San Francisco Night
Author: Stephen Leather
Date: 2014-12-21T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Horror; Paranormal; Crime; Thriller; Mystery
Description: San Francisco Night Jack Nightingale fights his battles in the shadows – in the grey areas where the real world meets the supernatural. But when he arrives in San Francisco to take on a group of Satanists bent on opening a doorway to Hell, the danger is out in the open and all too real. The Apostles – a Satanic coven using murder and torture to pave the way for a demon to enter the real world – realise that Nightingale is on their tail. And unleash their own brand of monsters to take him down. With Nightingale’s life – and his very soul – on the line, he has only days to stop The Apostles from
Publisher: Self Published

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
About the Author

SAN FRANCISCO NIGHT

By Stephen Leather

Copyright © 2014 by Stephen Leather

ISBN: reserved

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the copyright holder, Stephen Leather

Layout design:  Cheryl Perez, www.yourepublished.com

Cover design: http://www.thecovercollection.com

Jack Nightingale fights his battles in the shadows – in the grey areas where the real world meets the supernatural. But when he arrives in San Francisco to take on a group of Satanists bent on opening a doorway to Hell, the danger is out in the open and all too real.

The Apostles – a Satanic coven using murder and torture to pave the way for a demon to enter the real world – realise that Nightingale is on their tail. And unleash their own brand of monsters to take him down. With Nightingale’s life – and his very soul – on the line, he has only days to stop The Apostles from bringing death and destruction to the entire world.

Jack Nightingale appears in the full-length novels Nightfall, Midnight, Nightmare, Nightshade and Lastnight. He has his own website at www.jacknightingale.com  He also appears in several short stories including  Cursed, Still Bleeding, Tracks and My Name Is Lydia.

CHAPTER 1

Sister Rosa had five minutes of her life left when she opened her eyes. She had no way of knowing that, but she did know that her God had deserted her utterly when she needed Him the most. Her arms were stretched out on either side of her and she could feel ropes cutting viciously into her wrists. Her ankles were also securely tied. She tried to scream, but the gag in her mouth muffled all sound. She was naked.

She could hear chanting, but in a language she had never heard before. A flickering light cast shadows on the walls and the air was filled with the tang of burning herbs.

There were figures standing around her, dressed in long black robes, their features hidden by tall pointed black masks.

The chanting stopped, and a deep, muffled voice spoke, though there was no way to tell which masked figure was talking. “Peter. It is time.’

One of the figures moved nearer to where Sister Rosa lay spread-eagled on the giant cross. It stopped, facing her, then bent down to show her what it held in its hands. A hammer and four large steel nails. Sister Rosa tried to scream, but the gag muffled all sound. The hammer and nails were passed in front of her face again, and the figure walked to her left. Sister Rosa began to recite the Lord’s Prayer as she felt the point of the nail pressed into her palm, then her body arched in agony as the first hammer blow was struck. The first blow pieced her palm, but three more were needed to drive the nail all the way into the wood. Tears were running down her cheeks, but the gag efficiently stifled her sobs. The pain of her last minutes on Earth was far beyond anything she had experienced in her previous fifty years. She tried to focus on the words of the Lord’s Prayer but the pain drove the words from her head.

The robed figure had now moved to her right hand, the nail was in place on her palm, and again the hammer came crashing down. Once more her body arched as it desperately tried to cope with the violence of the assault.

Four more heavy hammer blows for each foot, and then the figure straightened up to survey its handiwork. The masked head gave a slight nod.

Sister Rosa lay trembling, blood seeping from the wounds in her hands and feet.

The figure walked to a small wood altar, where a silver cross stood upside down. It put down the hammer and picked up the cross before walking back towards the blood-spattered body of the helpless woman. The longer end of the cross, nine inches of smooth polished silver, was placed between her legs and held there. Peter moved it gently backwards and forwards for a few moments, then with brutal force rammed it hard inside the woman. The gag muffled most of her screams.

Blood sprayed over Sister Rosa’s legs and her body gave one last enormous heave, before it could bear no more and she lost consciousness.

Four more figures strode towards the cross, attached a heavy chain to a hook at the base, then hauled it off the floor with a pulley placed in the high ceiling. The end of the chain was fastened to another hook in the wall. The cross now hung three feet off the ground, with the nun’s head hanging downwards, blood flowing from her wounds and pooling on the floor.

The chanting began again, this time with a feverish intensity to a gathering crescendo. One of the figures held both arms aloft, and there was instant silence. Again the command rang out.

“Peter.”

The figure of the tormentor walked back to the altar, picked up a short curved knife in its right hand, and a large plain bronze bowl in its left. The figure walked back to the center of the room and placed the bowl on the floor beneath the bound woman’s head. Peter held the knife aloft with both hands and shouted a Latin phrase. The robed figures chanted back in Latin.

The knife flashed down across Sister Rosa’s throat, laying it wide open and ending her agony. Peter picked up the bowl in both hands and let it fill with the spurting blood. The chanting began again, as Peter placed the bowl back on the altar and moved back towards the others.

Another word of command was given, and again the chanting stopped. The same muffled voice spoke, more softly this time.

“Peter, you are now fully initiated amongst us. Disrobe, and present yourself to us, that we may welcome you to our number with the kiss of our master, and you may offer us the blood of the sacrifice to drink. As a full initiate, you are also required to provide Service to the Temple.”

The reply came loud and immediate.

“Thy will be my will, O Abaddon.”

Peter stood in the middle of the group, removed the mask, shook off the robe and let it fall to the ground. Naked and confident, cheeks bright, eyes alive with excitement, a telltale flush at her throat, the tall, beautiful, young woman shook her red hair loose and presented herself to her fellow disciples.

