himself, he cast away any blame for Trotter; the detective had to go by the book; Mike above all people knew that. With their procedures increasingly under official and public scrutiny—God forbid the cops should abuse some helpless criminal! —the police were bound by rigid criteria that worked against expeditious action. John Q. Public had for so long considered the cops its enemy that it had neglected its own cancer.
And it had never imagined what lay down here, far beneath its feet.
Mike switched off his light, immersing himself in darkness. The battery wouldn't last forever. But as his eyes accustomed themselves, he realized that he could see a pale gray wall ahead, illuminated from somewhere in the distance. He pulled himself to his feet and pressed on through the corridor, which curved gradually to the left.
As the passage straightened, he felt his heart hammer into overdrive again, both with relief and renewed dread.
Ahead, within the black expanse of void, a golden light flickered seductively; and a deep, gruff voice—more like an animal than human—growled, "Iiaagh!"

Chapter 35

"It is you who are truly the lucky ones/' boomed Lazar's voice. He stood rigidly at the pulpit, his eyes beaming at the congregation. "For He is so disgusted by this creature we call Man that He will suffer us only when our worth is proved to Him. It is only because of our faith that He does not break down the barriers between His kingdom and our world and destroy every living creature, save for those who follow Him. His power is eternal. His appetite is insatiable. His minions are might}7.
"Some of you have asked why our mission is so small; why do we not joyfully proclaim the word of the most Holy, to bring more of our brothers into the fellowship? Yea, I say unto you: beware the stranger! For our Lord Golgolith knows how corrupt is Man, and would not deign to welcome such corruption. Indeed, He revels in the horror of Man. He feeds on the blackness of the heart. He is sustained by every act of Man against Man, for it is only in the downfall of this awful kind that the Most Holy may find joy. So I say to you, keep your faith close to your heart. Fear Him, and honor Him."
The voice was mesmerizing, and Trotter could not help but feel moved by the power of his speech. The message obviously stirred the hearts of the worshippers around him. His eyes turned to the glowing star atop the altar. Its inner fire seemed to brighten and dim rhythmically, as if it were possessed of its own living, beating heart.
Lazar continued, his voice low. "You will recall that, in the beginning, the dross of all creation was deposited in the faraway reaches of time and space, condemned for its impurity by the one commonly known as Jehovah. Yet upon this earth, He placed the most impure of all — man! — and dared to send a 'savior' for that creation which He himself cursed. Do not be fooled, I beseech you, my friends. Between you and this blasphemous 'salvation' there stands a might}7 wall, and its name is Golgolith—the most holy of all horrors, the sovereign of the realm beyond death." The priest's voice began to rise. "And I say to you, my friends: place your faith in His hands, for if you do not, He will eat you! He will take your soul to His bosom and will rend it with His very teeth, and shred your heart with His claws. And so He would eat this world, were it not for the faithful who serve Him well, and pacify Him, and turn His wrath to where it rightfully belongs — toward He who cast Him into the darkness of forever. But might}7is Golgolith, and His brothers. By their grace, they may be reached; their anger turned by those few who prove their faith. We hold the key, my friends.
"Look at this world, brethren. Gaze upon the corruption ordained by Jehovah when He placed the earth into the hands of Man. Our Lord rages against the creator of such horror, so that He himself becomes horror, unimaginable to the small minds of those who believe that the death and supposed resurrection of one so long ago can purge the evil that they themselves brought to this once beautiful world. I say to you, Golgolith abhors the devastation wrought by Man. He abhors you; unless you lay aside every devotion to the old God who gave you over to sin and corruption and death, then in cruel irony dangled over your head a means to escape the rushing rapids into which He cast you. I say, turn away from such cruelty. Turn yourself over to the honesty of hatred and of horror. Give yourself the most Holy, as did our saint Balak, who sought to destroy the chosen people of the cruel creator.
"Hail Balak!"
As one, the congregation shouted in response, "Hail, Balak!" The voices boomed through the chamber like a barrage of gunfire.
Lazar smiled victoriously at his flock. He then took up a Bible, and said, "As we see in the Book of Numbers, Chapter 22, verse 6, in the olden times, Balak, the King of ancient Moab, called upon the wizard Balaam, saying, 'Come now therefore, I pray thee, curse me this people; for they are His: peradventure I shall prevail, and that we may smite them, and that I may drive them out of the land.'
"Yet Balak was betrayed by the wizard; and seeing this, the great Golgolith granted Balak a favor, for He saw the hatred the king held for the people of His enemy. Therefore, Balak was made mighty. And Balak was given the power of service to our Lord. It is Balak who shall intercede on your behalf if you find favor with him. And my friends, if you truly hold our Lord Golgolith in your heart with faith and strength, you shall find favor with Balak. Let us give to Balak the token of our obedience and faith.
"I now read from the book of Abd Al-Hazred, Capitulum XV: T herewith swear by this my own saving, unto my true purpose to enter thy initiation, to offer myself unto thy service to become an acolyte of theorder, to more perfectly serve our master, ye Great Lord of Many Holy Names. I hear of ye dangers, and I defy them; I learned of ye terrors, and I deny them. I pledge unto thee and thy order and unto Him my soul, my mind, my thoughts, my body, and my things I give unto thee; my whole being, without any reservations, to do thy service and His in all manners, not to seek rewards unto my house, but for thy eternal glory. I deny all rights and claim to kin and friend, all desire of my person, all ye bonds of love and blood I break now; I do whichever ye ask. I give unto ye whichever is asked, and in all things render service unto him.1"
Lazar then approached the altar, and from it, took a silver bowl, holding it above his head and facing the star. "In thy service," he said loudly, then took from the altar a long, curved knife.
Please don't do what I think you're going to do, Trotter begged silently.
But Lazar raised his left arm, pulled back his sleeve, and with the point of the blade drew a long cut down the center of his forearm. He held his arm over the bowl and let the blood drop until several ounces had been collected. Then, taking a white silk cloth from the altar, he wrapped it quickly around the cut, applying pressure briefly. Shortly, he placed the cloth back upon the altar, then turned to face the congregation, signaling the first row with a nod of his head. As if approaching for Holy Communion, each individual stood at the banister around the dais, exposed an arm and allowed Lazar to make a quick, expertly drawn incision, from which blood streamed to mingle with Lazar's in the silver vessel. As each member covered his wound with a white cloth handed over by the priest, he silently returned to his seat. And when the first row had completed the rite, the second went. Then the third.
Got you, Trotter thought. This, at least, was enough to get the Health Department involved, probably shut down the Church for God knew how many health code violations just by this single act. By God, that was the key. Get the place shut down, no matter the means, then inspect it. Then, whatever they found was fair game.
Still, he could not stop watching in abject fascination as row upon row went forward and offered a blood sacrifice. He felt himself entirely removed from the ceremony until he realized that the row ahead of him was being called. The two couples rose to make their offering, completing it without so much as a sound or grimace. Then, glancing to his right, Trotter saw the tall, hook-nosed usher come to stand at the end of his pew. A sudden surge of fear shook him as the priest leaned forward on his podium, raised an arm and pointed a bony finger at him.
"And you, sir/' came the low raspy voice he'd know from before. "Would you join with us and make an offering?"
Trotter swallowed hard and shook his head. The priest's eyes refused to leave his.
"You would honor us, sir, if you would participate."
Trotter shook his head again.
"If you do not, you do us a disservice. Will you not reconsider, sir?"
"I choose not to," he said, giving Lazar a wry smile.
The eyes of the congregation were upon him. Hostility blazed in the air with a palpable stench. He met the eyes of the dirty-looking pair directly in front of him, forcing his gaze not to waver. A moment later, the other eyes turned, but Trotter knew it was out of respect for their place of worship, not because they'd been bested. The tension gradually subsided, and Lazar straightened himself, nodding resignedly to his guest.
"As you wish, Mister Trotter."
Bad situation. To be singled out was the last thing he'd wanted. Now everyone in the place had focused their attention directly on him, seemingly with the worst of intentions. They were being fed the biggest heap of hogwash Trotter had ever heard; a dogma that resembled most of the Satanic bullshit he'd heard in his time; this with a twist—an entirely unique deity and an unusual methodology. Typically, these cults sought to spread their influence; this one was apparently highly introverted.
Yet, despite his disgust for the priest, his message and the vulgar ritual, Trotter had felt weirdly exhilarated by the richness of the experience, the power of Lazar's hypnotic delivery. A great discipline existed among these people, a unity of purpose that warranted something akin to admiration. Now that the boiling energy of the service was drawing to a close, he began to feel a little more relaxed. The priest placed the bowl of blood on the altar and again faced his congregation. "Let us give thanks with our final prayer. We will then sing our closing hymn, 'Mein Geist im Grunde des Herz,' from the Book of Zann."
Lazar bowed his head again and began to hum a strange tune, opening and closing his mouth in varying degrees to alter his tone like a phase shifter. His voice rose in volume and he straightened his body, lifting his hands in supplication to the ceiling. His voice increased in pitch, and within a few moments, the hum seemed to take on a life of its own, independent of Lazar's lungs or mouth movements. After an endless time, it seemed, he still had not drawn a breath.
Then, somewhere near the front of the sanctuary, a woman's clear voice said, "I offer all that is mine to Balak."
A deep, masculine voice added, "That I may walk with the Master."
From close at hand, to the right, a woman said, "I hear the music from the spheres beyond sound."
"And would join with it," said another female voice.
'May the presence of Balak be known all the days of my life."
"May his strength lead me where I myself cannot go."
The voices came, one after another, to blend with the droning hum in an oddly musical incantation. Trotter literally had to shake himself to keep from becoming hypnotized by the rhythm. The lone, humming voice harmonized with itself, playing off the echoes that reverberated through the chamber. Trotter felt almost obliged to sway in time along with the congregation; but he somehow refused to submit to the temptation to open himself to the musical power.
The star on the altar pulsed with increasingly bright light, almost in sync with Trotter's heartbeat. As he focused on it, he realized that the rhythmic fluctuations of light had a mesmerizing effect, aiding in breaking down his conscious resistance. This was surely a part of the priest's power. Trotter very much wanted to get hold of that star — or one of the others in the place — to see what Fred Varley could make of it at the lab. Would it disintegrate like that little cube if they tried to break it open?
By the time the priest ceased his humming—if he'd taken a breath the whole time, Trotter hadn't heard it—most of the congregation had offered some nebulous proverb. Then on cue from the choir director, everyone stood. The organ began a slow, dark, pounding series of chords, full of bass and tremolo string sounds, to be shortly accompanied by the choir in a dirge-like canticle. The congregation's voices chimed in, adding a dissonant texture to the incantation, led primarily by the females. Now and then, a few words came through which Trotter recognized as German, though he had no idea what they meant. The men in the crowd began to moan in long, unintelligible, baritone syllables.
The hymn at last wound up to a long, rising organ chord, with the female soprano voices shrieking like banshees, the deeper male chorus thrumming boisterously underneath. His ears actually began to hurt; then he noticed that as the music rose, the star on the altar grew more and more brilliant, its heart turning fiery crimson, like molten iron. Above all, he could make out Lazar's individual voice bellowing out sustained notes with so much power that Trotter could barely conceive of such a thing coming from the frail-looking creature. But then, the organ abruptly died as if someone had just yanked its plug, and the human accompaniment trickled away in uncertain smatters; a rancorous ending after the well-timed, almost masterful performance of the hymn.
A long moment of silence followed, during which everyone faced forward, awaiting the command of the priest to disperse. After a suitably dramatic pause, Lazar raised his arms to deliver the benediction.
Malediction, perhaps? Trotter thought.
"May the power of our Lord Golgolith sustain you and keep watch over you. May you honor the Master with every part of your soul, so that you might escape the doom that waits for all Mankind, so close at hand. And now, O faithful subjects, go with reverence and fear of He who is most holy. S'elah."
Lazar then solemnly strode down the aisle toward the narthex, eyes cast down at the red carpet. The moment he disappeared through the double doors, the organ began a rousing, Verdi-esque piece —the only upbeat-sounding music of the entire service. The congregation began shuffling about, preparing to leave: the men gathering their coats, the women their pocketbooks, some of them peering distrustfully at the stranger among them. Again uneasy, Trotter turned quickly and disappeared through the narthex doors, hoping to find a corner where he might not be so noticeable until the crowd had gone on its way.
He went to the rack and happily discovered his hat and coat still there; he wouldn't have been the least surprised to find them missing, what with so much distinguished company at hand. Pulling the coat around his shoulders and dropping the fedora loosely onto his head, he stepped out of the way so that the departing parishioners could gather their belongings without stepping on his toes. Lazar stood at the open doors to the outside waiting to greet his flock, his back to Trotter. But as the first of the members stepped up to shake his hand, Lazar glanced back in Trotter's direction, eyes shining with cool curiosity.
Suddenly, his view of the priest was blocked by a squat figure that waddled clumsily up to him; a dumpy Latino, peering at him with opaque black eyes beneath a bony brow. "Welcome to our Church," he said, his accent strong. He extended a greasy-looking hand.
Trotter took it reluctantly. It was like holding a dead fish. "How do you do/' he said half-heartedly, trying to politely disengage his hand. The other wasn't receiving the signal.
"You find our worship ... unusual, I would guess. You are wishing to join the Church?"
"No," Trotter replied, finally regaining his hand. He discreetly wiped it on his trousers. "I guess you'd call me a curious bystander."
The little man pushed his lips out, looking a bit hurt. "Sometimes curiosity takes you places you are not wishing to go, eh? You find it hard to make offering—you know, to offer blood?"
"It isn't very appealing, I must admit." He looked over the man's shoulder toward the priest, who was still shaking hands and speaking in low tones to each member who passed through the doors. A few remained in line, but it was moving quickly. The Latino seemed determined to engage Trotter in conversation.
"It is not so hard. And it is necessary." He leaned close to Trotter, looking him solemnly in the eye. "I take it you are a Christian?"
"I was brought up to be. I can't say as I've done much to uphold the faith in recent years, I'm afraid."
The man nodded with a look of understanding. "I know. That is the way of most people; once they were faithful, usually as children, but have distanced themselves over the years. I know this. But such distancing allows you to think freely, no? Make your own decisions, not have decisions made for you by someone like Pope, or by man dead for two-thousand years."
Trotter tried to smile, taking a half-step sideways. "It's kind of you to share your thoughts with me. Thank you."
The little man was not to be thwarted. He planted himself directly in front of Trotter as if in challenge. "I know you are a man who makes his own decisions. Maybe you would like to come back and see us again. We could talk together, you and I."
Trotter's smile was now forced and rigid. "I appreciate your sentiments," he said, taking a step forward, brushing against the man in hopes he would yield. "But another time would be better to talk."
The Latino nodded. "I see. You are nervous here. I understand that. I was nervous when I come for my first time, many years ago. This is now like home to me. I come here to every service: Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night. Why don't you visit us again?"
"That would be lovely."
The little man bowed his head politely and turned to fall in at the end of the line. "Very nice to talk with you, Mr. Trotter."
"Yeah," he said; then, in a whisper: "Fucking great."
The husky man approached Lazar, shook his hand and said something in a low voice, eyes falling briefly on Trotter. The priest chuckled lightly, giving the man a gentle clap on the back. He then faced the detective with a smug look on his ancient face.
"I see you took me up on my invitation. How thoughtful."
"I want to let you know that I'm filing a report with the Department of Health. They will send out a team of inspectors and very likely cite you with one or more serious violations. It's entirely possible that this Church will be closed down."
Lazar laughed, a cold, heartless sound. "It is encouraging to see someone in your position with respect for public health. Do whatever you wish, Mr. Trotter. It hardly matters to us."
"Is that so?"
"Our attorneys are quite reputable, Detective. And freedom of religion is a fundamental right. It will be a very difficult challenge for you."
"When religious ritual poses a threat to public health and welfare, the court can rule it illegal. Witness the peyote ceremony of the Native Americans. And I wouldn't consider that nearly as dangerous as drawing blood with a shared blade. Have you ever considered the possibility of disease? HIV?"
Lazar looked at him as he might at a wayward child. "Lt. Trotter, we do not coerce these good friends. They perform the rituals entirely of their own free will. But you may take whatever action you wish—and you will face a very long, involved and expensive confrontation in the courts. May I ask why you decided to honor us with this visit tonight, Lieutenant? Are you looking for more missing children?"
"We haven't found the one we're looking for, yet. I don't suppose you've remembered anything you might want to tell me since we last talked?"
"I'm afraid not."
Trotter reached into his jacket pocket for the photo of Claire Challis, holding it up for Lazar to see. "Does the young lady in this picture look familiar to you?"
He studied Lazar's eyes as he leaned close to examine the photograph. Nothing; not so much as a glint of recognition. "No," said Lazar. "Not at all. Who might she be?"
"Just someone I thought you might have run into recently. Does the name Claire Challis ring a bell?"
With a weary shrug, Lazar shook his head. "No, Lieutenant. Why not stop the silliness and just tell me what you want? I've told you I want to cooperate with the police."
"Okay/' Trotter said, replacing the photo in his pocket. "I think you saw Paul Hernandez the morning he disappeared. I think you encountered Ms. Challis, the one in the photo, shortly thereafter. And I wouldn't be at all surprised if you've seen her since. Who was the young woman who came here this morning, then left on a bus for Phoenix, Arizona?"
"I honestly couldn't tell you," Lazar said. "I saw no woman this morning. I was in the parsonage until well after lunch. We have occasional transients come through; I suppose you know we try to help the homeless and underprivileged as much as possible."
"Who here might have seen her?"
"Well, there's Nyle, the caretaker. But he doesn't speak any English. He wouldn't be able to help you."
"What language does he speak?"
"An African dialect, I'm not sure which. He understands the rudimentary tasks of taking care of the building. That is his responsibility."
"Where does Nyle live?"
"He has a room in the basement of the parsonage."
"I see. Could I meet him?"
"I'm afraid he's not here just now."
"I can wait."
Lazar's face fell only slightly. "He's gone to visit his parents in Milwaukee. He may be gone overnight."
"Do you have their names and address?"
"No. I do not consider that my business."
Trotter refused to let up. "What if you needed him in an emergency?"
"What sort of emergency, Lieutenant? He cleans the floors, washes the windows, takes out the trash. If the courtyard grass needs mowing, he mows it. If a window is broken, he replaces it."Trotter shrugged. "I just thought you might like to have him on call, if he was needed. Or if something happened to him and you needed to call the next of kin. Sometimes shi —things happen."
"I assure you, Lieutenant. I don't see the point in this."
Trotter waved his hand to change the subject. "So Nyle might have seen a young woman this morning?"
"It's possible. If she needed food, he would give her some."
"That's very generous. Judging from your service, you don't seem to hold your fellow man in high esteem."
"It is not my judgment. It is the nature of reality. We focus on the truth, Lieutenant. People run from truth because it is often unpleasant."
"I'll agree with you there," he said. He noticed that the ushers had come to stand at the narthex doors. "One observation. I saw no children at worship. That seems unusual."
"Not really, when you consider that our beliefs dictate a singularly mature outlook. We have our own special services for the youth—on Sundays, in the social hall, while our regular service goes on here. You have to understand that the young people in our Church must be brought up under careful guidance. It's a terrible thing for children to be influenced negatively by the world as it is. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes, I would. So you feel that if they saw blood being offered in such a way it would be a negative influence?"
"You misunderstand me. That is a ritual in which individuals may participate only after their eighteenth birthday. The shedding of blood does require discipline, Lieutenant, and a developed intelligence to understand."
"I daresay." Trotter made a half-turn as if preparing to leave, then paused. "By chance did a young fellow about twenty-five years old enter the Church this afternoon, around five o'clock? Dark hair, wearing a toboggan cap, an old army coat, jeans, tennis shoes. Looking for food or shelter, perhaps."
Lazar appeared to ponder for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Not that I know of. Have you lost someone else?"
"Ever hear the name Mike Selby?"
"No, sir."
He sighed, giving the priest a long, thoughtful stare. "Mr. Lazar, what do you have on schedule for tonight?"
"I have Church business, Lt. Trotter. And that is none of your business. I don't mean to be rude, but you are asking rather prying questions."
"I was just wondering if you'd like to take me to your office, or to the parsonage — somewhere more comfortable—where we might talk. I must confess that I find this Church a fascinating subject."
"I'm happy to hear that, but tonight is not a good time. I would be happy to set up an appointment with you for next week."
"By then, you may be forced to move elsewhere, my friend. I expect the Health Department will have its inspectors here fairly early in the morning. Are you sure you don't want to talk with me before that happens?"
"I'm afraid I have better things to do." The cold inflection in his voice finally betrayed a hint of emotion, which brought Trotter a warm rush of satisfaction. Lazar added, "I'm sorry you feel you must pursue this unusual line of inquiry, Lieutenant. I've been as honest with you as I possibly could be. I fail to understand this harassment."
"So you feel you're being harassed?"
"Intruded upon, at the very least."
"My apologies, Reverend Lazar. Nothing personal. Just business."
The old man sneered. "But of course."
Trotter buttoned his overcoat and pulled on his gloves. "Thank you for your time."
"Thank you for visiting with us.” Without another word, Trotter went out into the freezing air, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head to keep his face from bearing the brunt of the wind. He hadn't held out much hope of Lazar inviting him to his office or into the parsonage, but it was worth the attempt. Once he made a report to the Health Department—he'd call Steven Bennell down there first thing in the morning—they could issue a warrant to inspect for health violations.
Lazar didn't seem to understand what kind of trouble he was courting. Just as well; perhaps he truly was ignorant enough to engage the city in a legal battle. It wouldn't be the kind of monumental struggle he seemed to think it was. Chances were, any Judge in Cook County would give these people a sting from which they'd never recover.
But all this merely on the basis of a health violation. Trotter still didn't have anything concrete enough to procure a search warrant in the case of the missing individuals. Even the fact that Mike's car had been located nearby didn't mean a damn thing. Your boy's at one of the local bars on a binge because his girlfriend left town, the DA would tell him.
A few cars were pulling out from their spaces as the worshippers went on their way, and a few overcoated figures on foot were heading away in both directions on Seminary. Trotter hurried toward Patterson's car, rapped on the passenger window when the door didn't open for him.
The figure behind the wheel didn't move. What the hell? Trotter went around to the driver's side, peered in and knocked again, quite loudly. This time, Patterson's head came up suddenly, and he shook it, startled to realize his boss was standing right outside the door. He quickly reached over and unlocked the passenger side, motioning for Trotter to get in.
"What the fuck's the matter with you?" the lieutenant growled, sliding in beside the older detective. "You sleeping?
"I don't understand," Patterson muttered groggily. "I was wide awake, watching the building. Something seemed to come over me." He stared vacantly at the Church. "I don't get it."
"How the hell long were you out?"
"I don't know. Couldn't have been long. Last time I looked at my watch, it was just past seven-thirty."
"Christ, Patterson, it's after eight. You better not have missed anything."
"Sorry, Lieutenant, I don't know what happened. The last thing I remember ... I saw, like, a haze creeping over the car."
Trotter froze. Again, that horrible ring of familiarity. "Where's Curtis?" he asked softly.
"Guess he went around the block," Patterson replied uncertainly.
"Damnation." It wasn't like Patterson to conk out on him. If Mike Selby had reappeared and no one had seen it....
"I'm going back to my car/' Trotter said. "Radio me the second Curtis gets back."
"Yeah, okay."
"You going to be all right?"
Patterson nodded. "Yeah. I—wait. Here comes Curtis now."
Trotter turned to see the younger blond man approaching from the direction of Sheffield. As he got in the car, his pale face was clouded with worry.
"Mike Selby's car is gone," he said.
"What about Hanley?"
Curtis swallowed nervously. "She didn't see Selby or anyone else coming from the direction of the Church, either. She uh...."
"Let me guess. She zonked out for a few minutes, during which time, just about anything could have happened out here."
Curtis shook his head incredulously. "How the hell did you know that?"