CHAPTER 2

The young man known as Simon was the first to leave the temple, since he was not permitted to witness the Service to the Temple, or attend the drink and drug-fueled coupling that always followed a sacrifice. His real name was Lee Mitchell, but so far as he knew only Abaddon knew that. He changed back into his street clothes in the Robing Room. By the time he’d finished pulling on his Chinos and crew-neck pullover, a robed and masked figure had arrived and placed a black hood over his head. The figure took Mitchell by the hand and led him out of the door, across a graveled drive and into the back seat of a white Lincoln Town Car with blackened windows. Only full initiates were allowed to know the location of the group’s ceremonies. Mitchell heard a driver get behind the wheel, start the engine and drive away from the house.

Twenty minutes later, the driver stopped the car in a side street on the outskirts of San Francisco. “You can take the hood off now, Simon,” said the driver. “After the next meeting we won’t need to do this any more. You’ll be fully one of us. Do not look back as you leave the car. Just walk away.”

Mitchell removed the hood. There was a black tinted window separating the passenger seats from the driver. He said nothing, just got out and walked twenty yards to where he’d parked his own car, a black Porsche 911.

Thirty minutes later, he was outside his house. He parked and climbed out to stare at the Golden Gate
Bridge half a mile away, its lights flickering through a drizzly mist. He opened the front door, walked straight to the downstairs bathroom and vomited into the sink until there was nothing left in his stomach.

He washed his face, then rinsed with mouthwash to get rid of the foul taste. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his skin was white and pasty, he looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week, which was close to the truth.

He walked down the corridor to his study, picked up the phone and tapped in a number. It was answered on the second ring, but went straight through to voicemail. Mitchell cursed under his breath. He considered putting the phone down, but knew that he needed help and this was the only way to get it. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “It’s Lee,’ he said. “You have to come and get me. I can’t take this any more. They crucified a nun, a fucking nun. And it’s my turn next, you have to help me. I need to get out now. Call me back as soon as you get this.’

He put down the phone and went over to his drinks cabinet where he poured himself a large whiskey. He was on his second gulp when the phone rang. He hurried over and picked it up.

“You need to relax, Lee,’ said a slow Texan drawl. “Have a drink.”

“I’m having a drink,” said Mitchell. “A big one.”

“I need the names, Lee. I need to know who is in the group. And where they hold the meetings.”

“They won’t let me see the house until I’m one of them.”

“Then you need to wait.”

“I can’t! I’ve told you what they want me to do. They killed a nun today.”

“One more visit, Lee. We’ll fix you up with a GPS.”

“Are you mad? If they catch me with anything like that, anything at all, they’ll kill me for sure.”

“What about Abaddon? Have you learned anything else about her?”

“No. And I can’t ask, can I?”

“Have you seen anyone else? Anyone you recognize?”

“Two so far. Look, you have to get me out of San Francisco. You said you could get me a new identity.”

“And I can. But I need the names, Lee.”

“No, not until I’m safe, it’s all I have to bargain with. Get me out of here and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Mitchell gulped down more whiskey.

“Okay, the airport in two hours time. Take a cab to the station and change cabs there. You’ll be met at the Delta desk in Departures. A woman called Valerie.”

“How will I recognize her?”

“She’ll recognize you.” The line went dead.

Mitchell put down the phone and raised his glass to his lips. He flinched at the sound of a car in his driveway.  Doors opened and slammed shut and he heard footsteps on the gravel. His heart began to race and he put down his glass with a shaking hand. He hurried to the living room window and peered through the blinds. There was a black SUV parked behind his Porsche. He turned and ran for the french doors and sprinted across the garden. His neighbor’s Rottweiler barked as Mitchell scrambled over the fence. He heard shouts behind him but he didn’t look back as he ran.

CHAPTER 3

Jack Nightingale frowned as he emerged into the Arrivals hall. On a list of things he hated, airplanes ranked just behind elevators, but nobody ever needed to spend four hours sitting in an elevator without a cigarette. Flying economy across a continent at two hours notice was no way to spend a day. He stopped walking and looked at the mass of people waiting to meet passengers, some holding up scrawled notices, others with iPads held aloft, the name neatly printed. He saw nobody he recognized amongst them.

“Jack.”

Nightingale turned and saw a tall, slim, black woman, dressed in what was probably a very expensive dark-blue pant-suit. He nodded at her. She didn’t smile.

“Valerie. You’re looking lovely as always.”

“Welcome to San Francisco,” she said. “No suitcase?”

Nightingale held up the small black leather holdall he was carrying. “I travel light,” he said.

“This way,” she said, and walked away.

Nightingale followed her as she threaded her way through the crowds, out through automatic doors, across a road towards a white limousine parked by the curb, engine running and a black man in a gray suit sitting behind the wheel.

The driver got out to open the door but Nightingale beat him to it. He held the door open for Valerie. She flashed him a tight smile and slid inside. Nightingale followed her.

The car drove off in the direction of the private aviation terminal, through a security barrier and out onto the apron to stop in front of a gleaming white Gulfstream jet. Valerie climbed out of the car and walked up the stairs to the plane’s open front door. Nightingale followed her inside.

Anyone seeing Joshua Wainwright for the first time might not immediately have jumped to the conclusion that he was a billionaire.  Not that a billionaire wasn’t entitled to wear a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap if he chose to, or be sitting back on a white leather sofa with his python-skin boots up on the table in front of him. The huge cigar he was smoking worked well for a man of extreme wealth, but Nightingale could never get over how young the perpetually smiling, slim, black Texan always looked. Mid twenties, maybe. Thirty at the most.

“Come on in, Jack,” said Wainwright, “take a load off. I guess you might be needing a cigarette right about now. Thank you Valerie, if you’d like to wait in the car Jack should be leaving in thirty minutes.”