Chapter 36

Lazar, in his "kindness" during his last visit, had left Claire a warm, wet towel with which she washed her face and hands, afterwards feeling a little more herself. She'd cried off and on for what seemed like hours; she had no idea what time it was now. The priest had tried another time to convince her to take the "elixir" he'd brought with him, and again she'd refused; for all she knew it was some poison he hoped to trick her into taking by concocting the terrible story of the "master's" plans for her.
To think they had been watching her for days; they knew everything she'd done! And it had been so easy for them. Worst of all, to have learned it was these monsters that had taken Sean, and killed him....
The grief of two years ago came rushing back with all its former intensity. How had they done it? Had they really taken him apart to drink his blood and eat his flesh? Is that what they'd done to Paul Hernandez — and to countless other children?
By now, she'd nearly cried herself dry, and the hot tears that tried to pool in her eyes barely moistened her eyelashes. She wiped her face with the damp towel, now cold, trying to banish her fear, her grief, and instead focus on her anger, and nurture it. Most of her strength was back. She could attempt again to maim the first motherfucker to come for her. No way she would go like a lamb to the slaughter. Go she might, but like a raging tigress.
Poor Mike, she thought. Where was he now? Did the Church have similar designs for him as well? Somehow, knowing that he certainly faced dangers of his own, she felt close to him, as if he remained just beyond her reach somewhere in the horrible darkness.
Wishful thinking.
No, no it wasn't. She sure as hell didn't wish for him to be anywhere near this unknown crypt. Better that he be somewhere far away from here, safe from the evil men that held her. But could he be safe anywhere in this city? It seemed as if the Church's reach extended as far as its desires, its tentacles able to snatch anyone unlucky enough to wander into the wrong place.
With little Paul, it had only taken a minute on the street without the supervision of his parents. With Sean, it had been in just as brief a time — in a crowded, public building!
And did the police have a single clue? If they did, what the hell could they do?
Outside, she heard a low rustling noise, then a muffled, rumbling hiss —like some gigantic animal breathing. Then, a deep thudding noise, like heavy footsteps passing by her cell door and moving on, finally falling silent in the distance.
My God, she must have been dragged over the doorstep of Hell.
For all these years, she thought maybe she believed in God, in Heaven and Hell; that God rewarded his faithful and punished the wicked. If she were to die tonight, would His divine countenance smile upon her, saying, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant?" Or would the horrors she suffered at the hands of the Church only be a foretaste of the tortures of eternity, to which all the sins of this life had condemned her? She could hardly consider herself without sin. She'd never even asked for forgiveness, for she'd never been able to blindly follow the fundamental teachings of Christianity. Now, all too soon, perhaps she would learn whether or not her life was to be held against her.
Her parents had always let her know that they considered her a failure, often deriding themselves for not "beating the rebellion out of her" before she finally broke loose from them. What the hell had they ever wanted of her? More importantly, what would Mother and Father think now, if they knew what had become of her? Would they realize how precious she really was to them, or would they merely say, "It's the bad end we always knew you would come to," and indulge in the misery of self-pit}7?
Maybe if all those years ago they'd thought about what losing her forever truly meant, things would be different today.
If....
God, she was hungry. She had voided her stomach for the last time hours ago and now that the rawness of her throat was just a memory, her stomach had begun to cry for food. Very likely, she'd eaten the last meal of her life without having thought to enjoy it, to experience it; she'd taken it for granted, just like so many things in life. A meal? There would always be one more....Silence again prevailed in the darkness. Maybe they were trying to break her down, to keep her on edge, squelching whatever resistance she might be able to offer. She had never felt so isolated, so alone.
What Claire did not realize was that, directly outside the door of her cell, a huge, bloated figure stood in thoughtful contemplation of her fate, feeding on the fear-imbibed vibrations emanating from her dark chamber. He did not breathe, nor did the withered heart inside his cavernous chest pump life-sustaining blood through his veins. The pale, fleshy body stuffed into a tight-fitting black robe outwardly functioned in the manner of ordinary men, yet the motivating spirit within the envelope of flesh, having communed with the Others, modeled itself more after the inhabitants of realms that no mortal eye could ever witness or comprehend. And while the being currently known as John Hanger could maintain the semblance of man for extended periods when it benefited the situation, the physical vessel he commonly occupied only marginally resembled anything that could be termed "human."
Had Claire been able to see the true shape of the entity now waiting outside her cell door, her heart might have stopped cold, sparing her the agony the good Reverend Lazar had promised to come at midnight.

Chapter 37

"I'd have said drugs," Patterson said. He and Trotter were alone in the car; Curtis had taken another walk around the block. "But we were in different locations, no one approached our vehicles. No method of delivery that would have affected us without affecting everyone else in the neighborhood."
Trotter sighed. "The bottom line is that we now have no way of knowing whether or not Mike Selby's still here or if he's halfway to Indiana. Geof, get me dispatch."
Patterson called into the police communications facility, then handed the mike to Trotter. Giving the operator Mike Selby's address, he said, "I need a unit sent out, code two. If he isn't home, have the officers stay there and wait for him. He's to be brought to the nineteenth and held there in protective custody. I have reason to believe his life may be in danger."
"Roger, Lieutenant. We've got a unit at Harlem and Fullerton. ETA seven minutes."
"Ten-four. Give me a call when they get there. And alert all units in the Oak Park area that if Selby is spotted to stop him. Also, all units along the Eisenhower. That would be his most likely route home. If he resists being brought in, he's to be placed under arrest."
"Roger. Any further instructions?"
"Just let me know the moment anyone spots him. Trotter, clear." He handed the mike back to Patterson. "That covers that, but I think he's still inside. And I want to get him out."
"How you going to do that?" Patterson asked. "You're not going to get a warrant just on suspicion."
"I'm quite aware of that, Geof." Trotter gazed up at the shining red star atop the mist-shrouded steeple. It blazed like a distorted, bloody eye. "All through that service, the priest referred to something 'special' happening tonight. Whatever it is, it involves Selby and Ms. Challis."
"You don't think they've already done anything to them, do you?"
Trotter bit his lip. "I don't think so, not yet."
Patterson gave him a knowing frown. "You've got that look."
"I was just thinking about Mike Selby's sister. Geof, I've seen car crash victims before. Somehow, she was different. I don't know how to explain that. But she was. And I don't want anything like that happening to anyone else."
"You don't just get used to that kind of horror," Patterson said softly. "Especially when it's young people."
"More than that, even. There's that little cube, the missing evidence. Christ, it's all been yanked away like it was never really there. And it's those sons of bitches right there." He pointed to the Church. "It's them, all right. Geof, I've gone by the book on every turn of this case. There have been times in the past where the book's gotten in the way. And we've had to skip a few pages. Understand what I'm saying?"
Patterson gazed coolly at him. "Yeah, I hear you Ingram. And I've heard you talk like this before."
"You mean the Gonzalez case."
"Yeah."
That had been a tough one. A cool son of a bitch—a rich one—who'd killed a half dozen people, destroyed all the bodies, mostly by fire. Worst of all, he had some cops on the payroll, and they'd gotten in Trotter's way. He'd sent them all up.
"You remember what happened to Gonzalez," Patterson said.
"You don't forget shit like that."
"You shot him. Shot him dead."
"Yeah."
"You philosophized for a month about that one."
"This is different."
"Only the details."
"Can I ask you something, Ingram?"
"Ask away."
"How many people have you killed?"
"Four."
"Right. Does it bother you?"
"Not much. In the end, it was all for the better."
Patterson nodded. Then: "You're ready to kill again tonight."
Trotter looked up at him, questioning with his eyes.
"Every time you've ever killed somebody, you knew it was coming beforehand. Guess it's kinda like second sight. But you always air out your frustrations. And then, somebody dies." He then added. "But always the right guy. Never a cop. Never a civilian."
"What are you doing, writing a biography?"
Patterson stretched. "Who the hell would read it?"
"Nice. Now you tell me something."
"Sure."
"What do you think put you out tonight? Like you said, it couldn't very well have been drugs."
"I don't know what it was. Only what it wasn't."
"You sound like our young friend Ms. Challis. She told me about hearing things, of thinking she was drugged. But she wasn't. Now, I've heard things ... I keep getting impressions of a mist, or a haze around things, then something happens. You said you thought there was a 'haze' around the car. This is not just a case of perceptions gone haywire."
"In all the years you've known me, Ingram, I've never given you a bad lead. I'm telling you —I didn't just fall asleep. Something was out there."
"I think I've got a plan. Dangerous shit, though."
"I've put in a full day already," Patterson grumbled. "I don't need dangerous."
Trotter chuckled. "Not you. Hanley. She hasn't gone into overtime yet."
"Good idea. Yeah, let's get Hanley to do it."
"Wimp."
"Yeah."

Chapter 38

The knock at the parsonage door came as rather a surprise. Lazar had sensed nothing other than the ubiquitous presence of the police somewhere beyond his doors. The parsonage was a small, comfortable house, though it existed primarily for show rather than for habitation. He spent precious little time here since he required no sleep and performed most of his duties in the Church building itself or in its deeper regions. But he'd come here for appearance's sake after the service, knowing that astute eyes bore down on him from many directions. It would not pay to take a bad step with the impending ritual only hours away now. He could feel John Hanger's fury at his having allowed the young paralegal's car to be discovered before it could be removed. The situation had been rectified, more than adequately, but Lazar had not anticipated the police discovering the vehicle so readily. And they no doubt suspected that Mr. Selby remained somewhere within the Church's confines.
The illustration of his own fallibility disturbed him, reminding him of the destructive power of conceit.
Opening the back door to the insistent knocking, he found a tall young woman standing on the stoop, dressed in an ill-fitting, dirty overcoat, frayed and threadbare in places. A raggedy scarf encircled her neck and a squashed, shapeless-looking hat covered a head of tangled, sandy blonde hair. She looked to be about thirty, her face attractive but rather long and gaunt, as if she'd carried a heavy burden of heartache for a long time. Her green eyes gazed at him sadly.
At first, he could barely believe she was one of them.
"Good evening, young lady," he said softly. "May I help you."
The woman looked as if she were about to burst into tears. "I saw your light," she said in a choked voice. "I was hoping you might help me."
He did not immediately invite her in. "What's the matter, my dear?"
"They took my house from me. My car. I don't have anything left. I don't have any money."
"Are you hungry? Do you want food?"
"I—I am a little hungry. I don't mean to put you out, sir, I just wanted to know if there might be something here for me. I've been looking all night. Nobody will help me."
Lazar contemplated the dangers for a few moments. He must handle the situation delicately or John Hanger would suffer him no longer. He could merely send her away; at this point, the police were not going to force entry. However, their next attempt might not be so subtle. At last, he stepped back and held the door open for her. "Come inside. I know it's very cold."
Looking quite nervous, the woman took a tentative step over the threshold. She gaze around at the kitchen as if it offered her a wealth of gold. "Thank you, sir. You're very kind."
"It is our duty to assist those who are lost," he said gently. "What is your name, my dear?"
"Sheila."
"Sheila who?"
"Han-Hanson. My husband left, just left. No money, no nothing. I stayed with some friends for a while, but it was too much for them and I had to leave. I don't have anywhere to go."
"No family?"
"Not anymore."
"I'm so sorry. Would you care for a cup of tea?"
"That would be wonderful."
He offered her a seat at the cloth-draped kitchen table. Her eyes quite secretively glanced at every corner of the room, at the cupboards, at the cellar door to the left of the table. You'll find absolutely nothing down there, he thought, as he set a kettle of water on the gas burner. "It'll be just a few minutes," he said.
Trotter had the hubris, sending this one.
"I know this is a bother, coming here so late," she said, shaking her head disconsolately. "If I'm not welcome, I'll go. I was just hoping maybe you had something I could do to earn a night's sleep here. I've heard this Church welcomes those willing to do an honest job in return for a little help."
"Well, just now I can't say as I have any tasks for you. But perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement."
"That's very kind. What's your name?"
"Oh, forgive me. I am Reverend Lazar."
"Pleased to meet you."
"You know," said with a gentle smile, "I believe there is a shelter over on Halstead where you might go to find assistance."
"Full," she said.
"It is quite sad, isn't it?" He took a cup from a rack hanging over the old gas stove and dropped a teabag into it. "There are places where people like yourself may find help, but most are not in this neighborhood. The largest concentration of homeless is on the on south and near west sides of the city; therefore, that's where most people who wish to help set themselves up. Yet there are plenty in this very neighborhood who have fallen on difficult times, and there is so little for them. You might be surprised at the number of homeless even on these restful, quiet streets. It breaks my heart."
"I've seen them," Sheila said, folding her hands beneath her chin and resting her elbows on the table. "I never thought I could ever end up like this."
"It is difficult," he said, giving her an understanding smile. "I pray that your situation will be resolved happily." He turned to look out the window that faced the back alley, smiling to himself. "And I trust that you will be off the streets very soon."
The young woman did not speak for several moments. At last, looking curiously at him, she said, "I have to ask, Reverend. I noticed there's no cross on this Church. Instead, there's a very unusual star. What does that mean?"
"That is a very special symbol to this congregation. It is known as the an-abzu-qip, a very ancient, Middle-Eastern name. It represents the brilliance of spiritual wisdom, the attainment of which is our perpetual quest."
"That's very interesting. I've never seen anything like it."
"It's quite rare. There are very few churches like this one in America, or anywhere in the world, for that matter. Yes," he said. "Quite rare indeed."
Sheila nodded. "I'm afraid I haven't been to church in a long time. I feel a little guilt}7 coming here to ask for help."
"Think nothing of it," Lazar said as steam began to curl from the kettle spout. A moment later, it was gushing out with a shrill whistle. He removed the kettle from the burner and filled her cup with hot water, sliding it to rest in front of her. "Sugar or cream?"
"No, thank you," she said, eyeing the cup somewhat warily. "Nothing."
"Fine." Lazar then sat down across from her, studying her face, her movements. "Wouldn't you like to take that overcoat off? I keep it very warm in here —I don't handle the cold as well as I used to. Chills this frail old body." He laughed harshly.
"Sure," she said, standing up and carefully removing the coat. Lazar rose to help her, but she waved him away with a polite smile and draped the coat over the back of her chair. She wore a bulky wool sweater over a flannel blouse, which made her appear rather ungainly. He doubted her figure underneath was quite so shapeless.
"Your sweater?"
"No, thanks," she said firmly. "I'm cold-blooded, too."
"As you wish." He watched as she blew into the cup to cool her tea, then took a tentative sip. "Is it to your liking?"
She nodded. "It's fine, thank you."
This woman, he thought, would have made a wonderful character actress; in his youth, Lazar had actually enjoyed the theater. A pity she had opted to work for the police. Her eyes did not stay still for very long and they were quite observant, though she skillfully maintained a disinterested expression. He would have to be careful with her; he certainly couldn't harm her, for that would draw an unacceptable amount of attention. Perhaps at a much later time he could find a means of offering her to his Lord, either by blood sacrifice or by Taqith transformation. His main concern now was making certain she was temporarily out of commission once it came time to prepare for the ceremony.
"I'm afraid I'm not very well equipped to accept guests for an entire night," he said. "However, I can take you to the house of a nearby parishioner, who is happy to accept guests such as yourself. It will cost you nothing, and I'm sure he can provide you with a fine meal."
Sheila's face fell slightly. "If that's what you think is best. I'm so tired; you wouldn't mind if I rested here for a short time, would you?"
Lazar shook his head. "Not at all. Take your time. I do have some business to attend to this evening, so if you won't think me rude, I will leave you to yourself until ten-thirty. Then I will call upon Brother Gordon and see if he can't accommodate you for the night."
She nodded desultorily. "I appreciate your kindness."
He rose from his seat. "Feel free to make yourself comfortable in the living room. You may rest on the couch, if you'd like."
"Thank you."
He nodded curtly to her, then went down the short hall to the living room. It was furnished with only a long red and gold couch, a pair of straight-legged end tables, a plain, uncomfortable-looking wing chair, and a small, dust covered bureau hiding in one corner. Against the eastern wall, across from the couch, an ancient oil heater squatted like a petrified black bear. Like the rest of the house, the room was devoid of electronic conveniences such as a television or telephone.
He went to the couch, fluffed up one of its shrunken-looking pillows, and propped it against the arm. He glanced at the one decoration on the wall — an ancient oil portrait in an ornate frame, the face within a severe-looking,  pale-complexioned  man with  long,  silver-white hair  and  a heavy mustache.  The blue-black eyes gazed right at the viewer, no matter where in the room he stood.
Lazar gave his predecessor an amused nod; old Avery Mathias had been dead and gone —gone, at least, for no one knew exactly what had happened to him—for nearly seventy years. It wasn't hard to guess what fate might have befallen the old man; he'd either displeased John Hanger and met a most unhappy end, or he'd gone the way of Maurice Zann on secret sojourn into unknown realms, seeking truths that even Hanger could not yet know.
With Sheila Hanson secure in the parsonage, Lazar could begin making his preparations for the ceremony. During the worship service, the congregational prayers had opened a channel, so to speak, to the domain of Golgolith, and even now Lazar could feel the vibrations in the air, the subtle ringing tones at the farthest edges of his perception that meant the ancient and most holy Lord was aware, awaiting the blood offering. As time for the ritual drew nearer, His presence would become more profound, until at the time of the blood-letting, His essence would converge with those of his children as He shared fully in the consumption of flesh and blood.
And then—the power! From Hanger into Golgolith, from Golgolith into Lazar, in a fiery cycle of ecstasy and energy, revitalizing all. And the poor young woman's screams would excite the feeders into a frenzy, like sharks, whereupon the Ancient One would Himself gain the ultimate satisfaction: the consumption of human by human, in the most sensuously violent manner possible. Anticipation began brewing in Lazar's gut, starting a flow of saliva in his mouth. The ingestion of the Taqith font brought no less satisfaction; certainly, it offered an even greater intensity as the soul of the victim literally exploded inside his body, to be shared by Golgolith as their spirits commingled. But the act of feeding on a living body could not be equaled for its piquant, primal thrill, its sating of that deepest of human desire for power.
He went out through the door that led directly to the hallway of the Church's main floor. He turned and twisted the deadbolt, just in case the policewoman took it to heart to search beyond the confines of the parsonage.
To begin, young Ms. Challis must be ritually cleansed, a task he had delegated to Nyle. Her clothes would be burned, for which purpose a brazier had been set up in the underground worship hall vestibule. Then a series of prayers would be offered over her body, first by Lazar and Nyle, finally by John Hanger —Balak—just before the feasting began.
Lazar himself would shortly change into his ceremonial vestments, as soon as the policewoman was removed from the premises; a few subtly dropped hints that she might actually be on the trail of her quarry would goad her into accepting Lazar's authority. By the time she became aware of the dead end lead, it would be too late for the police to interfere with the great event.
He felt a tug at the back of his mind: a familiar, beckoning pressure that he knew originated far beneath the surface of the earth. Balak was asserting his presence, reminding Lazar that his life hung by a thread on this night. He knew a moment of keen fear, realizing that his handling of the most recent affairs did not please the King, and that he, Abraham Lemuel Lazar, bore full responsibility. If by tomorrow dawn, the ceremony had transpired without complication, then he would remain in high standing, with no fear of reprisal.
If.
Somehow, in all the years he had served King Balak, he had never wondered whether or not his own master acted as he did because he himself might be afraid. Tonight, the question indeed rose in his mind. Perhaps Balak feared disappointing his own Lord; for what Balak could do to Lazar, Golgolith could do with infinitely greater aplomb.
For eternity.
The presence of Golgolith waxed in his consciousness as well. The hollow ringing sound had intensified, an exhilarating yet terrifying sensation. The Most Ancient demanded his appetite be satisfied; His will would soon become overpowering. Lazar could not remember ever feeling such an insistent, almost sickening grip on his senses. Tonight was the turning point.
And even he could not know all that would soon follow.

Chapter 39

"Come here," said the low, raspy voice that crept from the open doorway. "Obey me."
Claire slid backwards on her rear end, suddenly filled with panic at the sight of the featureless silhouette framed in the door. This time, the door had opened without warning, allowing her no chance to assume an attack stance. Before she knew it, she was caught in a rectangle of flickering orange light, cast by unseen candles or torches in the hall beyond. It must be getting late now; they had come for her. A strange skittering sound and a hoarse intake of breath slipped in from the unseen spaces behind the priest. He was most assuredly not alone now.
"It is time to prepare, young lady. Your opportunity to ease your own suffering has passed."
"Get the hell away from me," she hissed, trying to remain defiant. But something outside the chamber rumbled deeply, so that she felt the vibrations in the stone beneath her. Then, a second silhouette appeared at Lazar's side: the huge, hump-backed black man, wearing an open-fronted black robe, sashed around the middle. He carried something in one inhumanly long arm that she could not quite make out.
Lazar took a step inside. "It is a shame you have chosen this path. It will be much more difficult for you. On the other hand, King Balak will relish your suffering all the more." He chuckled heartily, like a cruel child who had caught a fly and was about to tear its wings from its body. "I hope you delight in the fruit of your decision. Nyle!"
The horrible black creature shuffled into the room on bare, simian feet, his cyclopean eye falling upon her, gleaming like a searchlight. He placed the items he carried on the floor next to the door; she heard a slosh of water. Then he started toward her, raising his ape-like arms and spreading clawed fingers.
"Take her."
"No!" Claire screamed, trying to rise to her feet, finding her back suddenly against the stone wall. The hunchback moved with incredible swiftness, gripping her biceps in vise-like hands that felt fiery hot through the cloth of her sleeves. With seemingly little effort, he jerked her to her feet; then, spinning her until her back was to him, pulled her to his massive chest, wrapping an arm beneath her breasts and pinioning her arms at her sides. The beast exuded a disgusting, fish-like odor that nearly caused her to gag. Lazar stepped forward, bending to gaze into her terrified eyes.
"Do not struggle or you will merely injure yourself. Allow me to explain what we are about to do. Your clothes are to be removed. Your body will be cleansed, both inside and out, before we bring you to the Chamber of Balak. I have no wish to damage you. If you do not struggle, your suffering will be considerably lessened."
"Son of a bitch!" she cried, vainly trying to break the creature's grip on her. Lazar shook his head wearily, taking his eyes off her for a moment. She saw the opening—and lashed out with her right foot, catching the old man squarely in the groin. The impact was sufficient to force her own captor to stumble backwards, but Nyle instantly regained his balance.
She expected the priest to drop like a rotten tree hacked by an ax. However, a mere frown darkened his half-seen features, not even enough to count as a true grimace. His body remained erect, his breathing slow and steady. She gaped at him, praying a delayed reaction would send him toppling to the floor. It did not.
"What the hell are you?" she gasped.
"You are the most foolish young woman I have ever encountered," he said, as if addressing a spoiled child. "Ms. Challis, how may I convince you that you are only causing yourself unnecessary grief. Now ... stop it!"
She felt Nyle's free arm slide around her throat, positioning her so that one quick twist of her upper torso would break her neck. Somehow, at the moment, that particular manner of death seemed preferable to that which they had promised her. She refused to stop struggling.
Pushing against the floor with her feet, she attempted to thrust herself backwards, thus slamming Nyle into the wall. She only succeeded in bending his back slightly, and the pressure on her throat increased. She could barely breathe, and the arm around her chest threatened to crush her ribs. For a moment she relaxed, trying to take a breath. Even that was almost impossible. “If you kill me now," she succeeded in whispering, "what will your king Balak say?"
Lazar glared angrily at her and did not answer. His expression excited her fury.
"Yeah, that's what I thought. He'll kill you instead. Then go ahead. Kill me! Kill me, you son of a bitch!" Her fury consumed her now, burned like fire in her veins. Far beyond caring about the consequences, she writhed in the beast's arms, trying to manage a backwards kick between his legs. She got nowhere, but Nyle's deathgrip relaxed slightly, as if he'd suddenly become reluctant to harm her. Still, she could not tear herself out of the encircling arms.
"Ms. Challis —Claire. Please. Settle down. It is a relatively simple matter to restrain you without physically damaging you. And just so you know, if you were to somehow escape Nyle and myself, there is something on the other side of that door that I am quite certain you do not wish to meet."
With that, Claire was forced to consider his words. She'd heard the sounds from outside many times during her hours of captivity; she knew that, indeed, she did not want to confront whatever was out there. As detestable as Lazar and the hunchback were, they were human—more or less —and thus were comprehensible. So much easier for her mind to deal with human evil. She knew in her soul that whatever moved in the hallway with such a heavy, scraping, clattering sound, it was nothing her mind could accept. And now, horrifyingly close at hand, she heard the explosive hissing sound that before had echoed only from some unseen distance.
She immediately ceased her struggling, relaxing her arms and legs so that only Nyle's grip held her upright. Better to die by any method these men might fashion than to confront that unseen, unknowable horror lurking just beyond the range of her vision.
"Please," she whispered at last. "Leave me the hell alone."
"Accept your destiny," the old man said, stepping up to face her. "Had you accepted the gift I offered, your mind, at least, would be at ease right now. But you refused. You will live and die with the consequences of your decision." Then, with a nod: "Nyle!"
The giant gradually relaxed his hold upon her, but she did not dare move now; from outside the door, along, distorted shadow crept toward her along the floor of her cell. Behind the priest, low to the ground so that she could not clearly discern its true nature, something long and black appeared to be snaking into the room with a dry rustling noise.
"Oh my God," she moaned.
She felt Nyle's arm slip away from her chest. But an iron clamp suddenly closed on her hair, so that if she were to try to pull away, half her scalp would be torn out.
"I need you to remove your clothes. Very slowly, please reach down and remove your boots."
Claire's heart had risen to her throat. Her legs nearly buckled. "What?" she whispered incredulously.
"Your boots. Take them off."
Nyle exerted a slight amount of pressure, forcing her head down and forward. Even if she tried to comply, she would certainly fall.
"I can't."
"If you don't, I will. The choice is yours."
Trying to carefully balance herself so that she would not topple and lose a large amount of hair and scalp, she bent forward and reached for her right boot. Taking the brown leather shank in trembling hands, she began to work it off. Nyle's grip kept her from falling. Once she'd pulled the boot from her foot, she dropped it to the floor.
"Very good. Now the other one."
Leaning to the left, she repeated the procedure, working the boot from her foot and dropping it next to the other one. Nyle then allowed her to stand upright. The cold stone of the floor quickly worked through her white cotton socks to the soles of her feet.
"Very good. Now, if you'd please take off your jeans. Waste no time."
"No," she hissed, shaking her head. "No, I won't."
Behind the priest, something chattered quietly, like a huge insect. He smiled sardonically at her. "Now.” Her hands went automatically to her belt buckle. Clumsily fumbling it open, she unfastened the snap of her jeans and took hold of the zipper. She could not bring herself to pull it down.
"Nyle."
A spidery, dark hand scuttled around her waist, reaching for the zipper. "No!" she cried shrilly, trying to bat it away. "No! I'll do it. I will."
"Please do."
The hand slipped out of her sight again, but the tug on her hair strengthened. "All right," she said. "I'll do it." Her sweating fingers slipped off the cold metal twice before she could take hold of the tiny tab. Then, slowly drawing it downward, she unzipped her fly. Her jeans slipped part way over her hips.
"Take them off."
"Stop looking at me."
"Young lady, need I remind you of what awaits you? Take off your pants, now."
Heaving a disgusted sigh, she finally thrust down her jeans, letting them crumple around her ankles. A cold draft of air swirled tauntingly around her bare legs. Guided by Nyle's hand, she carefully stepped out of the bunched-up denim. At Lazar's bidding, she pushed them away with her foot.
"Time is short. I am going to offer a prayer to preface your cleansing," he said. "Please do not move or speak. If you do, the thing outside may react adversely." He then approached her, lifted a hand and placed a gentle finger on her forehead. "I call it The Conqueror Worm," he whispered. "To speak its true name would bring death to us all." Letting his finger run down the bridge of her nose, over her lips, down her chin and over her collar, he began muttering something, a sing-song chant of incomprehensible syllables in a very low musical tones. His hand continued to move downward, his finger pressing against her sternum, into her abdomen, toward her crotch. But before he reached the hem at the bottom of her turtleneck, he lifted his hand and placed it against his own heart.
"la, sha'ii al'ai, zsha n'aii ur'taagh wah, imm an-abzu-qip. la, k'tai vahl aii." His voice growled the final syllables.
Behind her, Nyle grunted a similar incantation. The grip on her hair did not loosen.
A moment later, Lazar stepped back, nodded to her and took a deep breath. He turned, went to the door and picked up the items Nyle had brought with him, quickly putting his arms behind his back to prevent her from clearly seeing them. But she had already realized that one was a folded towel, the other a large, swollen rubber bag with a long flexible tube protruding from one end.
"Oh, no," she said. "No."
"The flesh must be cleansed. Remove your underpants. Now. And turn around."
"You motherfucker."
The thing in the hallway chattered angrily, and Claire's bowels twisted violently. Lazar took a menacing step toward her.
"Take them off, Ms. Challis. Immediately."
Her muscles had turned to jelly; she could no longer so much as lift her arms. She began to sag in Nyle's grip, and his free hand swooped in to catch her. He carefully lowered her to her knees, then turned her to face the wall. He bent her forward onto her elbows, maintaining the grip on her hair. His other hand worked its way down her back; she felt the hot, arthropodic fingers take hold of the waistband of her underwear and pull. The cool air stole between her legs, and she began to feel nauseated again.
She vaguely heard Lazar's voice over the thumping of her heart in her ears. "You will hold the water inside you until I tell you to release it. If you do not, the process will simply be repeated as many times as necessary. Do you understand?"
Her voice caught in her throat. Only a dry rasp came out, so with monumental effort, she forced herself to nod.
"Then we begin."
She felt the priest's hands on her exposed rump, and her gorge rose. Only a small amount of bile came to her lips, though, for her stomach was still painfully empty. As she felt the plastic tip tentatively probe her anus, then start working its way inside her, Nyle began to chant in his musical, bass voice, his words thoroughly unintelligible.
As hot water began to pour into her bowels, she gathered as much spittle as she could in her mouth and blew it with all her breath into the hunchback's hideous face.
The ordeal lasted almost half an hour. After it was over, Lazar directed her into a corner of the dark chamber, where she released her constricted abdominal muscles, trying to keep from making a mess of herself. Knowing now that countless others must have suffered such torture in this very cell, she could hardly stand for her feet to touch the floor. And when she realized the true source of the faint stench she'd detected earlier, she started dry heaving yet again. When she was finished, her vision was blurry and red-tinged; a blood vessel in her right eye had popped from her internal straining, so that the white around the iris became a blotchy crimson stain.
While she was still bent over, trying to catch her breath and regain the use of her muscles, Nyle came up behind her and wiped her buttocks and legs with the towel he'd brought. Once he'd dried her, he took hold of one arm and ungently drew her to her feet. She staggered, almost falling, held upright by sticky-hot, iron fingers. Lazar stood near the door, watching in avid approval.
"The next part will be much easier," he said. "I have an appointment to attend to, so I leave you in Nyle's capable hands. Nyle! C'taghn n'gaii!"
The monster grunted softly, taking hold of Claire's shoulders to guide her toward the backlit portal. Remembering the shadow on the other side, she tried again to pull herself away from the giant, crying, "No!"
"Ms. Challis, it will not harm you as long as you do not attempt to escape."
Nyle forced her into the warm, golden light. To the left and right the hall extended into unseen distances, the stone walls illuminated by ten black candles in a tall, black iron stand. Glancing up, she saw that the walls disappeared into loft}7 darkness, causing her to feel momentarily dizzy. Peering back and forth down the passage, she tried to catch a glimpse of the thing the priest called "The Conqueror Worm/' deep down hoping she would see absolutely nothing at all.
A low chattering noise echoed from somewhere nearby. But nothing appeared within the illuminated area.
"Where is it?" she whispered. "Where the hell is it?"
"Do not concern yourself, Ms. Challis. Now, your journey shall carry you in that direction." Lazar pointed down the long passage to the left. "Mine takes me this way. I shall see you again in one hour. I must warn you not to provoke Nyle, for he is quite able and willing to cause you excruciating pain without actually injuring you. I'm sure you would prefer to avoid that kind of unpleasantness."
Claire lowered her head, staring at her feet, her white socks splattered with dark stains. Though her lower body was naked, she was beyond shame, made no attempt to cover herself. Without further word, Lazar turned and vanished into the darkness of the corridor. Nyle gave her a firm shove forward, sending her limping in the opposite direction. The insect-like hiss came again, still disturbingly close by. On an impulse, she looked upward, and her breath caught in her lungs. Only Nyle's grip on her arm kept her from breaking into sudden, adrenaline-charged sprint.
In the black recesses directly above, an indistinct shape hovered like a giant spider, innumerable appendages spread wide to grasp the rough stone walls. Amid the multiple, jointed legs, if such they could be called, she saw a twisted-looking cylinder of chitin, completely asymmetrical, covered by vaguely reflective thorns or spines, some of which waved rhythmically like blades of grass in a light breeze. And a bulbous, lumpy mass on a long, bony-looking stalk wavered down toward her, its eyes—numerous, silver-dollar sized globs of liquid gold — glimmering malevolently at her with the unmistakable impression of recognition.
It was the figurine she'd received come to life, only so many times larger.
The thing that had left its claw marks in the spaghetti sauce spilled on Claire's floor. The monstrous entity that had somehow taken Nancy Selby; that surely had killed her.
She had not died in any "automobile accident."
"Oh, my God/' she whispered. "Oh, GOD!"
Nyle pushed her onward, as overhead, the scuttling thing kept pace with them, now and then allowing a long, tubular cord sprouting black, fibrous cilia to slowly snake towards them, to be withdrawn shortly after with a reptilian hiss. Claire dimly realized that this creature, whatever it was, wherever it came from, must be some kind of guardian. Did every branch of this unholy network hold its own hell-spawned horror to prevent anyone entering—or leaving—its dark confines?
They continued on in pitch blackness. Nyle unerringly guided her through unseen tunnel openings, into tilting corridors and up jagged stairways. After some unfathomable passage of time, she saw a light ahead, and Nyle picked up the pace, virtually dragging her with him. As they approached the illuminated chamber, Claire could hear the distinct sound of gurgling water and saw that a haze of steam swirled around the circular opening ahead.
Nyle entered first, pulling her behind him as his ugly head jerked around, inspecting the chamber to ascertain it was properly prepared. Claire saw that, in the rock floor at the base of the curved wall in front of her, a circular pit had been carved out, now filled with steaming, whirling water. A tang}7, salt}7 aroma hung thickly in the air, a welcome change from the sulfurous, fecal odor of the passageways. The temperature was warm here, almost like a sauna. A white towel lay folded next to the pool, along with a crude, waxy-looking ball that had to be soap of some sort.
For the first time since they'd left her cell, Nyle released her arm, motioning at her, then at the bubbling pool. She obliged by pulling off her ruined socks, then lifting her black turtleneck over her head, dropping it to the floor by her socks, followed by her bra. She took a tentative step forward and touched a toe to the water to test its temperature. It was almost uncomfortably hot, and she pulled her foot back quickly, not sure if proceeding were going to be possible.
She found out how possible it was when Nyle suddenly wrapped his broad hands around her waist, lifted her unceremoniously in the air and lowered her into the water, the abrupt heat stealing her breath. She floundered in the pool, finding it deeper than she expected—up to her waist when she stood. Her skin prickled with the heat, her eyes watering as steam rose into her face, moistening her cheeks and forehead. Struggling to catch her breath, she almost swallowed water as Nyle suddenly leaned forward and forced her head under, the heat searing her eyes. She clamped them shut, trying to will her body to adjust to the temperature.
She came up a moment later, to find Nyle shedding his black robe, revealing to her his awful, malformed body in its entirety. His huge chest, though sunken inward, was ridged with tight muscles, his stomach a dark tortoise shell of bunched sinew. The squat, hair-covered legs, she now saw, were bent curiously backward, as if his knees operated in reverse. The humped back, to her horror, appeared to be a chitinous shell, repulsively similar to that of the creature she'd glimpsed in the passageway, its surface covered with short, widely spaced spikes. And between his legs: a wart-covered horror, a thick stub with a huge, hollow tip, its orifice dilating and contracting constantly, as if it were breathing. He unflinchingly lowered himself into the water beside her, emanating pure malice, warning her explicitly not to resist him for a single moment.
He reached for the lump of soap, then grabbed her right arm, pulling her close to him. She felt his hot, scaly hands rubbing the waxy soap over her face, neck and shoulders, then her breasts. She fought herself away for a brief moment, then he spun her around and scrubbed her back, working his way down and around again to her breasts. His fingers kneaded her flesh firmly, almost painfully, continually pressing the cool soap against her skin, working up a fragrant lather. When his hands moved toward her lower regions, she no longer resisted, almost welcoming the purging of the remaining stickiness from her buttocks and thighs. But the touch of his hands offended her, made her quiver where she stood. He forced her against the side of the pool, pulling up each of her legs and scrubbing it from top to bottom, even to the soles of her feet. She was ticklish behind her knee and under her toes, and when he touched her there, she flinched and bit her lip to keep from crying out. Nyle's eye rose to glare at her, holding her gaze for a long, uncomfortable time. She wanted to shrink away, but she forced herself to meet his stare, proving that she was yet undaunted. And as she challenged him, she felt something inside the creature wither, as if its will were not wholly impervious.
Knowing the monster could not harm her, she said softly, "You are a freak, you know that? You're a filthy, obscene piece of shit that somehow woke up and found itself alive. You're not even human. I don't know what you are, but you make me sick. Everything about you is an offense to God. Someday you'll pay. I may be dead and gone, but at least I'll be at peace. You're going to be the one screaming, you shit. You're going to scream and scream, because—you know what? You're going to burn. You're going to burn in Hell."
The eye merely stared at her, its hatred dulled as if the fire within had been extinguished. But it did not avert its gaze, as she hoped it would. It kept staring. And staring.
Until she realized his apparent weakness had been mere ruse. He was mocking her!
"You bastard, I'll kill you!" She couldn't stop her hands as they lashed out, slapping the hideous face with every bit of energy she had left in her body. Then, meeting no resistance, her fingers searched for the gnarled neck, encircling it and squeezing, her thumbs pressing into the hollow of his crushed collarbone with desperate fury.
But the hard flesh of his neck did not yield, as if it were as chitinous as the shell on his back. And then, Nyle's thick lips split to reveal the jagged teeth, each with a pointed tip. The lower jaw dropped and his face suddenly lunged toward hers, the teeth snapping together like a shark's, just short of her own throat. A low growling began deep in his chest, rumbling up his windpipe and through the now clenched teeth. She'd at last elicited a reaction, perhaps unwisely, but she'd shown the bastard what she was made of, by God.
She thought he was going to strike her, or lunge at her again. However, he sprang from the water and landed on his ape-like feet, quickly turning and reaching for her nearest arm. He caught her left bleep in an iron grip and with a single jerk drew her out of the water, dropping her to the stone floor. Her breath hissed from her lungs with the shock. She lay there for as long as he allowed it, trying to regain her wind, letting the pain of impact subside. He only gave her a few seconds while he put his own robe back on. Then he pulled her to her feet again and began to rub her down with the towel. She grabbed at it, managing to pull the towel from his grasp, and wrapped it around her body, shaking water out of her hair. Then, taking her by the arm again, Nyle led her through a door at one end of the chamber, into a small anteroom full of crude wooden shelves stacked with folded cloth and linen towels and garments. From one of them, Nyle took a white robe and tossed it to her, evidently expecting her to catch it. She did; then, unfastening the towel and rewrapping it around her dripping hair, she slipped into the silky robe, which was long and soft, remarkably comfortable after her hours of misery in this bleak hell-hole.
Nyle then led her down one more dark corridor; at its end, they came to a spherical, candlelit room with a small cot resting against one wall and a straight-backed cane chair hiding in a corner. He gave her a shove, sending her sprawling upon the cot; then he turned quickly and disappeared, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him. She heard the solid click of the lock being drawn and the heavy patter of Nyle's footsteps receding in the distance.
So. Alone again. She didn't know what time it was, but she certainly couldn't have many hours left. They truly were going to kill her as they'd said. All this time, she'd tried to deny it, and even as the black monster had "cleansed" her in the steaming pool, she'd focused only on the moment, on her hatred of these people —these beasts. Her misery had made her aware of one thing, though: she was alive. She'd felt every nuance of this torture so keenly, so intimately. Suddenly, all the wonderful sensations she'd known in her life became all the more poignant: her baby's fingers wrapped around her own, the softness of his hair, his skin; the caress of a desert wind, its dry clean heat; the warmth of Mike Selby's body as she'd lain beside him in his bed.
Even the thought of her parents filled her with a sense of desperate longing. Her problems with them seemed so shallow, so needless; if she could only see them again, tell them she really did love them, that she was sorry for causing them heartache. She fell forward with her face in the under-stuffed pillow, bitter tears finally falling again from her eyes. She surely had only minutes before they took her life away. “Mom ... Dad ... I'm sorry. I was a terrible, terrible daughter to you. I'm so sorry."
Outside, in the corridor, something moved. A shuffle. A scuttling, chattering sound. A long his.
"God no," she whispered. "No!"
Somebody, please help me.