Nightingale took the white leather armchair that Wainwright had waved him to and lit a Marlboro as Valerie headed out of the cabin. Wainwright let him smoke his way through half of it before breaking the silence. “Jack, you look like shit.”

“Flying cross-country does nothing for me or my clothes. I need a sleep and a shower. And I need to know what’s so urgent that I couldn’t have driven. You know I hate flying. Especially in economy.”

“Sorry, Jack. Last seat on the plane, that’s what Valerie told me.”

Nightingale smiled tightly. “First class was pretty much empty.”

Wainwright shrugged, then pressed the call button and a tall blonde appeared. She was wearing a stewardess uniform, though it looked to have been designed with more thought for form than function. The short skirt, tight jacket and high heels wouldn’t have passed muster with Delta, but it obviously worked for Wainwright. And Nightingale.

“Another Glenfiddich for me please, Amanda. You, Jack?”

“Coffee will be fine. Splash of milk.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the woman.

Amanda had a South African accent and a spectacular rear view, which Nightingale enjoyed as she walked away. She was back in a minute with the drinks, then disappeared to the rear cabin. Wainwright took a sip of his whiskey and lifted the glass to toast Nightingale. “Been a while, Jack.”

“I suppose it has,” replied Nightingale, “Too good to last. Still, always a pleasure.”

“How you been?” asked Wainwright. “How was Louisiana?”

“Hot and sweaty,” said Nightingale. “Why am I here?”

“Got a little job for you, Jack. A task.” Wainwright lifted an attaché case onto the table and opened it. Nightingale was no authority on attaché cases, but he thought it had probably cost more than his last car.

Wainwright pushed three sheets of paper across to him. “Take a look at these.”

Nightingale studied the sheets for several minutes. They each bore a photograph and a list of personal details. Names, ages, occupations, descriptions, addresses. Time and place where last seen. Name of the person who had reported them missing, and to which police precinct. Sister Rosa Lopez, schoolteacher and nun, aged fifty-three. Suzanne Mills, college student, nineteen. Michael O’Hara, retired, eighty-three.

“Missing persons? You want me to find them?” asked Nightingale. “All by myself in a city of nearly a million people? Isn’t that what the cops are supposed to do?”

“I don’t think anyone will be finding them,” said Wainwright, “At least, not in this life.”

“So if they’re dead, why am I holding Missing Persons reports?”

“They’re dead. Murdered. I know that but the cops don’t. Yet.”

“And you’re not telling San Francisco’s finest because?”

“Because it’s not the victims I’m concerned about. It’s the killers. I want you to find them, not the cops.”

Wainwright’s smile had disappeared now, and his cigar lay neglected in the ashtray by his side.

“It’s one killer?”

Wainwright shook his head. “Killers, plural. A group. They call themselves the Apostles.”

“You want me to track down a group of killers? Why not just call the cops or the FBI? They have specialists.”

“These aren’t your run-of-the-mill killers, Jack. This is more your territory. Ritual killings. Based here in San Francisco. One of them got in touch a few days ago. He was in over his head and wanted out.”

Nightingale took a sip of his coffee.

“They kill people at their rituals, Jack. He’d been to two of them, the first one he said some girl got a spear pushed into her throat by a guy called Thomas. From the description he gave, it was this girl Mills, missing a month. The last one, two nights ago, they crucified a nun. Crucified her upside down then drank her blood. A girl calling herself Peter did that one.”

Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette. He looked down at the third photo.

“What about the old man?” he asked.

“The old man was a priest, he’s listed as missing from a retirement home, but my contact never mentioned him. The girl, Mills, was a theology student and sang in a church choir. Once I got the idea from her and the nun, we ran a search on missing religious figures. That’s the one we found. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’d gotten him too.”

“What about the bodies?”

“Disposed of. So the cops aren’t looking for killers.”

“Who’s your contact?”

“Guy called Lee Mitchell.”

“Where is he now?”

“I wish I knew. He phoned me, all in a panic. Now he’s disappeared.”

“And this group, the Apostles? What’s their story?”

“They use the names of Christ’s disciples. Except their leader.”

“Surely not Jesus?”

“No. The leader’s called Abaddon. She’s a woman but that’s all he knows. He hasn’t seen her face. Abaddon is an ancient name for the Angel Of Death. Mitchell was given the name of Simon. Each of the Apostles, as their initiation, needs to find and sacrifice a Christian. So there will be twelve killings in all.”

Nightingale stubbed out what was left of his cigarette. “Human sacrifice seems a little extreme. Is it normal in your world?” Nightingale knew of Wainwright’s reputation as a powerful Satanist, though he’d never seen any evidence of it. Or wanted to.

Wainwright took a long drag on his cigar and shrugged. “Not so much these days. Shedding blood is a very powerful charm and it’s necessary in many advanced rituals, but usually a chicken, maybe a goat. Sacrificing a human within a circle stores up immense power for the members of that coven. Looks like these guys are into it big time, and that’s way too much power for people to have.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“I want to stop them before anyone discovers there is a Satanic link to the killings,” said Wainwright. “I don’t want Satanism splashed across the papers.”

“Giving you a bad name?”

“Satanism is best left where it belongs, in the shadows,” said Wainwright. “You know where the word ‘occult’ comes from?”

Nightingale shook his head.

“From the Latin, occultus. It means hidden. That’s how it’s meant to be, hidden from view. Look, Jack. These people aren’t just some street gang. And I don’t think they plan to stop at ritual killings. I don’t like this Biblical connection either, whatever Abaddon has in mind could well make the group far too powerful, and maybe a lot more people end up dead. Maybe they’re even trying something that could do real damage.”

“So why am I on the case? To protect you or to stop something bad happening?”

Wainwright pulled on his cigar as he studied Nightingale with amused eyes. “Does it matter?” he asked eventually.

Nightingale shrugged. “I guess not.” He put down the sheets of paper and lit another cigarette. “So do you have any idea who this woman might be?”

“Told you before, Jack. Chefs don’t share their recipes with other chefs, and people in my world guard our secrets jealously.”

“What do you think she’s planning?” asked Nightingale. “What is this bad thing?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I want you to find out.” He gestured at the sheets of paper. “Find out about these three people, find out if there are any more missing. Track down the Apostles. Stop them.”

“Stop them how?”

“Anyway you need to.”

Nightingale blew a smoke ring. “I’m not an assassin, Joshua.”

“Just find out what’s happening then. And report back to me. We can cross the T’s and dot the I’s later. See if you can track down where the ceremonies are being held.”

“San Francisco is a big city.”

“They blindfolded Mitchell since he wasn’t a full member. Made him leave his car twenty minutes away, then drove him. It’s a mansion, within twenty minutes drive, but he never saw the outside. With a crypt or a chapel built on, or maybe in the grounds.”

“And you know where this Mitchell lives?”

“I didn’t, but I do now. He was panicking when he called and for the first and only time he used his home phone. Up until that point he’d been using throwaway cellphones and all I had was his first name. I told him to get to the airport and when he didn’t turn up I got the number checked.” He handed Nightingale a photograph of a good-looking man in his mid twenties. “The address is on the back, plus the few details I have.”

Nightingale turned the photograph over. “He was a banker?”

Wainwright nodded.  “A high-flyer, he figured that Satanic power would help him fly higher.”

“What do you think happened to him?”

“His car’s still in the drive and there’s no sign of a struggle, so your guess is as good as mine.”

“You went around?”

“I sent someone.”

“And these twelve Apostles. Is there any connection between them? Any link?”

‘”I don’t know,” said Wainwright. “Lee said he had recognized some of the people there but he wouldn’t give me any names until I pulled him out. I’ve arranged for any calls to the number he used to go straight to your cell.”

The cockpit door opened and a middle-aged man in a white shirt with black and yellow epaulettes stepped into the cabin.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Wainwright,” he said. “We’re scheduled to take off in ten minutes, unless you want me to take a later slot?”

“Ready when you are, Ed. My guest is just leaving. I’ll be in Rome for two days Jack, then I’ll check back with you.”

The captain went back into the cockpit as Wainwright and Nightingale shook hands. Nightingale put the photograph and sheets of paper in his pocket. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

“The sooner the better,” said Wainwright. “You have to find what happened to those people and you have to make it stop. And, my friend, I don’t think you have a whole lot of time.”

CHAPTER 4

They kept the children in separate rooms because that made it easier to control them. The rooms were in the basement at either end of a long corridor that could only be reached from a secret entrance hidden in a closet.  Three different construction firms had been hired to do the work, each believing that it was a wine cellar they were working on.

The rooms were windowless but had been decorated with cartoon characters on the wall and SpongeBob SquarePants duvet covers and pillows on the bed. There were buckets in the rooms and each day they were given a bowl of water to wash in. Bathrooms had never been a possibility as that would have raised questions with the contractors. There was a CCTV camera in a glass dome in one corner of each room so that the children could be monitored at all times by their guardians upstairs. Each child had an X-box and a selection of games and a DVD player with stacks of DVDs, mainly cartoons.

The doors were wood with bolts top and bottom, and totally soundproofed. Even if one of the children screamed nothing could be heard in the corridor, never mind upstairs. Not that the children did scream. They had both cried for a few hours when they were placed in the rooms but they soon got used to it.

The boy was called Brett. He was ten years old, pale-skinned with ginger hair and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. He was big for his age and used to being the top dog in his class. He was an only child and had the arrogance of a kid who was used to getting his own way. The first time John had unbolted the door to give the boy a Burger King meal, the boy had demanded to be released as he’d glared up at him with his hands on his hips. John had said nothing, just thrust the meal into the boy’s hands and slammed the door shut.

The girl had been much more docile. Sharonda, her name was. Also ten years old, her skin the color of milk chocolate, her hair long and curly, tied back with a Barbie clip. She had stayed curled up on the bed for the first twenty-four hours, ignoring him when he’d brought her food.

Now it was the third day and they had both become resigned to their captivity. They both spent their time playing video games, watching DVDs, or sleeping. Both had asked if there was a bathroom they could use and both had been told to use the bucket.

John slid back the bolts to Brett’s room. The boy was sitting on his bed playing a war game on his X-box. The video games had been John’s idea. He figured the video games would take their minds off their predicament and so far it seemed to have worked. Brett looked up as the door opened. He scowled when he saw the Pizza Hut box that John was carrying. “I don’t like pizza,” he said.

“I’ll get you Burger King later,’ said John, tossing the box onto the bed.

“I want to go home,” said the boy, his eyes still on the screen.

“Soon,” said John. “We have to find your mother and father first.”

‘Where are they?”

‘We don’t know. That’s why you have to stay here.”

“I’m bored.”

“It won’t be long,” said John. He gingerly lifted the towel off the bucket. It was empty. “You haven’t been to the toilet.”

“I don’t want to,” said the boy.

“Suit yourself,” said John. He pulled the door closed and slid the bolts across. He’d left the second pizza on the floor and he picked it up and walked slowly down the corridor to the second cell.

The girl was already on her feet by the time he opened the door. “Can I go?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

Tears ran down her cheeks. “You said I could go home today.”

He handed her the pizza box. “I said maybe. We’re still looking for your mum.” Both children had been told the same lie, that something had happened to their mothers and that John would be taking care of them until the police found them. That was the lie that had got Brett and Sharonda into the car. James was upstairs, monitoring the cameras.