Chapter 40

Detective Hartley had furtively searched every room of the parsonage, confident after the priest's exit that she was not being observed. She knew that nothing she found in here could be used as legal evidence, but Trotter had made it clear that prevention of a possible murder outweighed all other priorities. If a mess were made in the process, they'd pick up the pieces afterward. But as it happened, she was unable to find a trace of anyone other than the priest having been here recently; from the sparseness of the furnishings, the virtual absence of any personal effects in the bedroom and bathroom, and the amount of undisturbed dust that covered the floor and furniture, she was convinced that this house could only be a front of some sort. Even if Lazar lived a spartan life, he'd surely leave more signs of day to day activity in these rooms. She found a few items in the refrigerator: milk, bread, cheese, some meat—the dates on which were all recent. To that extent, this was at least a partially tended front.
The one sealed room turned out to be the bedroom. Its ancient lock, made for a skeleton key, posed no problem for the lock-picking tool she'd had the foresight to bring with her. Inside, one item immediately captured her attention: standing on the dresser opposite the iron-frame single bed, glowing radiantly on its jade-colored pedestal, a small replica of the star on the steeple, this one no larger than a golf ball, its multiple arms twisted and intertwined like Jesus' crown of thorns. As she leaned down to peer at it, her head felt suddenly light, her vision blurring. Then a ringing began in her ears, calling up a familiar though unidentifiable sensation.
She recalled a particular moment earlier in the evening—staring up at the brilliant, beacon-like object atop the Church steeple, as if she had been commanded. Was it a haze —or smoke —that seemed to ooze from the blazing star, to pour down the building and creep toward her as if alive, forbidding her to turn away, whispering, singing to her in a beautiful, haunting, yet ominous voice?
And then, all she remembered was Sergeant Curtis jarring her from whatever dark realm she had fallen into....
She shook off the disturbing memory— if it were, in fact, a memory. This star held some kind of power, she knew; hypnotizing ... mesmerizing.
She was beginning to understand Trotter's vague insinuations of extraordinary danger, yet she was certain he didn't understand them any more fully than she. She tentatively touched one of the star's arms, almost expecting it to be hot. It was not. In fact, its slick surface felt remarkably cold, almost like ice. And as soon as her fingertip made contact with the unknown material, the ringing in her ears ceased, the star's inner fire dwindling to a muted glow. When she drew her hand back, its brilliance returned and the shrill tone again tickled her eardrums.
"So, what the hell are you?" she whispered to the thing, slyly, as if expecting it to vouchsafe its secrets to her.
She had no time to ponder the subject further, for a low chiming from another room indicated that it was ten-thirty, and she could not doubt the priest's punctuality. And it was time to signal Trotter. Reaching for the special beeper clipped to her belt under her sweater, she pressed its small transmitter button two times quickly, then once more, holding it down for a couple of seconds. She repeated the sequence twice more, then headed back for the living room, closing and relocking the bedroom door securely behind her. She had only just settled back on the threadbare couch when the front door opened and Lazar entered, a concerned expression etched on his age-worn face. For a moment, she wondered if he had somehow observed her during her search of the house.
He regarded her coolly for several moments, then said, "Were you comfortable here?"
"Yes, quite," she said with a smile. "I appreciate your hospitality."
"I will now have my sexton escort you to Brother Gordon's home. I have spoken with him and he would be more than happy to accommodate you."
"Please," she said, rising, "if you'd just direct me I can go on my own. I don't want to bother you more than I already have."
"Nonsense. Nyle will be happy to accompany you."
"That's too kind of you," she said with a small sigh. “The neighborhood is usually safe," Lazar said, "but gangs occasionally roam the street. I would worry if you went out alone."
She put on her most disconsolate face, staring vacantly into a corner. "I've been alone for quite some time now, Reverend Lazar. I've grown accustomed to it. And I feel bad for taking up your time and intruding in your home. Please, if you'd just direct me...."
He gazed at her with calculating eyes, a tiny smile forming on his thin lips. "Very well, Ms. Hanson. I will provide you with directions. It is only a ten minute walk."
"Thank you, Reverend. I'll get my coat." She went back to the kitchen, taking her overcoat from the back of the chair and pulling it on over her bulky clothes. Lazar entered a moment later holding a small piece of paper, which he handed to her.
"Here is the address. It's on Southport, just on the other side of Fullerton."
"I'm sure I'll find it with no trouble."
"Brother Gordon will be expecting you."
He led her to the door, opening it for her. A cold blast of wind struck her in the face, and she was glad she didn't actually have far to walk. However, she would have to take a roundabout path to the car to prevent being seen from the Church or the parsonage. She turned to him a final time.
"Thank you again, Mr. Lazar. Maybe I could visit you again sometime—you know, help out around the Church, or something?
"You are welcome to visit at any time. It was very nice to meet you, Ms. Hanson."
She lifted a hand and shook his. As she turned down the steps and started on her way, she looked back and waved congenially.
Lazar raised his hand in reply, then called, "By the way ... please convey my regards to your superior." Then he disappeared inside his house.
The son of a bitch. If he didn't know for certain she was working with Trotter, he had surely bet on high odds. He no doubt expected a return call from the police in one form or another. And the late hour of her arrival surely worked against her. Still, under the circumstances, she'd managed well enough.
She didn't bother detouring but went straight for Patterson's car, where the lieutenant would be anxiously waiting for her to report. She had little to tell, though her strange experience with that star-figure — the an-abzu-something—bore mentioning.
She saw Trotter sitting in the front passenger seat; he motioned for her to get in the back, and she slid in behind him, grateful to be out of the wind even after such a short distance.
"Anything?" he asked.
"No sign of any 'guests' whatsoever. No little cubes, either. However, he had a replica of the star symbol that struck me as peculiar. Oh, and the Reverend sends his regards."
"He does, does he?"
"I'm sure he knew."
"Well, hell," Trotter grumbled. "Well, it wasn't like we didn't expect it. Anyway, what about the star?"
She described the sensations she'd felt as she examined it. Patterson's eyes lit up as she spoke.
"That's almost exactly the feeling I had," he said. "Like I was being hypnotized."
"It has some odd properties, all right. The vibration—the ringing sound. The light itself."
"Was it plugged into an outlet? Battery powered, maybe?" Trotter asked.
"No, not that I could tell."
"It's obviously not just decorative. It has a purpose."
Patterson pointed to the star atop the steeple, now dull and blood-colored. "What if it sends out some kind of signal? Electronic pulse of some kind?"
"That's a bit of a stretch, isn't it?"
"No more so than a bunch of detectives all going out like lights at the same time."Trotter bit his lip, staring at the building. "Okay. I'm going to do the walk-around myself. If I can find how Selby got inside, I'm going to try to track him."
"You mean go inside."
"If I get in, I'll send you a short-short-long, and repeat it every ten minutes. If I get into trouble, three longs. Come running and shoot to kill." He started to open the door, but paused to grab a high-powered flashlight from the glove compartment.
"We're a little shy of probable cause yet, wouldn't you say? Judges frown on unlawful entry, you know."
"Yeah, I know. Fuck 'em."
"Then I should go with you, Lieutenant," Patterson said, moving to get out as well.
"No. Right now, it's only my ass on the line. I'll call if I want to get you fired too."

Chapter 41

Clutching his knife frantically, Mike had crawled into a dark, damp recess in the wall and lain there for what seemed like hours since hearing the awful growling voice in the distance. The distinct sound of movement in the passage had followed, as of many heavy feet marching upon the stone floor. For a few sickening moments, he thought they were coming his way; and when a long, bestial bellow like the cry of a bull in agony erupted through the corridor, he found himself literally paralyzed with terror, certain his presence had been discovered. But whatever the source of the sounds, it soon began receding into the distance, and Mike managed to find his breath again.
But he refused to budge from his hiding place, even knowing that if someone or something passed this way he could not possibly escape their notice. After an age of tomb-like silence, he finally risked turning on his flashlight to look at his watch. To his dismay, it was no longer on his wrist.
Damn it! He searched the little alcove around him, but found no sign of the watch. He could not imagine where he'd lost it, and no way could he waste any energy searching for it. But he desperately wanted to regain his sense of time, for he could no longer even begin to gauge how long he'd spent in the darkness. Two hours? Six? And in that much time, how far had he descended beneath the city? At a normal pace, he would walk about three miles in an hour. He'd traveled at an erratic speed and stopped many times, but his best guess was that he'd gone every bit of four miles, probably more, much of it straight down. The air was indeed dense, probably well above normal surface pressure. And his heart was pumping fear through his system as well as blood and oxygen, making him almost giddy.
At least he was still alive ... for now.
And he almost felt guilt}7 for it. He'd surely failed Claire —the ultimate failure, for the price was her life. Still, increasingly, the end of the road looked almost certain for him as well. No more naive, childish delusions about being rejoined with his sister, or his parents, or even Claire; just a terrible, black emptiness ahead, the bitter commingling of his flesh and soul with nothingness.
Suddenly, an image of the Church building going up in a brilliant blast of fire and smoke flashed into his mind. Oh God, if only he could get out of here, sure enough, his first act would be to destroy that monstrous abode, hopefully taking the priest and its other occupants straight to hell. It wouldn't even be hard to secure the proper materials. What a sweet fantasy!
He gazed toward that dim, nebulous illumination far in the distance. What if he managed to go on the offensive, at least long enough to kill one or more of the motherfuckers who dwelled in this insane refuge? He'd never escape, that much was for certain—but even as things were now, his chances were hardly sufficient to inspire an attempt. So much better to end his life in a move that could actually save others than whimpering like a coward in this filthy tomb some ungodly distance under the earth. He dug in his pockets for the lighter and the can of butane, weighing his remaining options. The knife would make for quicker, more immediate delivery; probably best as a first strike, to disable; then to follow with the flame for a finishing blow. Either one required him to be at close range, much closer than he might be able to get. But his decision was made. He would not attempt to flee the darkness without making a last-ditch effort to find Claire.
At last, he crept from the alcove into the middle of the passage, peering toward the pale light ahead. His sense of proportion seemed awry down here; no way to tell if the end of the passage lay a few hundred feet or half a mile away. The only way to know would be to negotiate the dark path toward it, and hope to find an unsuspecting target at the end.
"Prepare to die, motherfuckers," he whispered. "Because I'm coming for you."
Suddenly, Mike froze in his tracks as, from behind, a low, silky voice said, "I'm afraid not, Mr. Selby." His legs suddenly collapsed, and the last thing he saw before losing consciousness was a huge, leering face hovering above him that only vaguely resembled anything human.
Pain filled Mike's head, sharp and blinding, as if a white hot spike had been thrust between his eyes. Something thundered in his ears, and only after an age of searching with his awakening senses did he realize it was his pounding heart. He lay flat on his back upon a hard, uneven surface, unable to move his arms or legs. At first he thought he must be bound; a few moments later, he realized he must be paralyzed by shock. Little by little, sensation began to warm his numbed fingers and toes.
He was naked, lying on some kind of stone dais in a chamber whose walls glowed the color of blood. Above him, milky-looking stalactites pointed at him like accusing fingers.
Shit. His weapons were gone.
"Good evening, Mr. Selby," floated a hoarse, raspy voice he'd heard before. "You seem to have taken a bad step."
"Where am I?" said a disembodied voice that he eventually recognized as his own.
"A place of many secrets and wonders. A place few humans have ever seen. And that far fewer have ever left alive."
Mike tried to lift his head. The effort sent talons of pain ripping through his neck and shoulders. He gave up on the attempt immediately. "Where's Claire?" he groaned.
"I suspected you might get around to asking. The young lady will soon be brought to this chamber, so you will have the good fortune of seeing her one last time. I am very much interested in your reaction to how you see her."
"What are you talking about?"
"Let us say that you will see parts of Ms. Challis that no man has ever seen before."
Mike felt a stab of fear—followed by fury —at the sinister inflection of the voice. "Don't harm her, Lazar."
"Are you not more interested in what is going to happen to you?"
"Why are you doing this? What did we ever do to you?"
"To me? Why, nothing, Mr. Selby. Is it necessary for you to have done something to me to warrant your presence here?"
"You're a sick coward. One that victimizes and kills children."
"We obviously do not limit our procurements to children," said the wry voice. "We acquire what we need, Mr. Selby. Your moral values simply have no meaning to us. They simply comfort you, reinforce your petty convictions without regard for what is ultimately true or not true. We require no such artificial values; we merely act as befits the truth."
"Spoken like the true lunatic you are."
"You still deny the reality of all you have experienced by labeling me a lunatic. Who is the deluded one, Mr. Selby?"
Mike sighed hopelessly. "Lazar ... at least let Claire go. You don't need her."
"I most certainly do. And I need you, too. I cannot substitute one of you for the other." The priest chuckled. "It wouldn't be kosher."
"The police know I've come here. It's only a matter of time before they figure out where you are."
"Yes, a matter of time that is quite adequate for our purposes. Your police will ultimately fail."
Mike tried again to lift himself from the stone. The pain was less, yet he still could not force his limbs to obey his mental commands. He felt Lazar's eyes burning at him.
"We have administered a little elixir to prevent you from harming yourself. If you attempt to struggle, you will suffer intolerable pain. I would advise you to rest calmly and not cause yourself undue distress."
"You bastard. You've taken my sister already. Isn't that enough?"
"Your sister was taken because it was convenient—a handy means to isolate you and Ms. Challis. Mr. Selby, there is great power in the human spirit. That power must be stoked, like a fire, before it is to be devoured. And you will be devoured, Mr. Selby; all that is yours will become a part of something so vast, so magnificent that your mind cannot begin to comprehend it.
"Do you recall those colorful little cubes that so fascinated you and Ms. Challis —like that which you stole from our assembly? Isn't it ironic that in allowing it to be destroyed, you were responsible for the ultimate demise of the Hernandez child —the very one whose disappearance drew Ms. Challis into our little web?"
"I don't understand."
"The Taqith font is the receptacle of souls, Mr. Selby, a device fashioned by the hand of John Hanger to encapsulate the essence of a life—which we in turn use for sustenance. It was that receptacle which contained all that remained of young Paul Hernandez. And to such a receptacle will your soul be consigned, so that at need one of us might avail himself of all you have to offer.
"Now the hour is almost upon us, Mr. Selby. Use your remaining time to reconcile yourself to your fate."
At that moment, Mike heard a low, feminine moan. Craning his head back as far as he could, he saw a long shadow creeping across the stone floor. A moment later, the hideous, deformed shape of the humpback Nyle appeared in his vision, carrying a figure wrapped in a diaphanous white shroud. He laid his burden upon a second dais directly across the chamber from Mike, then removed the shroud. Like Mike, Claire was naked and apparently only semi-conscious. Nyle crossed her arms over her breasts and stepped away from her, moving to a point near the entrance of the chamber, beyond Mike's field of vision.
Mike willed Claire's eyes to open, to look across the chamber to him. She did not, only moaned softly again, her face a grimace of pain or anguish.
Lazar briefly appraised her body, as if to ascertain she was whole and unharmed. He nodded toward the unseen darkness that concealed Nyle, then stepped away into the shadows himself as if in deference to ... a new presence that Mike now sensed within the chamber; something powerful, forbidding. Something that even before it revealed itself clutched Mike in a frigid grip of dread.
A low, silky voice that Mike remembered from his first visit to the Church now said, "Welcome, all to the Hall of Balak and the Assembly of Golgolith. What a wondrous evening awaits us all."The voice of Lazar replied, "Hail, Balak!" The guttural voice of Nyle growled something unintelligible.
Mike looked to Claire, saw her eyes flicker open. They met his with a gleam of something between relief and regret. Then they turned upward, fell upon something that Mike could not yet see. She screamed.

Chapter 42

Trotter had just passed the low window when something about it struck him as wrong; turning back to it, he realized that one of the panes was quite new, for all the others were clouded with the grime of God knew how many years. Leaning close to it, he saw that the edges of the glass had been smeared with putty, and quite recently. Without hesitation, he punched his fist through it, sending the pane flying whole into the darkness of the Church's cellar. He heard it shatter on the floor within.
From there, it was a simple matter to reach in, unlock the sash and clamber into the opening. Without question this was how Mike had made his entry. Trotter could barely see anything in the pale light sifting in from outside, so he flicked on his flashlight, shone the beam around the room. Nothing but a few chairs, an old piano and lots of cobwebs. For a moment he thought he heard a very faint rumbling sound somewhere within the church; probably the furnace kicking on. He drew his Smith & Wesson .38 but did not cock it.
An open door revealed only darkness, and, stepping cautiously through it, he shone his light toward both ends of the corridor. To the left, a dead end; to the right, a path extending into black void, running the length of the building. He took a tentative step forward, his light falling on a number of closed doors along the right-hand wall. As he continued on, he finally saw an open door, beyond which a pale, ethereal light glowed like a red moonrise. Taking a deep breath, he quickly approached the door, paused briefly, then spun inside, leading with the gun.
The room was empty except for more chairs and a small table in the corner —atop which stood a warmly glowing object he recognized as a replica of the star that adorned the Church steeple. This one —surely a sculpture of some sort, he thought—perched on a bronze base, supported by a narrow, two-inch tall shaft that blossomed like the stem of a flower around the bottom of the star. As he approached, the object's inner light began to intensify, like an ember brightening in a breeze. He leaned toward it, studying the multifaceted surfaces, lifting a hand to see if the air around it were hot. Surprisingly, it radiated no warmth, but a faint vibration tickled his palm, rather like the feelers of a centipede. Had he entered this room with Mike earlier in the day, he would have seen the weird figurine that had at one time been delivered to Claire Challis, and Nancy Selby's ripped wallet on the table. Kneeling, he peered into the heart of the sculpture, marveling at the myriad of facets in the crystalline surface, unable to keep from admiring its complex, intriguing design. The individual points all seemed to be parts of long, interwoven strands of crystal, but it was impossible to tell where one ended and another began. No way he could count the number of arms radiating from its core; dozens, certainly. And he could not begin to guess what it was made of; its smooth texture reminded him of the material of the strange cube that had self-destructed in Varley's laboratory.
Peering at its blazing heart warily, he tentatively stroked one of the pointed arms with a fingertip. But the thing was apparently quite cold, much like the cube.
Now more than a little curious, he picked up the sculpture by its base. The piece was remarkably light; he doubted it weighed more than a couple of ounces. Glancing up to make sure he was still alone, he placed the object on the floor, gripped his gun by the barrel, and brought the butt down with all his strength, smashing the star into a million fragments, its pieces splashing across the room like sparkling droplets of water. Then, like its smaller cousin, the cube, the remains of the star flared brilliantly, then vanished into nothingness in the wink of an eye, leaving behind only a whiff of white smoke and a bent metal base.
"Shit," Trotter whispered, having half-expected this result. Somewhere beyond the door, he heard a deep thunder, as if a storm were gathering outside. But there were no thunderstorms in the bleak midwinter, and this rumble actually seemed to come from beneath his feet. No doubt about it—what he'd done had affected something somewhere else, as if the star, and the others like it, were part of some great, linked chain, the purpose of which remained quite unknown.
With nothing more to see here, he returned to the corridor, searching for a stairway that would lead him up to the Church proper, forcing away the disquieting thought that just by being here he'd opened himself to any manner of charges of misconduct. But the lives at stake have precedence, he thought. He looked back at the closed doors he'd passed, for a moment wondering what—or whom—they might conceal; Mike and Claire, perhaps? Not likely; no way they'd be left unattended if they had actually been abducted. And any unfriendlies on this floor would have heard him breaking in, or at least smashing their precious icon. Moving on, he turned a couple of left-leading corners until he came upon a large open room; probably once a social hall, now apparently a storage area. Shining his light into the thick darkness, he found only numerous boxes piled sloppily around the floor. Nothing to indicate that anyone had been here recently.
He found his stairway just around a corner: a flight leading only upward, though he had half-expected to find another set leading down, for the rumbling sounds he'd heard suggested that yet another floor might lie below this one. No sound now, though, either above or below. He began climbing, and at the top of the landing, he came upon a doorway opening to another hallway, this one faintly illuminated by light creeping through several open doors. Unable to resist, he entered the corridor, made a circuit of the floor, poking his head into every doorway, checking into closets, eyes keen for anything to suggest that his lost sheep had passed this way.
He finally came upon a door bearing a metal plaque that read "LIBRARY" —and from behind it whispered the low sound of something scuffling across the floor. Testing the handle, he confirmed the door was securely locked. But deciding that this was no time be half-assed, he stepped back and with one swift kick burst through the door, sending splinters of ancient wood flying. The room beyond lay in total darkness.
He switched on his flashlight, playing its beam into the corners, around the many shelves of books, under the pair of tables at one corner of the room. No sign of anyone here; a fact he found both relieving and disturbing. He had heard a movement from this room, he was certain of it. Rats, perhaps? The room smelled of old pulp, tinged by some unidentifiable, sour smell — something organic, he thought. He did not relax his grip on either his weapon or his light as he made his way among the shelves, glancing at some of the titles of the books. Many appeared to be traditional textbooks and treatises about various religions and philosophies. He recognized a couple of them from past research of his own: Melton's Encyclopedia of Cults in America, and the renowned Dr. Walter Martin's Kingdom of the Cults. Butmany more of them struck him as exceedingly peculiar, and possibly very rare: Freemasonry and the Cabalist, The Compleat Book of Witchcraft, Mysterious Numbers of the Kings, The Hidden Voices of Ancient Sumer. In a locked glass case, he found an ancient-looking, leather-bound volume bearing the title Unaussprechlichen Kulten; and in a second, identical case, Les Cultes des Goules, by one Comte d'Erlette, its title stitched in gold into the flesh-colored binding. He fiddled with one of the locks for a moment, but it was quite secure. Shrugging off his curiosity, he returned to the hallway, refocusing his attention on the actual job at hand.
He found nothing further of interest on this floor, much less any sign of life. Returning to the stairwell, he quietly ascended the final flight. At the top, an open door awaited him. He switched off his light as he approached, paused, and held his breath, listening for any sound. Nothing; not even traffic from outside. Then, gripping his gun fiercely, he stepped through the door, into a hallway with a branch to the right and another leading straight ahead. To the right, he guessed, he would find the pastor's office, perhaps the choir dressing room. Ahead, the sanctuary.
He swallowed hard and headed toward the worship hall, feeling more and more that the silent darkness beyond his light must conceal some terrible threat; something far more menacing than a mere mad priest or grotesque caretaker. He switched on his light briefly, and saw the door to the sanctuary a short distance ahead. It was deadbolted from this side. When he drew the bolt back, a startlingly loud click echoed through he vast space on the other side of the door, prompting him to freeze. After a few moments, satisfied no one was coming to investigate, he slowly pulled the door open, staying behind it to keep from presenting himself as a target. Then he peered inside, slowly moving from behind the door and across the threshold.
The sight that met his eyes was a darkly familiar one: the high-ceilinged chamber, unlit chandeliers hanging from the lofty vaults above; stained glass windows, illuminated from the other side by streetlights, that projected ghostly, surrealistic shapes over the velvet-upholstered pews. From where he stood, he could see another source of illumination from the area of the pulpit and altar to his right. Moving farther inside, he saw that a miniature sun atop the altar burned like a crimson ember. The icon of the Church of the Seven Stars.
This one, so much larger than the one he'd seen downstairs, burned with a correspondingly brighter fire. The entire altar blazed with a blood-red glow, a living island of light. He thought he heard a very faint, high-pitched whine coming from the star, but with the pounding of his heart in his ears, he couldn't be sure.
Now, a new and disquieting impression struck him so powerfully that he was forced to accept it as undeniable:
Though he could see no one or nothing else moving, he knew he was not the only living presence in the vast, eerily-lit chamber.