“I need to use the bathroom.”

“That’s what the bucket is for.”

“I can’t use a bucket.”

“You have to.”

‘The men who brought us here said they were policemen.”

The Apostles who had picked up the kids had been wearing uniforms. People respected uniforms. Children and adults.

“They were.”

“But this isn’t a police station.”

“This is my house. The police station isn’t a nice place for children. It’s best you stay here until your mother turns up.”

“If it’s your house, it must have a bathroom. Why can’t I use the bathroom?”

“Because you’re safe down here. Now eat your pizza.”

“I don’t like pizza.”

“Everyone likes pizza.”

“I don’t.”

“Well what do you like to eat?”

“Mac and cheese.”

“Okay, I’ll get you mac and cheese.”

“I want my mom’s mac and cheese.”

“Then you’ll have to wait.”

John locked the door and climbed the stairs. He closed the trapdoor that concealed the stairs, and pushed open the door to the hallway. James was lying on a sofa, reading a book.  The CCTV monitors that gave views of the two cells and the walls surrounding the property were on the wall above a desk. James ran a hand through her long blonde hair. “How are they?” she asked.

“They’re eating. They both want to go home.”

James laughed and tossed her hair. “Well that’s not going to happen, is it?”

John shrugged. “So long as they’re quiet, that’s all that matters. I hate it when they cry.”

CHAPTER 5

Nightingale picked up a rental car from Avis at the airport, a blue Ford Escape with less than a thousand miles on the clock, and had bought new clothes at a WalMart.  He booked himself into the La Luna Inn motel and asked for a room away from the main road, Highway 101. Nightingale was dog-tired from traveling, but a shower and change of clothes put him in a fit state to work. He was in a diner drinking coffee and waiting for a burger when his cellphone rang. The number was blocked, but he took the call.

“Is that Jack?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name’s Lee Mitchell. I’ve just spoken to Joshua and he told me to call you.”

“Yeah, he’s out of town.”

“Joshua says you’ll help me.”

“I’ll do my best. Where are you?”

“I don’t know you, Jack. I don’t know you from Adam.”

“I understand. But I work for Wainwright. And he’s told me to take care of you.”

“They’re on to me. And if they get me, they’ll kill me. And worse.”

“I’ve got your back, Lee. Now listen to me. The phone you’re calling me on? Is it yours?”

“It’s a disposable cell with a new Sim card.”

“Good job. But as soon as this call is over, dump it. Use landlines from now on. Public payphones are best. Where are you staying?”

“A hotel. In Oakland.”

“Did you register in your own name?”

“Of course not. And I paid in cash.”

‘Where did you get the cash from?”

“What?”

“The cash. Where did you get it from?”

“An ATM.”

“Near the hotel?”

“Shit. Yes.”

“Don’t go back to that hotel, Lee.  Don’t go anywhere near the ATM. I’ll pick you up.”

“They can track my phone? And my credit cards?”

“It’s possible,” said Nightingale. “In my experience the sort of people you’re dealing with can do pretty much anything they want. What are you wearing?”

“My regular clothes. Polo shirt. Chinos.”

“Buy something else, something you wouldn’t normally wear. A hoodie would be good. And carry something.”

“What?”

“Anything. A carrier bag. A rucksack. Anything that stops you looking like a banker on the run. Now where can I pick you up?”

“I’m scared, Jack.”

“I know you are. But I can help you.”

“When does Joshua get back?”

“Tomorrow. The day after, maybe. He’s overseas. Give me a time and a place, Lee. I’ll take care of you.”

“Okay, okay. How about Alcatraz? There are always lots of tourists around. Take the nine-ten boat tomorrow morning. What’ll you be wearing?”

“Light raincoat, black Levis, brown shoes. I’ve got dark hair and a boyish smile.”

“You think this is funny?”

“I was trying to lighten the moment,” said Nightingale.

“Yeah, well don’t. Just be at Alcatraz tomorrow.”

“Why Alcatraz? Why not just come to my hotel?”

“Because, like I said, I don’t know you and I don’t know who to trust. The only way to Alcatraz is by ferry so I’ll get there early and see everyone who arrives. If I see anything that doesn’t feel right then I’m canceling.” The line went dead.

CHAPTER 6

Nightingale’s rental car came with a dashboard-mounted SatNav. He tapped in the location of the St Thomas More Assisted Living Facility and waited for directions. The voice was female, she sounded blonde and pretty but strict with no discernible sense of humor but she got him where he wanted to be in under thirty minutes. Nightingale parked opposite the facility, switched off the engine of his SUV and lit a cigarette. He opened the window and blew smoke. The building was larger than he’d expected, brighter too, with peach and cream walls and red Spanish-style roofs. The name of the facility was posted above a glass entrance in the center of the building. There were lawns in front, with wooden benches and large planters dotted around for decoration.

His cigarette finished, he headed for the front door.  It was locked, so he pushed the bell. After a minute a tall bald man in a white jacket and black trousers appeared on the other side of the glass door and opened up. “Help you, sir?” he said.

“I’m a reporter,” he said. “Is there someone I can speak to about Mr. O’Hara?”

“It’d be Ms. Winthrop you’d want to see, but she’s busy.”

“I’d only need a few minutes.” He flashed the man his most winning smile.

The man stepped aside to let Nightingale in. “Have a seat and I’ll see if she can see you.”

Nightingale sat on a straight-backed wooden chair. Leading off from the lobby were two corridors, and as he looked down them he could see some of the residents leaving or going back to their rooms. None of them looked to be in good shape. There were powered wheelchairs, oxygen cylinders, walking frames, sticks and everything happened very slowly.