Chapter 43

Claire shook herself, trying to clear the haze from her brain; her mind could scarcely accept the evidence of her eyes, the sight of the giant thing hovering over the dais where she lay. That it was alive she could not doubt. That it could be anything akin to human she could not believe. When he had come to collect her, Nyle had punctured her side with one of his long nails. She had then lost consciousness; somehow, he must have injected a venom into her system to render her immobile. Had it ravaged her mind as well?
The thing that had called itself John Hanger now floated several feet above the floor, a gigantic, swollen mass of flesh and sinew draped in black cloth. His head grew out of a misshapen trunk, his two arms hanging at his sides as if suspended by invisible wires. But it was the face that most horrified her. The eyes, spaced widely apart beneath a bony brow, burned with gold and crimson fire, not unlike the star atop the Church's steeple. A broad, bear-like nose, darker than the surrounding pasty-white flesh, bisected the huge face, its gaping nostrils alive with translucent, undulating polyps. The lipless mouth split the lower half of the face, turning it into a leering jack-o'-lantern, exposing a double row of razor-sharp, glittering silver teeth.
The face began to draw nearer, lowering toward her own, the brilliant eyes staring fixedly at her, never blinking, studying her intently.
"Get the fuck away from me," Claire whispered.
The lower jaw dropped, and a low, silky voice flowed from the throat. "In the name of the Most Holy, I welcome you, Ms. Challis."
The mouth hadn't moved. The voice seemed to float from the jagged chasm as if the true speaker hid deep inside the huge body. One of the creature's hands appeared in front of her eyes, and she saw that each finger possessed an extra knuckle, its nails long and silver, like the teeth. One of the pointed tips brushed her throat, its touch sending a sickening, icy tremor through her body.
"As I consumed the fruit of your womb, so shall I consume you. As his wretched flesh was rent, so shall yours be rent and transformed to please the Most Holy."
"Jesus God," Claire whispered. "You killed my baby."
The wide face leered. "That which was yours is now mine. The child's screams ring deep within this body. As you shall scream, so beautifully, in a blessed reunion of flesh with flesh and spirit with spirit."
With a disgusted hiss, Claire turned her face from his, her eyes taking in her surroundings — the lair of the spider that had ensnared her. She lay within a large chamber of stone, lit by numerous tall candelabra whose flames sent flickering worms of light among the stalactites overhead. Far to her right, she saw a shadowy, multi-limbed figure that for one disturbing moment she took to be alive—until she realized it was a stone sculpture, not unlike the figurine that had been sent to her, only monumental in scale, the illusion of movement lent by the dancing candlelight. The object stood easily thirty feet high, reaching into the unseen recesses above, its cylindrical shaft sprouting a multitude of arthropodal appendages. Other half-seen figures hid in the shadows along the walls: more weird, otherworldly sculptures, seen only indistinctly, but apparently representing deities from any number of long-forgotten cultures. Truly, this chamber hearkened back to a time and place where men thought very differently than today, when a strong belief in mystical beings and spirits pervaded entire civilizations; when kings used such icons to inspire their people to fear and reverence.
Closer at hand, pulsing with crimson light, the symbol of the obscene Church blazed angrily from a tall pedestal, seeming to float in mid-air over a stone altar. The altar was stained dark with frozen, black streams that poured down its rough sides.
The hideous face of John Hanger drew shockingly close to hers. "Behold, my temple. The true Church of the Seven Stars. Does it inspire horror, my lady? Yes? I excite you to horror, do I not? When I partake of your flesh, your spirit will be savaged by that Most Holy of all Horrors, who in turn shall grant me the power I have sought for eons: to become as the inhabitants of the spheres beyond sound —mighty and immortal. You see, when the Heavens were forged, the dross was cast out, deposited into the farthest reaches of time and space, into dimensions all but unreachable to Earth's diminutive inhabitants. Yet those ancient powers remain, unseen and unknown, waiting to welcome their own—or to destroy the unworthy, those who seek them unprepared for the darkness of their reality. Such is the realm of my Lord Golgolith."
"You're insane. You're the Devil himself."
Hanger's brilliant eyes narrowed. "The Devil is but the pawn of that which you call God —that primal existence infinitely beyond your comprehension, whose nature and purpose have been reduced to pathetic human terms in your most sacred of writings. Those outside do howl at man's arrogance." The voice softened. "The Most Holy Golgolith originates at the hour of creation. Satan does not. He originates in the human mind, a mere label for the insignificant darkness within your own souls. True darkness lies out there, in those unglimpsed outer spheres." A silver nail came to rest on Claire's breastbone. "The darkness within these mortal shells, that which so mortifies your kind, is but a pale shadow of the Most Holy of all Horrors.
"Tonight, Ms. Challis, you will awaken and meet the true darkness. And tonight, I shall break free from this pitiful shell and soar into those infernal spheres beyond sound where I shall join with Golgolith: He who granted me everlasting life. And I shall meet His brothers, His offspring, and their music will for the first time be heard throughout the universe, loud, beautiful, and devastating."
Claire could only gape at the horrific figure, her mind rebelling at its every word yet unable to deny the revelations it spoke. "What the hell are you?" she whispered.
Hanger gazed at her almost tenderly. "Once, I was as you. A mere mortal man, who ate and drank and slept and loved and hated like every other man. But in dreams I heard the voice of something I didn't understand; always there, always beckoning me. It spoke to me, told me how it would one day bring together its scattered kin and consume all of creation. And I listened. It told me to put down your God's chosen people. So I met the wizard Balaam, who taught me the truth of the Old Ones, and I bargained with him to destroy the accursed Hebrews. Then, traitor that he was, Balaam blessed them and set them upon me, whereupon I was cast from Moab —my own land. I, the king! And then seeing my plight, my Lord Golgolith revealed Himself to me, and told me that if I ate the flesh and stole the souls of the cruel God's children, I would live forever. Changing—growing—until the day I was to meet Him. And then all those distant horrors would awaken: the blind, idiot god who bubbles at the center of infinity to the piping of demoniac flutes; the dreamer in sunken R'lyeh; the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young; the All-in-One and One-in-All.
"Tonight, my poor lady, traveling on the waves of the an-abzu-qip, I will cross the bridge to Golgolith, to the music of your screams. You and your friend shall be my final sacrifices to Him."
"I don't believe you," Claire said with as much bravado as she could muster. "You're nothing but a mutation. A freak. Like all the filthy company you keep."
From across the chamber, Claire heard Mike's voice, weak but defiant. "Every second, Hanger, the police are getting closer to you. Even if you kill us, you'll never escape. I know them, Hanger. They'll destroy you."
The creature uttered a low chuckle. "I have existed for centuries with no fear of the police, or of any government and its legions. For the past few days, your police have found themselves quite baffled. But even if they were to accept the truth they might find—which they will not—it would be too late. When the sun rises tomorrow, the skies will open, and when your people see what comes out of the abyss, they will know that a strange new order has begun. You and this young lady, and the police, all will be quite forgotten, I can assure you." He turned his gaze back to Claire. "And now, my fairest, the hour is upon us."
With arms outstretched, the floating figure backed away from her, and from the shadows, the tall priest and the grotesque humpback appeared, gliding smoothly toward her as if their feet never touched the floor. Lazar leaned over her, and lifting a small vial, dribbled its contents —a clear, viscous liquid —over her forehead. A numbing cold stung her flesh where the liquid touched.
"I anoint thee in the name of our Lord Golgolith," intoned the priest in a low, mellifluous voice. "May the flesh and spirit of this body serve its appointed purpose and please the Most Holy as an offering of its most obedient servants." He then bowed his head, stepping away from her. In his more familiar, coarse voice, he barked, "Nyle!"
The humpback shambled forward, reaching for her with his long, gnarled arms. He effortlessly scooped her from the dais, swung her around and carried her to the central altar; she involuntarily struggled against his repulsive grip, though knowing she stood no chance against his strength. He then laid her upon the stone with deliberate gentleness, as if even this beast were deathly afraid of his master's wrath should he so much as bruise her.
She tried to lift herself from the altar, but her limbs remained half-paralyzed, still languid from whatever poison the beast had injected into her. Her mind had finally come sharply into focus, making her inability to move all the more agonizing. But if the toxin's effect on her senses were beginning to diminish, might it not shortly release her muscles as well? She relaxed for a moment and concentrated, tried to move her fingers back and forth. They only wriggled slightly; yet a warmth seemed to be building within her, a wave of her natural energy waiting to be unleashed through her body.
But then, Nyle reappeared, this time carrying a length of long, wiry-looking rope draped over one shoulder. Reaching for her with one hand, he took hold of the back of her neck, raising her up slightly. "No!" she groaned, only to find the creased face of Lazar now glaring coldly at her. He grasped her arms and held them steady while Nyle then rolled her face down upon the bloody rock, applying pressure on her back to keep her from moving, as if anticipating the return of her strength. A second later, she felt her arms being pulled back and the coarse rope encircling her wrists.
"Bastards!" Mike spat. "Leave her alone."
"The effects of Nyle's venom are very short-lived," Lazar explained in a matter-of-fact tone. "In a few minutes, all traces will have vanished from your system, and your body will again be strong and pure for its consummation. Your senses will be thoroughly invigorated that you may experience every nuance of the ritual fully and completely."
Her ankles were then similarly bound; only then did she feel the tremendous rush of energy that accompanied the purging of the venom. She writhed once violently and lashed out with her legs, which made solid contact with Nyle's leathery chest; the blow, however, did not so much as sway him.
A gradual brightening in the chamber drew her attention toward the star behind the altar, which had begun to pulse a brilliant crimson, coating the rock walls with a liquid, blood-red hue. Nyle and the priest moved to stand before their sacred symbol, and from behind her, the silky voice of the floating monster said, "The time has come. Let those whose faith in our Lord Golgolith endures forever assemble in the sacred formation, and let our rites be pleasing to the Most Holy. Let those in attendance be purified in His name, and to Him offer that which is most precious.
"To he who tends our sacred Church in direct obedience to Him, I put the question: what is your secret name?"
Lazar responded, chanting: "Jerovaim. The name you ask is Jerovaim."
"To he who performs all services without, so that blood may be offered to Him, I put the question: what is your secret name?"
The hunchback's head lifted, the gnarled jaw dropped, and from his throat, a grating noise came: "H'ychnyarlhoka'im."
A long silence followed. Finally, a low hum rose through the chamber — issued, Claire soon realized, from the throats of the three servants of Golgolith. As the pitch increased, the star's inner fire grew progressively more brilliant. When the three voices abruptly fell silent, the star was blazing like a tiny sun, so that Claire could no longer even look at it. But instead of heating the air in the chamber, the blaze seemed to draw any ambient warmth into itself, even from Claire's own body, for the temperature began to rapidly fall, until the stone beneath her felt like a block of ice.
She barely noticed when a coarse whisper drifted to her ears: "Prepare yourself. The time of your eternal suffering is at hand."

Chapter 44

Lazar felt it; something had happened on the surface, something that caused him considerable discomfort. He'd sensed a similar event earlier, when the policewoman had been inside the parsonage. It had taken some time to identify, for no such thing had ever occurred in his experience. Then he realized that there had been a disruption in the waves from the transonifier, the carrier signal that extended into the dimension of Golgolith. The policewoman had interfered with the device. Sharp quills of fear had stabbed his spine, for Balak would also be aware. Lazar had taken every precaution; the woman must have been able to pick the lock to the room. It would have been impossible to conceal the object elsewhere, however —the star had to be in its proper position for the summoning to occur as scheduled. And somehow, she had been sensitive to its vibrations; quite rare for a human. Lazar could now only hope that the woman had passed off her experience as an aberration and pursued no further investigation of the parsonage.
But as he stood within the triad, he felt Balak's fury, his lack of focus on the ritual; for now, something else was happening above, something potentially disastrous. If anything went awry during the opening of the pathway for Golgolith, Lazar's life—his very soul—was forfeit. Indeed, he would share eternal torment along with the two offerings in the belly of Golgolith. It was the most ghastly, most terrifying prospect imaginable, and he could now only hope that the ceremony proceeded quickly, without incident, so that Balak's spirit would fly across the gulf to merge with that of the Most Holy, and in turn offer Lazar the reward of eternal life that he so richly deserved. For the first time in his life, Lazar considered the possibility of his own damnation, and it nearly stole the strength from his legs.
My faith is steadfast, my loyalty unwavering, he swore to himself. It bolstered his confidence slightly, but he knew Balak had empathetically sensed his consternation, and his anger had been aroused. Even if the ritual succeeded and with the next dawn the new order came to pass, he, Lazar, might have fallen from favor. Bitter bile rose in his throat, burning like fire into his sinuses.
Now, the an-abzu-qip behind the altar blazed like a true sun, indicating that Golgolith was close at hand, and deeply aware of all that had come to pass. The Most Holy would soon be ready to merge with their spirits as the offerings were consumed. Lazar waited impatiently for Balak to commence the final rites, yet he seemed to be purposefully stalling, as if to torment Lazar further. Surely he knew that Lazar's failure was his own failure, and the sooner the ceremony was successfully completed, the sooner he would fulfill his eons-old desire.
But again, something twisted in Lazar's gut and the flame of the transonifier dimmed briefly. There was definitely trouble within the Church building. He'd stationed a defensive emissary —one of the Hounds — in the sanctuary in case of an emergency; with the police so close at hand, it would not have done to put human guards in place. The single entity topside ought to be adequate protection. But should circumstances become critical, his only recourse would be to have Nyle summon a Guardian—perhaps second Hound —and send it to destroy the intruders. That would mean an interruption that would spell disaster for Lazar.
He saw Nyle's single eye turn to glare hatefully at him. He knew, as well.
On the altar, Claire Challis lifted her head, turning her terrified eyes to him, as if she thought that he, in his humanity, might have pity upon her. If she knew how truly inhuman he had become in his near-century of existence, she would be just as horrified of him as of Nyle or Balak himself. He could never help her.
The music of the transonifier blazed in his ears, a stunning chorale of distant voices, echoing from the realm that Maurice Zann called the Spheres Beyond Sound. They beckoned him longingly, awaiting the transmutation of his own spirit. Zann himself lurked somewhere in that other realm; Lazar prayed fervently that tonight, he would be able to learn the true fate of his mentor. Until only a few minutes ago, he'd never doubted that the event would come to pass.
But now, Balak's bulging, unblinking eyes turned to him, radiating waves of potent venom. Only moments remained before the would King utter the final phrases that would bring the avatar of Golgolith into their presence; then the feeding would begin. At the very least, Balak would deny him his portion of the offering. He prayed the retribution would stop there.Then, with a furious snarl, Nyle bared his silver teeth, taking a threatening step toward Lazar. A perceptible quaver in the rhythm of the an-abzu-qip followed, as somewhere, the integrity of one of the "relays" was breached. This was unthinkable. The wrath of Golgolith might come upon all of them. Nyle would now have to call up a Guardian to destroy the outsiders, whoever they were.
With animalistic rage, the half-human broke from his place, moving to stand before the giant icon of Golgolith in the center of the chamber. He glanced back at Lazar once, his good eye transmitting pure hatred; he then uttered a few hoarse words of greeting to the Guardian, bidding it appear to destroy the intruders above.
Lazar heard the words, "la, g'han kyaa es kharou. G'han es kharou!" His heart rose to this throat and he suddenly turned and hurtled toward Nyle, shouting, "No! Not that one! Not that one!"

Chapter 45

Trotter cautiously moved around the balustrade surrounding the altar, gun clutched fiercely in trembling hands, his trigger finger itching. Stepping up toward the pulpit, he saw the copy of The Spheres Beyond Sound open on its stand; the very sight of it seemed to fill him with an inexplicable revulsion. Everything about this place seemed tainted with a cool, reptilian stench, as if those who had gathered to worship here were not even human. Gazing around the sanctuary, he still could see no sign of any other presence, yet his instincts still screamed at him to beware.
Turning back to the altar, he slowly approached the blazing star and reached for it, again tentatively, still afraid that its brilliant red surface might be fiery hot. But as with its smaller brother, this one was frigid to the touch, and indeed seemed to leech the heat from his own body. Suddenly, urged by a flash of either inspiration or panic, he lifted the freezing thing in his hands, shocked by how little it weighed — seemingly no more than the smaller one he'd handled downstairs.
Then, an icy wind blew over him, and as if gripped by incredibly strong hands, he was thrown backwards, against the wooden banister, so that he almost dropped the star. Feeling a sharp sting in his left bicep, he looked around, and to his shock saw that his coat sleeve was ripped and a jagged red streak had ruined his shirt underneath. A thin streamer of blood poured down his arm; if not for the extra layers of clothing, the gash in his arm would have been deep and debilitating.
Something was in here with him.
"Holy Mother of God," he whispered, gaping unbelievingly at the object in his hands. "You son of a bitch."
Another blast of wind rocked him, and his eyes vaguely registered a shadow passing over the altar, as if a huge bird had flown overhead in front of the sun. But there was no sun in here, no light from above whatsoever. He had wondered if he'd find any guards inside the church. Indeed he had! But what kind of guard?
He was struck again, this time directly in the chest, and felt the very real, steely grip of something with huge, barbed claws wide enough to encircle his torso. He was pulled off his feet, and this time, the star tumbled from his hands and rolled unevenly back toward the altar. The invisible attacker dragged Trotter over the banister and pitched him to the floor, the impact pounding the breath from his lungs. Again, his heavy clothing had saved him, but now a trio of rips in his coat leaked thin streams of blood; he felt no pain—yet—other than the winding from his fall.
"God damn!" he uttered hoarsely, peering at the vast hall with terror-widened eyes. Beneath his feet, something rumbled and boomed angrily.
He forced himself to his feet and vaulted the banister, intent now only on destroying the blazing star. He reached it just as something took hold of the back of his overcoat and tugged, ripping away a large patch of fabric and few shreds of skin. He felt himself being dragged backwards, but now he had one arm of the star in a firm grip. Grasping the object with both hands, he raised it above his head and—just as his feet left the ground—hurled it at the altar. It flew like a meteor, trailing crimson fire, striking the edge of the banister with the sound of a bullet smashing into plate glass. The arms of the star flew in all directions, each leaving its own spiraling trail of light, scrawling insane signatures into the surrounding darkness. Then, with a muffled, fiery blast, the core, as well as the shattered fragments, went up in smoke, leaving the scorched odor of ozone in the musty air, as if something living had been roasted.
The talons released him and he fell onto the first pew, his legs striking the velvet cushions, his spine hitting the wooden back with an ugly cracking sound. He pitched forward, falling onto his face, sharp pain ripping down his backbone to his hips and into his legs. For a moment, he thought his back must be broken, until a surge of panic and disbelief actually sent him scrambling to his knees. A long streak of blood ran down the back of the pew where he'd hit. He knelt there for a full minute, exploring the various points of pain throughout his body, wondering what kind of internal injuries he might have suffered.
As his breath finally returned to him, he realized the sharpest pain was in his left side at the base of his rib cage. Maybe a broken rib or two. But his spine was intact, that much he knew. He could still move all his limbs, his neck, his fingers and toes. Nothing fatal or paralyzing—not yet, at least. He waited, afraid another attack might follow at any moment. He heard and saw nothing now; not so much as a flicker of shadow. And the presence he'd sensed before was gone. He was truly alone now.
Trotter felt a moment of intense exhilaration. It was wonderful! Almost as if he'd smashed the heart of his enemy, dealing him a mortal blow. No, that was too much to hope for; but he could not help but believe he'd struck a crucial nerve. He drew his gun again and, summoning all his strength, rose shakily to his feet, taking a position behind the door through which he'd entered. At any moment he expected to hear the sound of onrushing footsteps.
They did not come. What he did hear was a shrill, ringing screech, as of an animal in pain, diminishing with distance. Then, a hollow, thunderous boom from deep beneath his feet. The chandeliers overhead swayed slightly as even the walls seemed to shudder.
The next thing to happen surprised him so that he cried aloud. He felt a sharp pulse against his right hip —a soundless buzz, like an insect crawling on his flesh: his beeper. One of the detectives was calling him from the cars.
He staggered to the doors leading outside, holding his aching side, his gun still clutched in his other hand. As he passed through the doors into the narthex, he noticed yet another, smaller glowing star. He ignored it for the moment, focusing now only on getting out of the building. He pushed through the doors and stumbled down the stairs to the sidewalk.
A single figure appeared from between the parked cars and rushed toward him. He raised his gun to defend himself, only to realize a second later that it was Detective Hanley. A short distance away, a car door slammed, and a second later he saw Patterson's husky figure making a beeline toward him.
"There's something ... oh, oh, oh my God," Hanley stammered. "Lieutenant, what happened?"
"I have absolutely no idea," he groaned, doubling over as a sharp jab in his abdomen stole his breath. After a moment, the wave of pain subsided, allowing him to stand upright again. "What's happening out here?"
"Up there," Patterson said, pointing upward. "Up on the steeple!” Trotter craned his neck, gazed skyward. Atop the towering spire, like a pulsating beacon, the crimson star blazed brilliant white, then softened to bloody red. A low thrumming sound emanated from above, its modulation strangely uneven—almost the cadence of speech, he thought.
"What the hell is going on?" Hanley asked, her eyes bulging as she saw the blood on Trotter's coat. "What did you come up against?"
"The hounds of hell, if I'm not mistaken," he said. He ignored the incredulous look the detective gave him. His eyes locked on the star casting its light over the entire neighborhood, his concentration captured by its rhythmic pulsating.
Then, from within the Church, there came a deep, inhuman moaning, yet with the distinctive aural quality of something alive. The noise reverberated through the open doors, gushing over the witnesses with the sound of violent ocean breakers. And from even deeper within came the first horrid poundings, a huge fist striking in anger against the very foundations of the old Church—seemingly drawing nearer with each violent impact.
"God damn, Lieutenant," muttered Patterson. "What is that? What the hell do we do?"
Virtually numb now, Trotter lifted his gun toward the sky. "The star/' he said. "Shoot the star out!."