The man in the white coat was back.

“Ms. Winthrop will see you sir, this way.”

He led Nightingale to a dark wooden door, knocked and showed him in. The office was large and bright, with one wall pretty much all window and an expensive looking wooden desk at the far end. It looked solid rather than veneered and there was a matching nameplate on the desk which informed him he was in the presence of Elaine Mayfield Winthrop - Facility Director.

Ms. Winthrop was around forty, blonde, though probably not by birth, wearing black glasses with upswept frames and a dark green business suit, though the desk prevented Nightingale from seeing whether it came with a skirt or pants. She didn’t get up as he entered, and showed no inclination to shake hands. “Please have a seat. Marlon tells me you’re a reporter. How may I help you?”

Nightingale settled into his chair, looked straight into her eyes and smiled again. “I’m working on an article about old folk who disappear, maybe create a little more interest in their cases. People are always far more concerned about children than vulnerable adults. Maybe I could redress the balance a little”

“You’re from England?”

“Yes, but I’ve been working in the States for a few months now.” He flashed her what he hoped was a boyish smile. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Mr. O’Hara?”

“Father Mike, we called him. The police have already asked us a lot of questions.”

“I’m sure,” said Nightingale. “I’m not trying to investigate the case, just maybe try to get a human interest angle on it. It was five weeks ago, is that right?”

“Yes, the eighteenth. We noticed at lunch time that he hadn’t come in, we looked everywhere and found no sign of him.”

“How long had he been here?”

“Five years.”

“And how old was he?”

“He was eighty-three.”

“He was frail?” asked Nightingale.

“Not at all. In fact, for a man of his age, he was in fine physical shape, but he had advanced Alzheimer’s. He didn’t know who he was or where he was. He couldn’t do much for himself. Except light cigarettes and read his Bible.”

“He was a smoker?”

“Yes, a lot of priests are. They tend to drink quite a lot too, but that wasn’t a possibility here. Compensates for giving up other things, or so I’m told. He used to sit on the bench out front whenever the weather was nice enough, like I said, smoking and reading the Bible.”

“You let a man with advanced Alzheimer’s sit out front alone?”

“He wasn’t the sort to wander. It seemed to make him happy, sitting outside. When he first came to join us, he was far more self-aware, and that’s the way he always liked to spend his days. He was quite safe out there, the attendants checked on him every half hour or so, and he always came back in at the lunch or dinner bell.”

“Until the day he didn’t?”

Ms. Winthrop sighed.

“Until the day he didn’t. When we noticed he wasn’t in for lunch, we searched the building and the grounds. His Bible was still on the bench, but not a trace of him. He’d just disappeared. Of course we called the police. We were...are... desperately worried.”

“Were the police any help?”

Ms. Winthrop looked pained. “Not really, no. I filed a missing persons report but I got the impression they weren’t going to do much in the way of a search. I tried the Chronicle but they weren’t interested, either.”

“Can you tell me the name of the officer who took the report?”

“She was a very nice lady came to the school.” She frowned. ”Now what was her name? Inspector Chen, I think?” She pulled open a desk drawer.

“She’s Chinese?”

Mrs. Dalton nodded.” Lovely lady, very sympathetic. She came to see me when I first reported Father missing and said that the police would do their best but I never heard from her again. I did call but she was never in the office. I think I have her card here somewhere. Now where is it?”  She smiled triumphantly. “Ah, here it is.” She handed a business card to Nightingale. On the left of the card was the seal of the San Francisco Police Department and its motto – ‘Gold in Peace, Iron in War’.

“As you’ve probably realized, the police are only really interested if the missing person is a child or a pretty girl. Father Mike was an old man.” She shrugged. “It’s the way of the world, I’m afraid.”

“Could I see his room, if it’s not too much to ask? I’d like to get a feel for the way he lived.”

“I don’t see why not.  His room is as he left it, the diocese had paid his fees until the end of this month so nothing’s been touched.”

“And what happens at the end of the month?”

“We have a long waiting list of potential guests, so in all likelihood his belongings will be put into storage and the room re-allocated. Unless of course, he returns before then.”

“And you don’t think that’ll be happening?”

“To be honest with you, no. He couldn’t have taken care of himself for three weeks, so unless someone has been looking after him.” She shrugged. “It’s horrible, isn’t it? I can’t understand how a man can simply just disappear in this day and age. Anyway, I’ll get Marlon to show you his room. It can’t hurt.”

She touched an intercom button on her desk and asked whoever answered to send Marlon in. The tall, bald man re-appeared inside a minute.

“Marlon, show this gentleman to Father Mike’s room, if you would.” She smiled at Nightingale. “I’m nearly done for the day, so Marlon will show you out when you’re done. Perhaps you’d be good enough to send me a copy of the article when it’s done?”

“I’ll make sure you get a copy. Thanks for chatting to me, I appreciate it.”

Marlon had the door open and ushered Nightingale out. By the time he closed the door behind him, Ms. Winthrop was busying herself with some papers.

Nightingale followed the big man down one of the corridors, past a number of the other residents. 'Guests’ had been Ms. Winthrop’s term for them, but Nightingale though that 'inmates’ might be more appropriate. Wheelchairs, walkers, crutches, sticks and every face showed the pain that any movement brought. Some of them nodded and smiled at Marlon and even looked quizzically at Nightingale, but others stared blankly ahead, and were led along by orderlies. All the movement puzzled Nightingale.

“Where’s everyone going?” he asked.

“Down to the main lounge, I imagine. There’s bingo most nights.”

Marlon stopped outside a room and unlocked it with a master key.

“Here you are, sir. I’ll wait outside, it would be pretty crowded with both of us in there.”