Chapter 46

Lazar realized immediately that Nyle had sealed their fate. Somehow, the Guardian in the Church building had been expelled; the an-abzu-qip which bound it to this dimension must have been removed or destroyed, a fact that spelled disaster for the entire ritual. Each and every link in the transonifier network had to be intact and properly positioned or the bridge to Golgolith could not be completed. And now, Nyle was calling up the Sultan Tuskachimaqqua: the Guardian who herded souls on the far side of death. If it were brought into the dimension of the living, nothing and no one could control its blind fury.
Lazar looked from Nyle to Balak, finding nothing but rage crackling in the air between them; even the ancient king appeared aghast at the half-human's insane act. Nyle should have directed one of the lesser Guardians to materialize within the Church to protect the transonifiers; why should he summon such a monstrous entity, one that might very well destroy them all?
Lazar made his decision. He threw himself at the hunchback, certain that the creature had gone utterly mad. Nyle shrugged off his attacker without so much as wavering, and his single gaping eye fell on Lazar with unconcealed malice. One long, gnarled arm rose and swatted Lazar in the face. He fell backwards, tasting coppery blood, landing with a heavy thud on his bony backside. His ancient muscles refused his attempt to regain his footing. With a groan, he rolled onto his stomach, looking toward Balak in desperate supplication.
The huge figure left his place at the side of the wide-eyed sacrificial lamb and floated toward him, arms rising to point accusingly at him. Lazar drew back, hideously aware that he had failed in his duty; Balak's vengeance would surely be swift. The fiery eyes in the huge deathmask glared terribly at him, the wide mouth opening to expose the silver spikes within. The low voice said with inconsonant gentleness, "Disciple Jerovaim, arise. To your feet!"
Awkwardly, painfully, Lazar managed to get as far as his knees, still supporting his weight on his palms. He glanced at Nyle, who stood as erect as his humped spine would allow, chanting softly in front of the effigy of Golgolith. Deep booming sounds began to rumble from some great distance. Tuskachimaqqua was on its way.
"To your feet, my friend," said the soft voice of Balak.
Lazar was able to struggle to a standing position, his eyes darting back and forth between Nyle and the king. The huge, airborne figure drifted toward him, lowering so that the face hovered just above his. Lazar barely managed to rasp, "My king, allow me to stop this madness." He raised an arm to point at Nyle.
"Nyle knows that in the event of a breach, drastic measures are to be taken. He is performing his duty most admirably. I must ask how it is that my rite of passage has been spoiled?"
"I do not know," he said, voice quavering. "Every precaution was taken."
"Apparently it was not. Humans will always fail, and you, my friend, are all too human. You disappoint me."
A heavy thumping sound echoed from the far end of the vast chamber. The young woman bound at the altar raised her head, her eyes bright with panic. "Mike!" she cried, "Get up! Get up now!"
Selby was still mostly paralyzed by the venomous spell Balak himself had cast upon him. The young man could do no more than raise his upper body slightly from the stone dais.
Balak's eyes narrowed. "Brother Jerovaim. Your reward is at hand."
"O great king, I beseech thee, do not allow it," Lazar whispered, trying to maintain a steady voice. "I have served thee well. Offer me another chance to serve thy majesty."
"Service that denies the destiny I have sought for so long is service I desire not. Your time is short, my friend. How will you go to your fate? With honor? Or would you beg for mercy?"
Lazar could not stand the mocking gleam in those terrible eyes. He bowed his head. "How may I regain your favor, lord? I will offer you all that is mine."
"All that is yours is already mine. What more might you offer?"
"Souls of the innocent. I will bring all you desire and more. Allow me this chance ... please."
Balak's eyes swiveled to the bound woman. As soon as Claire Challis's eyes met his, she turned her head away with a small moan. "I will attend to you yet, my lamb," he said softly. Then, looking back at Lazar: "The souls you have brought me have been of excellent vintage. I applaud your taste. However, I shall look forward to tasting the stock of a new acolyte."
The thunderous sounds now shook the walls, and little flecks of grit began raining from the ceiling. Nyle remained frozen where he stood, all his energy focused on the summoning of the Sultan. Lazar again turned and hurled himself at the creature, hoping to break his concentration and at least delay the inevitable. Nyle staggered but immediately regained his balance. The half-human was immensely powerful; Lazar stood no chance against him. And reasoning with the creature was absolutely out of the question. He might as well beg mercy from a stone.
Nevertheless, he struck Nyle repeatedly across his leathery face until his hands ached. "Please, my friend," Lazar moaned, "think of what you are doing!"
Nyle ignored him, but for a moment, the deep pounding ceased as the summoning was interrupted. Lazar renewed his efforts, using his body as a bludgeon, attempting to draw Nyle's concentration completely from his task. Behind him, Lazar heard a soft laugh from the passively observing king.
Then, from the altar, a small voice chirped, "Mr. Lazar!" He turned to find Claire Challis's eyes pleading at him. "Help us ... please."
He turned his back on her, sickened by her look of weakness — afraid that his face wore the same, pathetic expression of hopelessness. Her interference had allowed Nyle to resume his invocation; the entity was now very close at hand. Abandoning his attempt to sway the half-human, he turned back to Balak, offering him a stony stare of weary resolve.
"Is there nothing I can do to save myself?"
Balak's monstrous head swung slowly back and forth. "No. There is not."
Lazar nodded, forcing from his mind the image of the onrushing horror and where it would be takinghim. Should not Balak himself fear the deadly avatar? Surely, even the slightest of those from the other side was infinitely greater than even a human blessed with the gift of Golgolith. And the Sultan Tuskachimaqqua was in no measure slight. But Balak merely hovered unconcernedly above the stone floor, eyes staring unwaveringly toward the shadows behind the altar. Lazar decided to hazard a question. After all, he no longer had anything to lose.
"King Balak ... I wonder. Will not the Sultan loose his fury upon you as well?"
"There is one protection still offered me," Balak said smoothly. "I will not share your fate."
Then, just beyond the altar, a pale haze swirled across the face of the stone wall, and the thundering sounds formed the suggestion of half-intelligible syllables. It was here! Lazar suddenly felt his stomach lurch with nausea, a sensation unknown to him for what seemed like a lifetime. His nerve broke, and he began backing away as the hazy glow intensified, beginning to assume a definite shape.
"Balak, please. Help me."
"My friend, you opportunity has come and gone. Before the ritual, you might have easily secured yourself within these unreachable spaces. It was necessary only to prevent the outsiders from interfering. Yet you played your conceited games with them; is that not so? So determined you were to prove your intellectual superiority. You played games with them!"
"No," Lazar whispered, but he knew that Balak was right. He had arrogantly engaged Trotter and his people, confident his wisdom and experience would easily best them. He had failed. "I acted only for your glory," he managed, forcing back a sob. "For you!"
The king did not answer him.
"Oh, no," he groaned. His voice failed him then. The thing materializing in the chamber drifted slowly toward him, its features gradually forming out of the insubstantial haze. A tall, skeletal body took shape and solidified, sapling-thin, it seemed, but nearly as tall as the ceiling. It took one step forward on pair of spindly legs ending in sharp, bony hooves. Smoke curled from the stone where they made contact. The tiny arms bent backwards, like the wings of a bird stripped of its feathers. And its head —a huge, beaked thing with two, brilliant red eyes under a horned brow — swung slowly back and forth on a long, slender neck as if scenting its prey. The beast's black skin glistened like wet leather, limned with red highlights from the blazing an-abzu-qip above the altar. Its lower jaw fell open to expose multiple rows of stiletto-like teeth—silver, like Balak's.
As the beast advanced toward Lazar, Nyle's eye ignited and focused on him as well. The priest's remaining nerve split asunder and he turned to run, heading for the dark opening that led into the subterranean labyrinth. Adrenaline burned in his blood as it had not in over sixty years, charging his muscles with an energy he would have believed impossible. His initial burst of speed was actually exhilarating, as if he were an animal freed from bondage, leaping with single-minded determination toward the safety of the dark arch looming ahead of him. If only he could regain the surface, perhaps the horror stalking after him would redirect its deadly intent upon the inhabitants of the hall of Balak.
But as he fled into the darkness of the passage, his hope evaporated with one glance back at his pursuer. The tall, spindly horror closed on him with incredible speed, and as it reached the low tunnel entrance, it bent forward and strode on without slowing its pace. A scream worked its way up from Lazar's lungs, and he tried to coax even more speed from his aged legs. A scorching wind washed over his back, and he heard a low rumbling growl that rose into shrill, trumpeting screech.
"Please!" he cried. "I was loyal to you! I was loyal!"
A long, dark expanse of tunnel faced him, which he realized led to a narrow stairwell that the demon could not possibly negotiate. It was simply too large! If he could only maintain his lead for the next fifty yards, he might yet make it to safety.
But then, from above, he heard a metallic clatter, and chancing a look up, he detected a glint of light as something there began to move. At first he thought perhaps it was the Conqueror Worm. It would not harm him. But no....
Balak had activated his one mechanical means of defense.
"No!" Lazar screamed. "No! Please!” The long-unused, iron-latticed portcullis crashed down directly in front of him, its spiked ends smashing into the floor, spraying sharp stone fragments into Lazar's face. Unable to stop himself, he slammed into the metal bars — and suddenly felt a white-hot stab of agony in both shoulders and in his abdomen, for each bar of the portcullis bristled with two-inch long spikes, several of which had pierced his flesh and muscle, pinning him to the bars. He cried out in shock and pain, vainly attempting to tug himself free.
Something moved on the other side of the portcullis. Within the darkness, a pale-faced figure appeared: the choir director, Peter Cicero, dressed in his ceremonial robe. He had been the one who had tripped the portcullis! But Lazar lifted a hand to him, crying out, "Peter, please ... help me!"
The man's eyes gazed coolly into Lazar's, and he said softly, "My loyalty, sir, is to the Most Holy." Then his eyes widened in horror as they focused on something behind Lazar. With a visible shudder, he turned and quickly disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.
"Peter, wait!"
A deep rumble behind him turned his attention from the retreating figure and the pain of the impaling spikes; craning his head back, he saw the Sultan Tuskachimaqqua regarding him with bright, malevolent eyes, its huge beak slightly open and dribbling smoke. The head, easily as long as Lazar's body, rose slowly toward him, and he saw his own terrified face reflected in its fiery eyes, each as large as a human skull.
"No! Get away! Get away from me!"
Very slowly, with deliberation, the beak homed in on Lazar's right wrist. And before his disbelieving eyes, the beak closed around his forearm and clamped down with a horrid crunching sound, jerking backward and taking the entire lower portion of his arm with it. He shrieked in horror — the pain did not yet register —and thrashed wildly, vainly trying to break the grip of the spikes. A fountain of blood erupted from the stub of his forearm, spraying the black beak of the crouching demon.
"God! God help me! Help me!" he cried, for the first time ever invoking the name of his enemy in supplication. The beast's head again drew back like a coiling snake, then lunged forward, inflamed by bloodlust. The beak bit into his right bicep, then tugged, and this time, Lazar felt keen agony as the remaining part of his arm was jerked from its socket. He could not stop the shrill scream that erupted from his lungs, nor the blood that jetted from the torn arteries in his shoulder. The pain of the spikes remaining in his body meant nothing now; mere pinpricks in his tortured flesh. Burning tears poured from his eyes, as for the first time in almost a century, he remembered his childhood, his mother and father....
"No ... no ... no...." he cried, suddenly regretting his every decision to become a part of that order that had promised him such a very different destiny. How could it have come to this?
He could feel the heat wavering from the demon-flesh once again closing in behind him. Suddenly, a new, intense pain flared in his left leg, and glancing down, he saw the great beak tear a piece of his calf away, swallowing with an audible gulp. His muscles had begun to quiver uncontrollably with the shock of his body's ruination. His left arm jerked in a violent spasm—and the beak flashed toward it, like a shark going for its prey, and plucked it from Lazar's body with a wet tearing sound.
The weight of his body now finally pulled him loose from the spikes, and his armless torso slipped heavily to the blood-splattered floor. His head struck the stone with a blinding crash, and he felt blood pouring down his face, into his gaping mouth. He choked, spitting a mouthful of his life's most vital fluid onto the filthy floor.
He was dead now. He accepted it, prayed for it. Why hadn't he lost consciousness yet? Why had not the cool, black fingers of sleep taken him away from this hideous suffering?
The beast crouched over him, and the swaying beak drew back slowly, smoke billowing from its throat. Lazar felt the furnace-like heat of its breath, watched in abject terror as the lower jaw spread, exposing its long, wedge-shaped teeth from which pink shreds of meat—pieces of his own body—hung like tattered cloth. As if in slow-motion, the widening jaws grew in his field of vision, closing in on his head with dreadful precision. Lazar realized what was about to happen and screamed —the shrill, high-pitched squeal of a little girl —and felt the hot, wet touch of the demon's tongue on his cheek. A sudden pressure against his temples followed, then a jab of pain at his collarbone as the teeth penetrated his flesh. A roaring began in his ears and his vision blurred into a red haze as his eyeballs bulged in their sockets. He actually saw one of them pop out, trailing a string}7 optical nerve before everything went completely black and the pain lost its focus, becoming a single, all-consuming entity that greedily howled his name.
He was dead. Why didn't the pain go away?
I'm dead! Give me peace! Please ... don't do this to me!
Suddenly, perceived by some sense that might have been auditory, a chorus of ghastly wails surrounded him—the voices of children, in horrible, hopeless agony — swirling and dancing around him, every note creating a new dimension of pain, lancing unidentifiable new senses so deeply and intimately that coherent thought was no longer possible. All he knew was pain, and his voice—his spirit—joined in the eternal choir, to howl forever in the belly of the one he had so loyally served all the years of his life.

Chapter 47

The screams that rang through the great hall were shrill and piercing, even though they came from a vast distance down the dark passageway. And when they stopped, it was with a choked gurgle, followed by a distinct crunching sound that sent shivers down Claire's bare spine. A series of loud, metallic crashes echoed through the chamber before all fell silent.
The bloodstained stone beneath her was drenched with her sweat, and the hot rivulets streaming down her forehead stung her eyes, blurring her vision. But she'd been able to see the thing that materialized out of the wall well enough, and when it stalked off in pursuit of the priest, she'd barely been able to contain her own screams.
Mike lay on his back off to her left, just beyond her range of vision. Nyle seemed frozen in place, his hideous body glistening with oily sweat. The mammoth, black-robed figure that hovered several feet above the ground had watched the flight of the priest with seemingly detached curiosity. But when he turned and gazed down at her, madness burned in the bright red eyes, and his spike-studded, Iipless mouth slavered profusely, like rabid dog's. He silently lowered himself before her, reaching out to touch her cheek with talon-like fingers.
"Thus be to all who fail in their service," said the deep voice, with restrained fury. Now that Lazar was gone, Claire was afraid this inhuman behemoth would explode into a murderous rage, its carefully-wrought designs having now been wrecked. If only some divine intervention would spare her the end this bloated monster had prepared for her!
She tugged at the cords that secured her wrists. No slack whatsoever. Her breasts and abdomen were sore, with all her weight placed on her front side against the hard rock; she rolled sideways, trying to escape the touch of the unnaturally long digits.
"Behold," Balak said softly. "Tuskachimaqqua will have its prize tonight."
A moment later, with a deep thudding sound, the stilt-legged horror strode into view from the passage entrance, its head lowering and swaying from side to side, fiery eyes searching. They caught sight ofNyle a moment later, and with a screeching trill from its throat, the beast leaped toward the hunchback with jaw agape, spitting smoke.
Claire saw that several shreds of black cloth hung from the tip of the creature's beak.
Nyle stood his ground, merely bowing his head and uttering something that sounded like, "T'laawh, n'maad O g'naii!" The monster's hooves dug into the stone floor, and when its beak lunged at the hunchback, an invisible barrier seemed to deflect the blow. The head twisted and curled back to strike again, this time with a grating roar, so loud that Claire was momentarily deafened. Then, the demon sprayed a cloud of black smoke from its jaws, and Nyle suddenly fell to the floor, his single eye widening in what Claire assumed was fear. The half-human scrambled back to his feet and again assumed his erect stance, mumbling something that Claire couldn't hear, Then he began to hum loudly; a prolonged, quavering note.
"Interesting," Balak said, his attention no longer on his captive. "This one is well beyond even Nyle's control. I expect you will enjoy this."
Nyle and the towering creature now faced each other like stone statues, Nyle's voice rising to a shriek. At last, the demon's bird-like head rose, and its jaw dropped as its loosed a long, shrill note of its own. The two tones pealed in shattering dissonance, rising in volume until she thought her eardrums would burst. Nyle's face never changed its expression, his single good eye gazing at his opponent with anger —as well as what appeared to be respect. His face remained impassive, even when blackish blood began pouring from his ears, trickling down his shoulders to drip to the floor in steaming globs. She saw his fingers tremble slightly; then his bulging eye rolled upward, and his head suddenly came apart—like a cantaloupe smashed by an invisible sledgehammer—with a loud blurrp. Ivory shards of bone and pinkish tissue blew across the hall, some splattering the huge floating figure. Fortunately for Claire, Balak's immense bulk caught the mess that would have otherwise rained over the altar —and her. But she could not suppress her cry of shock and disgust, and she turned her head away as Nyle's headless body collapsed onto the stone floor.
Suddenly, strong hands grasped her hair, twisting her head upward so that she was forced to see the fallen hunchback's body starting to cave in on itself, as if the skeleton and all the organs inside had turned to jelly. She clamped her eyes shut, but a pair of razor-like nails pressed into her neck behind her ears, and a calm voice said, "He was your nemesis. Rejoice in his destruction, as he would have rejoiced in yours." She opened her eyes again as the pressure from the nails increased.
The black body withered until only a shriveled husk remained, a pool of steaming, greenish-gray liquid spreading on the floor around it. The towering monstrosity rumbled deeply now, its eyes beginning to search once again. They fell momentarily on Mike's helpless body, but then refocused on Balak himself. As if in challenge, it screamed a harsh, grating chord. Balak rose high into the air, his hands beginning to shake jerkily at his sides, his neck arching backward as his lower jaw fell open. A deep rumble erupted from his throat, and the light from the glowing star behind him began to brighten in pulsating waves. Balak's voice rose to a howl, and the demon's long legs wobbled, sending it stumbling backwards. It screeched like a gigantic bird in the throes of death. But it was obviously far from dead, gathering itself to strike at the figure floating high above the altar.
Suddenly, the light from the an-abzu-qip was extinguished like a candle blown by a great wind. Darkness fell upon the altar, broken only by dim light from the candelabra along the walls of the chamber. Balak himself went rigid, and his eyes rolled around to gaze on the blackened star with an expression of disbelief.
The stilt-legged creature screamed in defiance, then, before Claire's astonished eyes, its body flared pure white, like a negative image caught in space; then, with a flicker, the thing vanished into the air. A loud boom reverberated through the hall, and a second later, the star's inner light returned, a dim, bloody crimson that glowed warmly and steadily, giving off a low, barely audible hum.
Balak stared for several seconds at his icon, then switched his gaze to Claire. The expression of hatred that overcame the vile features chilled her to the bone, and when he leaned toward her and opened his vast mouth to expose his silver teeth, she turned her eyes away, preparing herself for the attack that would strip the flesh from her bones.
But it did not come.
****
On the sidewalk in front of the Church, several shots rang out as the detectivesopened fire on the blazing star atop the steeple. Most of them missed; the range was too great for even a seasoned professional to accurately hit it with a handgun; but two of the slugs—from Trotter's gun—tore into the crystalline object, shattering it. A moment later, its remains erupted into brilliant fire with an icy splashing sound. The shards that came floating down trailed streaks of multi-colored light, then flashed out of existence before ever striking the ground.
"Goddamn right!" Patterson roared.
Suddenly, a clatter arose from the pair of doors to the right of the main entrance, and a figure wearing a red robe and black stole appeared, rushing blindly onto the sidewalk. Hanley was on him in an instant, yelling, "Police, freeze," her gun pointing straight into the man's frightened face. Patterson followed immediately, grabbing the character by the back of his robe and throwing him against the wall of the church. Trotter recognized the broad, bald-headed man as the choir leader.
As Hanley pressed the rotund man against the wall, Patterson pressed the muzzle of his gun into the soft flesh behind the man's ear and said, "Where are they?"
The man shook his head, clamping his jaws together. Hanley reached around, grabbed the man by the front of his robe, and twisted him so his terror-brightened eyes were directly in front of hers. His chubby face was chalky white, his lips bloodless. Trotter could see immediately that, whatever had scared him, it was not the guns trained on his head.
"Speak up, darling, I can't hear you," Hanley said. "What's going on in there?"
"You're better off not knowing," whispered the man.
"I'm placing you under arrest," Trotter said, "after you take me to the man and woman you've abducted. Think about it carefully." He lifted his gun barrel so it rested against the man's cheek.
"It'll kill us all," whispered the choir director in a quavering voice. "You don't know what's down there."
"You're going to show me. Give me any shit and I'll blow your face off. You think I'm joking?"
"He called it up. It will kill you. It will kill everyone.” Trotter jerked the man by the neck, turning him to face his anger. "What the hell is in that place?"
The man shook his head. "They'll all be dead. It'll kill them all."
"He's in shock, Lieutenant," Hanley said. "No telling what he saw."
Trotter asked "What's your name?" When he received no answer, his gun homed on the man's eyes. "Talk now, or so help me, you're a dead man."
Shakily, he said, "Cicero. Peter Cicero."
"Okay, Pete. Tell me something. The little boy that was abducted last Sunday. Is he still alive."
With a defiant shake of the head, the man whispered, "No."
"What about the two who were brought here tonight?"
"I doubt it. Probably not."
"Were they alive when you last saw them?"
"Yes."
"Then you're going to take me to them."
"No! You can arrest me. But I'm not going back in there."
Trotter pointed his gun straight into the man's gaping mouth and cocked it. Hanley and Curtis gasped in surprise; Patterson showed no reaction whatsoever. With icy calm, Trotter said, "Pete, if you don't take me in there, I won't be arresting you. Comprendez?"
After several moments, Cicero's face melted into an expression of resignation, and he nodded. Trotter pulled him away from the wall and said, "Curtis, go to the car and get some uniforms here. Now. Patterson, Hanley, you two come with me. Now, Pete. I want you to look up. Look at the steeple." The fat man obeyed, then gasped loudly. "That's right. We've made a slight alteration. That star's important, isn't it? What does it do?"
Cicero shrugged, lowering his head in defeat."I don't hear any more noises from in there. When we shot out the star, did that make whatever was in there go away?"
Again, a shrug.
"Well, you just lead the way and maybe we can make a bargain. If I get in and out of there with the people I'm looking for, then maybe you'll live till tomorrow. Sound all right?"
"If I go in there, I'm dead anyway."
"We'll see about that."
Dragging his prisoner by the collar, Trotter went to the doors and pulled them open, motioning for Patterson and Hanley to follow. He tried to ignore the jabbing pain in his left side, pleading with his body to hold out just a while longer. He willfully blinded himself to the drops of blood that gathered on the sidewalk wherever he stood for more than a few seconds..
"Wait," Trotter said. "Sheila, go grab us a couple of flashlights." She immediately trotted to her car to fulfill the order. "Patterson, I want you to help me with this guy."
The older man stepped forward, noticing the lieutenant's obvious pain. "Maybe you ought to stay here, Ingram. We'll go."
"No. Just help me keep this jackal in line, will you? We'll take the point. Hanley will bring up the rear."
A moment later, she returned with a pair of the long, heavy-duty flashlights that could be used as billy clubs in a desperate situation. Patterson cuffed Peter Cicero, then gave him a gentle push toward the door, keeping one hand firmly on his right bicep.
"Okay, let's go," Trotter said. Then, to Cicero: "Lead on, McDuff."
"I hope you haven't built any false hopes," said the gentle voice of Balak, his mouth inches from Claire's ear. "For these events will not alter your fate. They do, however," he said, uttering something like a sigh, "alter my own. Do you have any idea how many years I have waited for this night? Do you know how many more years I will have to wait for this chance again?"
From the long silence, it seemed he expected an answer. Claire tried to avert her eyes from his, without success.
"As many more years as I have already waited. And I trusted the priest. That fool! He would have been killed tonight anyway, you know. And what a surprise for him!
"But Golgolith will not be denied His offering. He yet waits, in His fury. Can you not hear Him?"
Claire shook her head.
"Of course you do not. If you did, you would go utterly mad. Now, my poor little lamb. There is no more time. I will have you."
Balak raised his arms toward the ceiling, closing his eyes as if offering a silent prayer. Then, leaning close to her again, he said, "I have enjoyed our little conversation. It is much more poignant when the feaster and the devoured have knowledge of one another."
Claire felt a steel talon lightly touch her back. She flinched as another slid slowly along her right calf, moving up to her thigh, over her buttocks, not quite heavily enough to break the skin. Then, five sharp rakes fell upon her shoulder, then caressed the curvature of her spine, again without breaking the skin. Balak obviously felt the tremors passing through her body; he pressed a hot palm into her lower back, just above her tailbone. Then, the other hand closed firmly around the back of her neck, its nails gouging her soft flesh with enough pressure to bring a slight trickle of blood.
Then, he leaned forward and she felt something hot and wet drip onto her right side, just below her rib cage.
The silvery teeth brushed her skin, then closed on her flesh, penetrated. Blood began to flow, and she could feel the slick tongue lapping it up. Pain zoomed up her back, through her neck, into her brain, and a scream rang from her lips.
She felt Balak's teeth closing upon her flesh again.

Chapter 48

Peter Cicero staggered on his way down the stairs, and only Patterson's firm grip kept him upright. Trotter's side and back throbbed furiously now, and his legs felt weak. But he knew he had to keep going, and indeed, he'd suffered worse injuries in the line of duty. The weight of the .38 in his hand reassured him, as if it were a life-affirming symbol rather than an instrument of death. But what lay waiting in the darkness ahead, he could scarcely guess.
An eerie silence had fallen over the Church since the last of the thunderous rumbles had died away. Cicero seemed perplexed by this fact, for he kept cocking his head uncertainly, as if expecting guidance from afar. Trotter's flashlight beam seemed weak and barely cut through the darkness of the corridors and stairways leading to the basement of the building.
Cicero led them through he basement hallway toward the room that Trotter had thought to have once been a social hall. Now, to his surprise, in the center of the floor, which had before appeared perfectly solid, a broad trap door hung open, a gaping wound from which gushed an almost tangible blackness. Cicero halted at the edge of the mouth and pointed into it.
"They're down there."
"Take us in."
The heavy man grimaced. "I ... I can't."
Patterson suddenly grabbed Cicero by his loose-fitting robe and shoved him toward the edge, forcing his head down over the opening. "With your hands cuffed, you won't be able to break your fall. You will, however, break your neck, if not every bone in your body."
Trotter snorted. "Patterson, that could be interpreted as police brutality."
"What about it, Pete?" the heavy sergeant growled. "Does this seem brutal to you?"
Cicero groaned. "You can only kill me. You can't get me after I'm dead."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"He'll take me, don't you understand? He lives beyond death."
"I see," Trotter sighed, not wishing to pursue the matter further. "Then you'd be better off staying alive, wouldn't you say?"
Cicero simply stared blankly into the dark opening, finally offering a weak nod. Patterson pulled him back, holding him upright by the collar. The heavy man took a tentative step onto the first of the stone stairs that disappeared into the depths. Patterson followed close behind him, then Hanley. Trotter started after them, casting a last wary glance back into the relatively benign gloom of the basement. The darkness smelled must}7 and sulfurous, the stench worsening with each step downward. The stairway twisted and curved erratically, with many of the steps broken and uneven. Trotter's legs wobbled unsteadily, though the pain in his side had begun to dull to a tolerable throb. That in itself was not a particularly good sign, but at least he didn't feel ready to drop dead yet.
Trying to count the steps was pointless; with Hanley a few steps ahead of him, he could not see where Patterson's flashlight beam was leading them. He realized they must have reached bottom sometime later when Patterson's light lurched drunkenly and he muttered, "Ow, shit. Last step. Careful, it's high."
Here, a long passage extended well beyond the reach of the lights. The floor sloped downwards, and from somewhere in the distance, Trotter thought he could hear the gurgle of running water.
"Some hole, Lieutenant," Hanley whispered back to him.
"Yeah. Everybody stay close, but don't bunch up. Patterson, don't let your guide slip away, whatever you do."
"He's secure."
Their footsteps echoed eerily through the passage as they continued on and on; once, when Patterson coughed, the sound seemed to bounce back and forth in the distance for a considerable portion of eternity before finally fading away.
"What about it, Pete? We're on the right road, right?"
"Yes," the man mumbled weakly.
"How far does this go?"
"Far enough." And further coaxing could get no other word out of him.
The passage made several long, winding turns before finally opening to a vast sea of dense blackness that their flashlights could not begin to penetrate. Clinging close to the right-hand wall, they followed Cicero's unsteady lead, Trotter making regular sweeps of the darkness with his flashlight to detect any sign of an ambush. But if anything like what had attacked him in the sanctuary lurked down here, their lights meant nothing, for it would travel unseen and probably unheard. He struggled to keep his mind diverted from that prospect, for dwelling on it would certainly spell defeat.
But just then, somewhere ahead of them, a low hiss reverberated through the cavern, followed by a crisp scuttling sound —the distinct noise of something large and alive moving over stone. Cicero halted with a gasp.
"Oh my God," he whispered. "It knows. It won't let me pass. It knows I ran."
"What is it?"
Cicero's voice trembled. "Guardian."
The young man started to struggle in Patterson's grip, to no avail. His eyes gleamed wildly, his trashing becoming desperate, like a trapped animal. Hanley went forward to help Patterson restrain the man.
"Hold him good," Trotter said. "And keep moving. Guns at the ready. We back out of here now, that's all she wrote. Move it."
Patterson sent him a dubious frown but complied, as Trotter knew he would. Ahead, in the beams of the flashlights, he could see a circular opening in the floor, and a gray hint of a stone stair within. So, they'd have to keep going down. But from the hole, a ghostly wail issued, and Cicero's struggles grew even more violent. His voice cried thinly, "It's coming! Don't you hear it? It'll kill you. It'll kill all of us!"
Something indeed was scuttling up those stairs, issuing a series of threatening hisses. Tucking the flashlight under one arm, Trotter pulled his Beretta from the holster strapped to his calf, so that he could train two guns on the opening. Patterson had Cicero in a headlock, his own .38 aimed at the hole. Hanley sidestepped away from Trotter's field of fire, her own weapon shaking in her outstretched hands.
Trotter prayed that whatever monstrosity appeared —if indeed it was visible—would not prove itself impervious to a hail of lead.
The hiss changed to an angry, bird-like squawk, and into the arena of light, something long and whip-like shot from the opening, thrashing back and forth like an angry viper. Then, a number of clawed hooks —six or seven of them—appeared around the rim of the opening as something quite large began to pull itself from the darkness below. A rounded, mottled looking knob of blackish chitin rose into the circle of light cast by the flashlight beams; from atop this gnarled hump, a myriad of tiny golden globes flickered to life, glowing like tiny suns as they cast their cognizant gaze at the intruders into its domain. A bulky mass of thorn-covered shell followed, and now Trotter could see that the hooks around the rim were "feet" attached to innumerable jointed legs, like those of a giant crab. As the massive body cleared the opening, a segmented, bony-looking tail followed, swaying back and forth almost hypnotically, like a cobra preparing to strike.
But no one watching it remained affected by paralysis. As one, the guns fired, the bullets rattling over the hard shell of the thing without visible effect. Trotter felt rather than heard a ricochet, for a hot wind brushed his face as a bullet zoomed past. The reports rang deafeningly through the cavern, drowning his every thought, and as the guns fired over and over at the impossible horror before them, a long, loud screech rose even above the gunfire. The thing rushed toward them, legs scrabbling grotesquely over the stone floor. Reflexively, Trotter cut loose with both guns, his detectives following suit. When the beast was only two yards away, it reared up, its eye-studded head rising on a quivering stalk to hover above their heads, issuing its defiant trills from some unseen vocal organ.
Then, as if the creature were an image on a television screen, it flickered unsteadily, its hideous features highlighted by a burst of snow-white luminescence. Then, with a quick screech, the monster disappeared, followed by a loud crack as air rushed to fill the void its body left behind. Not so much as a whiff of smoke remained; Trotter felt a quick rush of wind, then the stilled again. For several seconds, he remained frozen, unsure if he had actually seen what he knew he had seen.
Patterson's prisoner had slumped to the floor, unconscious. Patterson himself leaned against the tunnel wall, his revolver still aimed at the empty space the creature had occupied only moments before. After an apparent age of paralysis, the sergeant turned shakily to Trotter and said, "Did we do that?"
The lieutenant shook his head, falling against the wall as his knees suddenly turned to jelly. All he could gasp was, "I don't know. I don't think so."

Chapter 49

Claire's scream was interrupted by a quick series of distant crack-cracks, which she thought must surely be gunfire. Balak's head lifted, his teeth taking a few shreds of flesh with them. Blood poured from the jagged gash in her side; she could feel its warmth as it poured onto the altar. But she did not dare open her eyes to see the damage that had been done to her body.
"Amusing," said Balak's low voice. "There will be screaming in a moment." He paused to listen. Instead, there came another crash of gunfire. With a heaving motion that resembled a shrug, Balak lowered his head again, this time to her right shoulder. She tried to draw away but, of course, could not; he pressed a taloned hand heavily against her back, and the teeth closed on the flesh between her shoulder and her neck. Again, she felt a sharp pinch as they bit down, gently at first, spilling her blood, which was quickly lapped up by a warm, slick tongue.
Suddenly, hot agony seared her neck as the teeth clamped down and jerked away with a snuffling sound. Balak screamed a loud, piercing note, and turning her head in surprise, Claire saw his head rear back with an expression of hatred and horror, her own blood dripping from the jagged teeth. He suddenly rose into the air and spun around, and as he did, she saw embedded in his back the great, glowing star, a number of its points piercing the black robe he wore. A shiny stain began to spread over the fabric around the punctures, pouring onto the stone and beginning to sizzle. The cry he now uttered sent a tremor through the chamber: a deep, thundering trumpet like the roar of an elephant. His eyes swiveled back and forth, seeking the source of this attack.
Mike stood behind the altar, naked, his own eyes bright with vengeance. The paralysis had broken; Claire's heart leaped with reborn hope, and in a flash, Mike's hands closed on the nearest candelabra, which he lifted and quickly swung like an ax at the crystal object planted in the ancient king's back. Smoking candles flew as the upper fork of the candelabra smashed into the object, shearing off a number of the arms, which spun away and flashed into nothingness. A second later, sparks began flying from the damaged an-abzu-qip, and with a brilliant whoosh, it exploded, hurling the floating body toward the mammoth sculpture of Golgolith in the center of the chamber. Balak fell to the floor at the foot of the statue, his back a shredded mass of ruined flesh and bone, black blood spewing over the stone. His voice rose in a shrill scream, incredibly similar to that uttered by the beaked monster that had disappeared following Nyle's destruction. The giant figure tried to stand, but failed; he rolled sideways, bright eyes falling upon his glowering attacker. Mike held the candelabra by its base, ready to strike again. But as he raised the iron stand to bring down on the old king's head, Balak suddenly arched his back and left the floor as if he'd been drawn by a puppeteer's wires. Hovering before Mike, his blood pouring and smoking onto the vile floor, Balak lolled his head back and groaned, his arms and legs beginning to twitch uncontrollably. Then, as if his invisible supports had been cut, he dropped heavily to the floor, his blood splashing sickeningly over the statue of his beloved deity.
The next thing Claire knew, Mike was at her side, tugging at the cords that bound her wrists. He could not loosen the knots, so, softly, he said, "Hold on, I'm going to have to burn them." Taking up a lit candle, he lifted Claire's arms and placed the flame beneath the thick hemp. "Just hold still, I won't burn you," he said reassuringly; but hot wax began to drip onto her back, some of it dripping into the raw wound into her side, causing her to gasp in sudden agony. Then her hands were suddenly free, her wrists and arms numb from the circulation having been impeded. Mike then moved to burn through the cord around her ankles. He managed these without causing her more than a single slight burn. She couldn't see the wound at her shoulder, but blood poured freely over her collarbone and breasts; and the pain was worse than anything she could ever remember — almost as if the silver teeth were still embedded in her flesh. The gash in her side bled freely, and this one she could see. The pattern of the teeth was clearly etched in red, with about three inches between the upper and lower rows. She wasn't sure she would be able to hold herself upright.
On the floor, the body of the great king pitched back and forth, blood still spraying from his back like an opened fire hydrant. He tried again to right himself, failed. His head whirled around so that the burning eyes caught Claire's, and her head was suddenly filled with a cacophonous ringing, clouding her every thought, making her feel dizzy and nauseated. This monster's power had yet to be extinguished! She tried to cry, "Mike," but only a choked whimper made it past her lips. Still, he must have understood what was happening, and, turning back to the writhing creature, he again lifted the heavy candelabra and advanced, raising it with a concerted effort over Balak's thrashing head.
"You son of a bitch," Mike said in a low, vengeful voice. "You're dead."
The eyes focused on Mike, and he faltered. Claire managed to cry, "No, Mike! Don't talk to it! Kill it! Just kill it!"
Balak somehow drew himself part way up, his bloody mouth splitting into an insane grin. In his most gentle voice, he said, "You're deluded, my lamb. That piece of metal can not harm me."
Mike drew up his strength and swung the candelabra, its forks smashing squarely into Balak's face —only to bounce away without so much as lacerating the pasty white flesh. The effort had spent Mike's strength, though, and the candelabra clattered loudly to the floor.
And the huge body again rose from the floor, this time with Balak seemingly in full control of himself, apart from a slight trembling of his over-long fingers. He began to drift slowly toward Mike, eyes narrowing with rage. But then, those eyes widened, and his head began to jerk from side to side, the flattened ears cocked as listening to a voice that only he could hear. His expression transformed from fury to disbelief—then to pure horror.
His jaw dropped, and the voice from his cavernous throat cried, "No! I beg you, do not. Please!"
Mike rushed to Claire's side as the airborne body seemed to swell in size, the shrill voice now screaming. Mike wrapped his arms around her, carefully avoiding her wounds, and pulled her down behind the altar, half-fearing the great body would suddenly explode.
Instead, a flickering glow illuminated the demonic face, swiftly spreading over the whole body, which still dripped black blood onto the floor. Balak's ghostly voice then cried, "No! I was loyal to you! I was...."
Then, with an electric flash, the huge, dirigible-like figure disappeared, followed by a thunderous boom that nearly shattered Claire's eardrums. A quick gust of foul wind passed over them, whirling away into stillness. An expectant stillness fell upon the chamber, the silence complete but for Mike and Claire's heavy breathing.
She felt Mike's arms encircle her tenderly, felt his perspiration dripping onto her cheek. She looked up into his eyes, which gazed questioningly at the empty space where their would-be murderer had floated only moments before. He then turned to her, saw the blood still oozing from the wounds in her shoulder and side; the sight must have struck a terrible nerve in him, for he shuddered violently and wiped his face with a sweat}7 palm.
"Jesus Christ. We've got to get some help for you."
"Are you all right?"
He shook his head as if to clear it. "I can barely hear. Whatever they hit me with, it was killer."
"We'll be okay now. Everything's okay."
Mike rose to his feet, gently pulling her with him. "Can you stand?"
She leaned against him, holding onto his shoulder, shakily getting to her feet. The pain in her abdomen nearly doubled her over, but Mike's strong hands kept her upright. He trembled a little, but his body was warm and comforting. Together they took a faltering step. Looking at her shoulder wound, he again grimaced, then took her right hand and gently placed it over the wound. The touch of her own fingers sent a crippling wave of pain through her entire body. But he pushed down on her hand, saying, "Keep pressure on that. You have to stop the bleeding. Here." He drew her left hand to the gash in her side. "They're both deep. Don't let up on them. We've got to get you out of here as quickly as possible."
They slowly made their way across the chamber toward the passage leading out. Mike then stopped, helped her to the nearest wall so she might lean against it. "I'm going to grab some of these candles. It's the only light we'll have." He plucked several from nearby candelabra, extinguishing all but one and tucking the others under his arm. "Okay, we're going to have to do a lot of climbing. I don't think I can carry you. You have got to do this. Okay?"
She nodded, then took his offered arm. They started into the darkness, the candlelight forming a small island of light that moved with them as they walked. Claire saw that with each step, she left a bloody footprint; her whole right leg was streaked with red from the wound in her side. Blood oozed stubbornly between her fingers, though less freely than before. She felt weak and dizzy; but if Mike had regained consciousness a minute later, she would now be dead now, she knew.
"You saved us," she breathed.
"His whole concentration was on you. I thought for sure he would sense what I was doing."
"What do you suppose happened to him?"
"I think his 'god' must have reclaimed him. He had failed."
"That star... ?"
"They somehow opened a pathway for those creatures from ... somewhere. Kept them here. When the star was destroyed, it was like closing the door on them."
"What happened to that big thing ... the one that chased Lazar?"
Mike shook his head uncertainly. I don't know. But we've got to get out of here." He peered into the unbroken darkness ahead. "Which may be some trick. There's miles of this tunnel, and I don't have any idea where the hell we are."
Suddenly, Claire saw the candlelight flicker upon a reflective surface a short distance ahead. "What's that?"
Holding up his candle, Mike took a few steps forward, leaving Claire hugging the wall. A second later, his voice drifted back to her. "Oh, Jesus."
"What?"
He lifted the candle above his head so she could see into its field of illumination, which revealed a mass of twisted, tangled metal bars studded with jagged spikes. From several of them hung the tattered remains of a black robe —and a few pinkish bits of shredded flesh. She realized that the floor beneath the ruined portcullis was awash with black blood; and then she smelled the sour stench of death, which caused her empty stomach to lurch. Her left hand came up involuntarily to cover her mouth and nose.
"Oh my God," she managed to croak. "Oh, God, God...."
"It's Lazar," Mike said grimly. "And we have to go through this."
"Oh no," Claire whispered. But she knew he was right. No way to go but straight ahead, right through all that was left of her former captor.
The bastard that had once stolen her son.
Sean's memory bolstered her will. She allowed Mike to guide her through the sticky puddle, maneuvering carefully through the twisted metal wreckage — still potentially lethal should they stumble and fall upon the spikes. Her bare soles felt as if they were walking through mud. But after a few moments she and Mike were through, and she let her feet scrape the floor with every step, trying to rub off as much of the clinging ooze as possible. Mike did the same, never looking down, keeping his eyes either on Claire or straight ahead. At last they came to a bend in the tunnel.
Looking back, Claire could see that they were beyond any light that might still issue from Balak's lair. She remembered the Guardians of the tunnel, the thing that looked like the figurine that had been delivered to her apartment; she halted suddenly, causing Mike to stumble.
"What is it?"
"Things in the tunnel. Those creatures. They might still be here."
"I don't think so," he said, as much to convince himself as her, she was certain. "I think when the star was destroyed it took care of them as well. I don't hear a thing."
"That wasn't the only star."
"I know. But Balak said they needed to work in conjunction. We're alone down here."
But he'd no sooner said this when there came a distant pattering sound —like footsteps upon stone. It seemed to be above and ahead of them. Perhaps one —or more —of the Guardians was still here!
"There is something, Mike!” He nodded, eyes peering into the blackness beyond their circle of light. Impossible to see. All they could do was keep going, for Claire's wounds needed medical attention; if they didn't find their way out quickly, they could end up just as dead as if Balak had killed them himself.
A moment later, they heard the sound again; definitely the sound of footsteps, and many of them. Even if it wasn't the monstrous Guardians, what if some of the Church members came down here and learned what had happened? She and Mike might still be murdered down here, their bodies left to rot in the darkness, never to be found. Claire's hope dimmed; but they were so close, now that the truest evil in this subterranean labyrinth had been vanquished. So close!
The sounds drew nearer, and she realized these footsteps had the distinct cadence of human passage through the tunnel, not the arrhythmic clatter of those multiple appendages of the Guardians. At least if the threat were human, they still stood a fighting chance.
But the footsteps continued to echo through the darkness for ages, it seemed, never growing louder or drawing nearer. In this maze of corridors, there was no telling where those others might actually be. She thought she heard the hint of voices. Then, at last, the footfalls began to grow more distinct, coming from directly in front of them. It sounded like they were coming down a stairway, and suddenly a clear voice growled, "Which way now, asshole?"
Her heart leaped. And a few moments later a familiar voice said, "Watch it. There's a light ahead."
But Mike pressed on with renewed vigor, practically dragging Claire with him. And she managed to find the strength to cry out, "Lieutenant! Lt. Trotter!"
A moment later, a voice responded, "Claire Challis! Is that you?"
Her "Yes!" came out as an excited, shrill scream. Mike then shouted as well, "We're here, we're here!"
A gleam of light appeared around a corner. The footsteps drew nearer at a trot, and then Claire saw the bright beams of two flashlights spinning through the corridor, searching.
"Here! Over here!” She and Mike stumbled toward the inquisitive beams. A chorus of voices greeted them, all excitement and relief. A pair of figures rushed toward them: a man and a woman wearing overcoats, their faces flushed with worry. Claire's energy suddenly fled, the excitement of discovery too much for her weakened body. She dropped to her knees even through Mike's encircling arm.
"She needs a doctor," said Detective Hanley, leaning over her. "She's bleeding pretty badly."
Trotter's face appeared in her field of vision, his features creased with worry and pain. Claire saw that he was also having trouble walking, and his overcoat was stained with blood. But he carried himself with almost superhuman strength, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other. He tucked the revolver in his overcoat pocket.
A heavyset man with a red-robed figure in tow appeared at Trotter's side, looked down at her and gasped. His expression went from shock to relieved embarrassment, and he nodded curtly at her. "Sorry, ma'am. But... you young people don't have any clothes on."
Had the pain not been so bad, she would have laughed. She could only grimace as waves of agony rushed through her body. The woman detective produced a couple of handkerchiefs and dabbed at her wounds. Gently she pressed one of them to Claire's side and said, "Hold that tight for me. We've got to stop that bleeding. Can you move this arm?"
Claire tried to raise her left arm. It barely obeyed her command. Pain arced down her back, causing her legs to jerk spasmodically. "Oow," she moaned. "Can we get out of here? I really want to get out now."
Hanley brushed a few strands of hair from her face. "We're going, honey. Just hold on." She took off her overcoat and gently wrapped it around Claire's shoulders.
Mike had sidestepped so his frontside wasn't in full view of their rescuers. Patterson shoved his prisoner against the wall so Trotter could cover him, then removed his own overcoat, passing it to Mike, who took it and slipped into it gratefully. Then, he knelt next to Hanley, and they gently helped Claire back to her feet.
"Can you still walk?" Mike asked, eyes full of concern. "You've come this far. Can't give up now.” She nodded. "I think so. Just help me."
Trotter pointed down the corridor behind them. "What happened in there?"
"Dead," Mike said. "They're all dead."
It might have been relief that lightened the lieutenant's features. He turned to Patterson and said, "Let's get going. We'll send a unit back here to clean up later."
At that moment, the robed man that Patterson had been escorting tore himself away from the detective's grasp and began running down the passage, disappearing into the darkness. His footfalls faded quickly. Patterson yelled after him, "Hey!"
"Leave him," Trotter said. "We know who he is. But I have a feeling we won't be seeing him again."
"Son of a bitch," Patterson grumbled. "Those cuffs come out of my paycheck."