Nightingale stepped into the room. It wasn’t much bigger than a prison cell. The furniture was just an armchair, desk, a wooden chair and a bed, which had raised sides and an electric switch hanging on the wall next to it. Presumably it could be raised by orderlies or nurses. There was also a built-in wardrobe, one half hanging space and the other shelves. Two dark suits, four white shirts, two black ones with clerical collars and a dressing gown were hanging inside. The shelves held underwear, handkerchiefs, socks and a scarf. Everything was freshly-laundered and pressed.

There was a small bathroom attached, It was immaculately clean, with unused white towels on the rails. The toilet, basin and bath were green with handrails placed next to all of them. There was a mirrored cabinet over the basin, which held only a toothbrush, paste and two wrapped bars of soap. Presumably Father Mike hadn’t been permitted a razor.

Nightingale walked back into the bedroom. Apart from the clothes, there were almost no personal touches to the place. There was a clean water glass on top of the bedside cabinet, but nothing else. Nightingale took a look through the drawers, but they were all empty, except the top one which contained an old Bible. Nightingale flicked through some of the dog-eared pages. It had obviously been well read over the years. He slipped it into his raincoat pocket, and opened the door to the corridor.

Marlon was leaning against the wall, his arms folded. “Thanks, Marlon. I can find my own way out.”

The big man gave his head a little shake. “Ms. Winthrop said to see you out, so I’ll walk to the main door with you.”

He didn’t actually say, 'and make sure you leave,’ but Nightingale thought the implication was clear. Marlon showed Nightingale out and pulled the door closed behind him. Nightingale lit a cigarette and blew smoke up at the darkening sky. He was trying to blow a smoke ring when the door opened again and Ms. Winthrop walked out, carrying a leather briefcase. She saw the cigarette in his hand. “Those things will kill you, you know.”

“They certainly will, Ms. Winthrop. Still, I’ve heard that non-smokers all die too.” Now she was standing next to him he could see that the business suit came with a skirt that finished a few inches above the knee. The glasses had gone, and so had a little of her formal office manner.

“But smokers die sooner.”

“Can I be honest with you?” he said. “Maybe that’s no bad thing. I’m not sure that the extra years would be worth the sacrifice.” He gestured at the door. “No offense, But I’m not sure I’d want to be a guest in there.”

“I suppose a quick tour of our facility isn’t the best advert for prolonging life to its limits. You have another one of those?”

Nightingale proffered the pack, then lit her cigarette. She took a drag, trickled smoke slowly out of her nose, then looked carefully at the glowing end. “Eight years,” she said quietly.

“You gave up eight years ago? Why start again today?”

“I only gave up buying them eight years ago. I still borrow one from time to time. Just an occasional display of rebellion in the great State of Conformity.” She sighed and took another drag.

“Long day?”

“They all are. Where are you staying?”

He told her.

“Do you need a ride? Taxis don’t often prowl for fares round here and I’m headed downtown.”

“I’m okay, thanks. I’ve got a car. Do you have a card? In case I need anything else?”

“Sure.” She took out a metal card-holder, opened it and handed him a crisp white business card. “What about you? Do you have a card? In case something comes up.”

“I’m out,” he lied. He took out a pen. “But I can write my number on one of yours.”

“A reporter without a notebook and cards. This is a first.”

She handed him another card and Nightingale wrote down his number and gave it back.

“At least you have a cell,” she said, pocketing the card. She smoked the last of her cigarette, crushed the butt underfoot and gave him a small wave. “Good luck with your story.”

CHAPTER 7

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

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

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

Nothing.

The pink crystal remained motionless.

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

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

“I need your help, Mrs Steadman.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nightingale could hear the concern in her voice.

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

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

“Have you come across anything like this before?”

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

“What do you mean 'non-believers’?”

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

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

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

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give me a cigarette.”

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

“Joshua can give you that.”

“But he’s not here, is he?”

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

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

“A girl?”

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

“And she introduced you to the coven?”

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

“Branding?”

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

“What sort of brands?”

“Satanic stuff.”

“And this girl introduced you to Abaddon?”

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

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

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

“Who was this guy?”

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

“You make it sound normal.” said Nightingale.

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

“What was the next level?”

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

“Heavy.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You have to know what you’re doing.”

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

Nightingale stiffened. “Dog?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For your soul.”

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

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

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

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

“You’ve met her?”

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

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

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

“Was she an Apostle?”

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

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

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

“And you prove your trust by killing?”

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

“Leading to what?”

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

“According to this Abaddon?”

“She knows what she’s doing, Jack.”

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

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

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

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

“And you recognized him?” asked Nightingale.

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

Nightingale looked at him blankly.

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

Nightingale shook his head.

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

“You’re sure it was him?”

“No question.”

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

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

“What’s that?”

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

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

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

“Tell me about the second time.”

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

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

“And you recognized her too?”

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

“Who?” asked Nightingale.

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

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

“All the way by the sound of it, but anyway she started on TV. That Blood Network show. How does someone that famous get involved in shit like that?”

“Perhaps it’s getting involved in shit that brought the fame?” said Nightingale. “Why did you get in touch with Joshua?”

“Because I realized I wanted out and I figured I couldn’t just walk away,” said Mitchell.

“You knew they were going to sacrifice people, right?”

Mitchell’s face screwed up as if he was about to cry. “I knew, but I didn’t know,” he said. “It’s like I got sucked in and the more I got sucked in the less horrific it was. But when they killed the nun…”

“You wanted out?”

Mitchell nodded.

“Do you know who they wanted you to sacrifice?”

“They were going to get the victim for me. Two of the Apostles are experts at abductions. Don’t ask me how, but they can abduct people to order, pretty much. All they told me was that I would have to saw the victim into pieces while they were alive.”