Chapter 50

Even though so much time had passed, Claire finally had a small stone erected for her little boy in Graceland Cemetery, the old graveyard on Clark Street near Wrigley Field. Until the fact of Sean's death had been confirmed by the events at the Church of the Seven Stars, she'd never been able to bring herself to believe he was truly gone. She'd known it in her heart, yes; but somehow that unrealistic thread of hope that people always clung to prevented her from putting up a monument to his memory. But now that she had, it was, in a strange way, a relief. For she knew he was gone, and there were no illusions as to the truth.
What still tormented her now was Lazar's boast that, after Sean's abduction, his soul suffered eternal torment. She could never cast away that horrible memory, and prayed that Lazar had lied to her in a cruel attempt to break down her resistance — to smash her own hope when she was in a hopeless situation. She now believed whole-heartedly in God and His mercy, and that in His love her little boy's soul would have peace. God's love was stronger than any boast of a power-crazed madman, regardless of the dark forces he had commanded. But in the end, those forces had destroyed him.
Thus be to those who fail in His service.
Those words spoken by Balak haunted her well after the wounds he'd inflicted had healed. She had spent several days at St. Mary's Hospital, then weeks recuperating at home. The doctors were told she had been attacked by a mad dog, and though they could easily see that those wounds were not caused by any dog that existed on this planet, they'd asked her no prying questions or spread the word beyond her recovery room; Trotter had spent a lot of time with the hospital administrator. And afterward, Claire was not forced to suffer any awkward interrogation.
Praise God for that. She couldn't have stood up to the ordeal. It was bad enough that for several weeks after her release from the hospital, she still lived in fear while Trotter and his men combed the neighborhood — even the whole city — in search of individuals who were in any way connected with the Church. The building itself had been closed down the very morning after the horror, and for a month,off-duty cops kept a constant watch on her house to make sure no reprisals were made against her. When none came, and not a single suspected Church member could be found, Trotter pulled his guards and officially closed the books, though he kept in contact with her on a regular basis. He theorized that, once their secret cult was exposed, their leaders destroyed, all the remaining members had fled, perhaps fearing retribution from something other than the human justice system.
Sometimes, Claire still had a hard time convincing herself the entire thing had not been a dreadful nightmare. It was hard to look at people —the world itself—and ever feel truly comfortable, knowing what lurked just beneath the surface of their day-to-day reality. How could such a creature as Balak ever have come to be?
Could there ever be another?
Her sole comfort was in her belief that for every evil there must surely be a corresponding, even greater good. And that was where she placed her faith.
And in Mike. He had been there for her all the way, seen to her care once she left the hospital, even taken her to her parents' house when she requested it. For after her torture in the underground catacombs, life and all its trappings — good, bad or otherwise — assumed a whole new significance for her. She could not bear to maintain the rift between her parents and herself any longer. And just as they had when she'd come home from Arizona carrying a baby, they accepted her, offered her their love as best as they knew how to give it.
That, thought Claire, could use some work. But now, she was at least willing to make the effort at reconciliation, to make them proud of the person she had become. It wouldn't be easy because the resentment ran deep on both sides; she also knew that she would have to be the one strong enough to overcome it. After that, things could begin to fall into place. Life was too short to harbor bad feelings.
One evening, three months after the horror at the Church, Mike asked Claire to dinner; not an unusual occurrence, since they had begun seeing each other regularly on weekends. But on this particular Friday night, as Spring had begun to thaw the frigid city, Mike gave her explicit instructions to dress in her best eveningwear, and to prepare for the finest dinner his money could buy, then a night at the best clubs on Rush Street. Their dating so far had still remained informal: pizza and beer, the occasional cheap dinner and movie. Apparently Mike had big news for her.
He picked her up promptly at six o'clock—indeed a surprise, for Claire had come to find that promptness was not Mike's strongest virtue. He refused to tell her where they were going; so when they arrived at Kiyo's, Chicago's best and most expensive Japanese restaurant, she was surprised and delighted. The restaurant had a wonderful sushi bar, and even better, a tea garden where the patrons could sit in booths with sliding paper doors for privacy. The Japanese waitress, in formal kimono, escorted them to their booth where they sat down across from each other. Mike order a Kirin Beer, Claire, sake.
After they'd settled in and gotten their drinks, Mike leaned forward and said, "So, you ready to hear my news?"
"If I must."
"Don't sound so excited."
"Sorry. Speak."
"I passed the bar exam."
"Huh? You've never told me about any bar exam!"
"Why do you think I've only been seeing you once a week? What do think all the 'work' I've had to do every night for four years was? It's very rigorous, you know."
Claire was truly amazed. How did someone study for and pass the bar exam in virtual secrecy? And why? "So, are you telling me you're a lawyer?"
"Registered and licensed."
"Mike, I hate lawyers."
"You and Ingram Trotter."
"He's a smart man. Him, I like."
"He's married."
Claire turned her nose up at him. "Lawyers are greedy, slimy, two-bit hoods with a license to commit crime. Mike, how could you?"
His face clouded a little. "Aren't you proud of me?"
"I'm ashamed of you."
"Even if I tell you that Parker has recommended that I be made a junior partner?"
"Especially then."
"Claire!"
She finally gave him a small grin. "How much are we talking?"
"I can take you to Kiyo's every Friday, if you wish."
She laughed out loud now. "You will be a brilliant lawyer, I'm sure."
"That's what Trotter said, too. But it wasn't a compliment."
"Neither was that. I told you. Trotter, I like."
Mike downed half his beer —one of the big eighteen ounce bottles. "So have you seen anything of our friend the lieutenant this week?"
"He called the other day. He's getting along okay—he's tough as hell, you know. Said he and his people finally managed to smooth things out downtown. Guess that was some trick, eh?"
"No doubt. You know, they're tearing down the Church. Seems the building failed to pass a safety inspection and violated several fire codes. And since nobody seems to know what's happened to the head trustee...."
"Mr. John Hanger."
"Right... the building's been condemned. They're pushing it down next week."Claire sighed, her eyes focusing on something far, far away. "And whatever was left down there stays down there."
"Yeah. It'll be buried pretty good."
She nodded thoughtfully, her mind filled with images of that awful, inhuman face, the silver teeth stained with her blood. She'd been awakened by nightmares about that face so many nights she couldn't count them. And every time that face appeared in her mind, her side and shoulder throbbed angrily, even to the point of opening up and bleeding a few times. Time had so far been unable to ease the pain in her mind.
She swallowed a cupful of sake, relishing the warmth of its passage down her throat, trying to push unpleasant thoughts out of her head. "It's good," she said. "Right at the proper temperature, too. 98.4 degrees Fahrenheit."
Mike chuckled, and his eyes fell on hers, holding them. "You know something? You're really beautiful."
She blushed. Mike had never said anything like that; it was hardly his style. "That's the beer talking," she said with a little smile.
"Nah. If the beer starts talking, you'll really be in trouble."
Her face went hot. Even after all they'd been through together, she and Mike had not proceeded beyond passionate kisses, as though afraid anything more might somehow damage what they'd developed together. She could not deny that she often fantasized about having him; she suspected he had similar thoughts of his own about her. Yet they had always remained unvoiced, never acted upon.
"I've got something for you," he said. "You want it now or after we eat?"
"What sort of talk is that? You know me and my infinite patience."
"Right. After dinner."
"Mike!"
"Okay. Fine. Watch this. I'm going to do a trick." He held out his left hand, palm up. Then his right. Both empty. "Now, I'll do this." He picked up a linen napkin from the table and draped it over his left hand, waved it in front of her face a couple of times, then lowered his hand to the table.
"Now. Remove the napkin," he said.
She reached for the napkin and whisked it away. In his palm she found a small, hinged black box.
"Open it."
Shaking, she took the suede-covered box and slowly lifted the lid. Inside, something sparkled. A diamond —a big diamond — mounted on a narrow gold band flashed brilliantly at her. She stared at it for a long time, unable to move or speak. She could feel Mike's eyes burning at her, but she could not look up. Gingerly, she lifted the ring from the box; he took it from her and gently slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand.
"It fits," she managed to breathe.
"That, my dear, is no joke."
He never even asked the question. With tears in her eyes, Claire simply nodded and said, "Yes...."
When the waitress arrived with their dinner, the young lady was sitting on the gentleman's side of the table, arms around his neck, her lips pressed to his in a kiss that was only permissible in public because they were in a private booth. But the waitress noticed the brilliant glitter on the woman's left hand that had not been there when they came in, so she left their plates on the table and disappeared without saying a word, somehow forgetting to leave them a bill at the end of the evening.
The night was the most wonderful she could remember ever having experienced. The dinner had been fabulous: a green salad with ginger dressing, shitake mushrooms, a grilled tuna steak with teriyaki sauce, California maki, and green tea ice cream for dessert. Then, Mike had driven them to Rush Street, where they'd had drinks and danced at almost every club on the strip. And then, absolutely plastered, Mike had called a cab to take them back to her place, since it was reasonably close by. He left his car in a secured lot, saying that if somebody stole it, he'd just buy a bigger one. Claire hadn't danced like that in years. She'd forgotten how much she enjoyed it, amazed by how much it enabled her to forget. There was no past now; only a future, one that promised many things, despite Mike's newly attained profession. But in time, perhaps she'd even be able to forgive him for that, she thought with a little smile to herself. Right now, he was a pretty sick young lawyer; he'd run straight to her bathroom as soon as she unlocked the front door. But he was an absolutely happy sick young lawyer, and even so drunk, he would certainly never forget their wonderful night together. Claire hardly made for a picture of sobriety herself, but proved herself the more graceful of the two; she, at least, didn't throw up.
She kicked off her white pumps and lay her pale gray blazer over the arm of the couch, loosening the belt of her black silk dress. It was almost three in the morning, and she was exhausted. Her legs ached a little from all the dancing, and tomorrow, her feet might even be sore. Such is the price to pay for a good time, she thought.
Going to her bedroom, she took off her dress and pantyhose, pausing in the mirror to look at the narrow band of darkened flesh just above her collarbone, and its twin in her right side. The scars were still bad; even with the reconstructive surgery she'd had, the doctor told her the scars might never disappear completely. The upper wound would always be slightly sunken, for she'd lost a mouthful of muscle there. But she'd learned to look at the damaged flesh without recurring fear or pain; only in her dreams did the horror return to her, and even that she could shake away once she came fully awake.
Time, she thought. It'll just take a little more time.
Pulling on her satin negligee, she returned to the living room and waited for Mike to get out of the bathroom. Hopefully, he would not pass out in there; she certainly didn't want to be the one to have to clean up a mess. But a minute later, she heard the toilet flush, and his sing-songy voice drifted down the hall: "You said 'yes,' right?"
"Yes, Michael."
"She said 'yes!' She said 'yes!'" rang his jubilant voice. He appeared a moment later, remarkably neat and well-groomed for such a sick drunk. He slid onto the couch and she curled an arm around his shoulders, kissing him lightly on the cheek. He smiled and gave her a narrow-eyed, conspiratorial stare.
"Where shall I sleep tonight?"
"Right here on the couch."
Her perked up, frowning. "You're serious!"
"Ever so much."
"But we're engaged!"
"That's right. We're not married yet."
"Son of beech. Sheet."
"You'll be fine. You'll get over it." She nuzzled his neck, gently kissing his ear.
"You are an evil woman."
"Mmm hmm."
But when he moved tentatively to kiss her, she did not resist his strong arms as they encircled her. His breath smelled of spearmint. His tongue lightly brushed her lips.
She whispered, "You'd better take some aspirin before you go to bed." Then she pulled away from him. "I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be back in a minute."
As she whisked away from him, he called after her. "Hey. You weren't serious about the couch, were you."
She grinned as coyly at him as she knew how. "What do you think?" Then she whirled and hurried to the bathroom, anticipating what must surely happen when she came back out.
"Well, since I'm obviously going to be denied certain pleasures," Mike called after her, "I'll just watch a little TV and pass out right here."
She giggled. In the bathroom, she poured a cup of water and downed a couple of aspirin herself; if she didn’t, she'd sure as hell feel this one in the morning. After she'd taken care of the essentials, she poured another cup and carried it with a pair of aspirin tablets for Mike. Now, he was sitting at rapt attention in front of the TV screen, eyes wide and alert, as if something had burned the drunkenness right out of him.
"What is it?" she asked, feeling a twinge of concern. "What's the matter?"
She sat down next to him and saw that he'd tuned to the news channel; the picture showed a blurry a photograph, something she could not make out: a dark background with a pale white mass in the center, with little white flecks scattered across the image.
When, after a moment of study, the picture became clear to her, Claire's heart nearly stopped.
The announcer said, "This is a photograph of the anomaly taken by the observatory at Mt. Palomar. Since the news was first made public, only a few hours ago, observatories and radio telescopes around the world have confirmed identical sightings at precisely the same time."
The story was on the news for the rest of the night, and on Saturday morning, it was the main headline on front pages throughout the country and beyond.
On the morning of January 28, a mysterious, ghostly formation, seemingly spontaneously generated, had been observed and recorded in an area of space somewhere in the vicinity of the planet Pluto. The shape, which was for the moment being called the Ghost Nebula (though nebula it could not possibly be), appeared to be several times the size of earth, but was of an unusual configuration, unlike any known stellar body ever previously encountered. Scientists were completely baffled, and even with sophisticated spectroanalysis were unable to determine the composition or mass of the anomaly.
The phenomenon had lasted about twenty minutes, then the apparition vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Officially, the entire incident never happened, but there had been a leak, and some investigative reporter blew the lid off the cover-up; with so many sources all over the western hemisphere having made the discovery independently, it was impossible to suppress the incident for very long.
No other such event had ever been previously reported, before or since. And no official explanation wasever offered. Claire Challis and Mike Selby were among the few who understood what the event truly meant, but neither of them could so much as speak to each other about it as the story played out before them.
Given the six-hour travel time of light from that area of space to the earth, scientists estimated that the phenomenon began at 12:01 a.m., Central Standard Time, and ended at 12:23. Twenty-two minutes; precisely the amount of time between which Reverend Lazar opened his bloody, sacrificial ceremony, and the floating, screaming body of Balak had vanished from the subterranean chamber deep beneath the Church of the Seven Stars.
And Claire Challis could only speculate at the fate the world had been spared by the destruction of the transonifiers. For her, at least, there could be no mistaking the bizarre configuration of the stellar enigma.
It had been precisely the shape of the horrifying, multi-appendaged statue that occupied the central position in the underground Hall of King Balak.
Scientists had concluded by studying its doppler effect that, at the moment of its sudden disappearance, the object had been moving at very nearly the speed of light, directly on an intercept course with the planet Earth.