“Did Abaddon tell you how many sacrifices are left?”

Mitchell shook his head.

“But I was told these sacrifices are just the beginning. A way to store up power inside their circle, and bind each of them to this leader, Abaddon. But it’s all building up to something much bigger, and that’s coming up real soon. When they first started, the Sabbats were on the full moon. But they’re coming quicker now. Every week. And they’re building to something big. Something really big.”

“What and when?”

“They wouldn’t tell me,” said Mitchell. “They said I’d find out once I was initiated.”

“What about the leader? Abaddon? What can you tell me about her?”

“Just a name to me,” said Mitchell. “She gave the orders, but I never saw her without the mask. The masks muffle the voice, so I don’t even know what she sounds like, but I do know she’s pretty damned powerful. I’ve seen her grant favors to her followers, call down power for them, bring them success in what they want. It was what I was hoping she’d do for me. Look, time’s running out for me. A black SUV turned up at my house. That’s when I ran.  I have to get away from San Francisco, chances are I’m being overlooked right now, they’ll catch up with me soon.”

“Overlooked?” said Nightingale.

“Yeah, a powerful Satanist can do that, go up to the Astral and follow someone from there. Abaddon’s more powerful than you’d believe.” His whole body was shaking and he had trouble getting the cigarette to his lips. “I won’t be safe until I’m out of the country with a new name and a new identity,” said Mitchell.

“Almost there,” said Nightingale. “Come back with me to my motel and we’ll wait there. I’m at the La Luna Inn on 101.”

Mitchell shook his head. “No, I’ve been safe enough over the last couple of days on my own. Let’s keep it that way until Joshua gets back.”

“That’s crazy,” said Nightingale. “I can protect you.”

“Against Abaddon? I don’t think so. I’ll go back to the mainland, you stay here. Watch my back. If you see anyone get onto the ferry who looks like they’re following me, phone me or text. Then when Joshua lands, I’ll come to you.”

“What are you doing for money?”

“I’ve got some.”

Nightingale took out his wallet and gave him a handful of bills and a credit card. “Use this if you need more cash, but not in a store,” he said, and gave him the PIN number. “Don’t use anything with your name on it. And change your SIM card often. Each time you change it, send me a text so I can stay in touch.”

Mitchell nodded. He pocketed the notes and card. “You see anything, call me while I’m on the ferry. Otherwise I’ll see you at your motel once Joshua gets here.”

He turned to go but Nightingale put a hand on his shoulder.

“Be careful, Lee,” he said.

Mitchell nodded, flicked away the remains of his cigarette, and headed down towards the ferry. Nightingale watched him go. He wasn’t happy about Mitchell staying out in the cold, but it was his call. There was nothing Nightingale could do to force Mitchell to go with him. And besides, it was only one more day.

CHAPTER 9

Mitchell walked down the gangplank, pulled his hood even further forward and headed off down Fisherman’s Wharf. He kept his head down and didn’t notice the two uniformed police officers blocking his way until he almost bumped into them. He moved to walk around them but one of them put a hand on his arm. “Lee Mitchell?” he asked.

Mitchell shook his head. “No,” he said, and tried to push his way by. The officer tightened his grip on the arm. The second officer moved to Mitchell’s other side. “What is this?” he said. He felt a sudden stab of pain in his left arm and almost immediately his legs buckled.

The two officers grabbed his arms and dragged him to the cruiser, his shoes scraping across the sidewalk.

“Looks like you’ve had too much to drink, Sir,” said one of the officers for the benefit of anyone walking by but no one paid them any attention, those that weren’t looking at their smartphones were caught up in their own thoughts. The officers pushed Mitchell into the back of the cruiser and drove off, followed by a black SUV.

CHAPTER 10

Nightingale caught the next ferry back to the mainland and took a cab to the motel. He collected his SUV and drove to the Mission Street library, a square gray building on a corner lot. He parked the SUV, went inside and found a free computer. He Googled Kent Speckman and Lucille Carr. There was plenty of online information about them both, though nothing that connected them. He got home addresses for them and pictures of their houses. He then spent the next hour looking for Christians who had been abducted over the past six months, but Googling “Missing Christians” didn’t help. He tried Googling missing nuns, priests, monks, church-going spinsters, choristers. Then he narrowed down the list by focusing on disappearances that had occurred the week before a full moon. That gave him several possibilities.

A seventeen year old boy from Santa Clara hadn’t been seen for five days. Morton Steele, a straight-A student, though something of a loner, hadn’t come home from school that day. He was a regular church-goer, and an altar server at St Anthony’s. The photo showed a pale, chubby face, ginger hair and round metal-framed glasses with thick lenses.

A church organist had gone missing in Oakland, Caroline Shaw, described as a “devout Christian” had failed to show up to play at a service six months before, and had apparently not been seen since.

An unmarried woman of seventy from Nob Hill had been reported missing by neighbors. Shirley Davenport, had last been seen after she’d been to St Michael’s church to arrange flowers on a Friday night, and her car had not been found. The accompanying photo showed a thin-faced old woman with round glasses and thinning gray hair. Probably a lovely personality though, thought Nightingale, but he did have the good grace to feel guilty about it afterward.

One more seemed to fit. A monk had gone missing from Our Lady Of Spring Bank Cistercian Monastery out near Santa Teresa. Brother Gregory West had last been seen working in the monastery vineyards nine months ago, but had not come in for evening service. The monastery grounds had been searched extensively, but no trace of him had ever been found. Police had appealed for witnesses, especially anyone who might have been driving along the main road that passed the bottom end of the vineyard, but there had been no sightings.

Nightingale printed out the details of the four new cases along with all the information he had on Speckman and Carr, collected the sheets from the desk, paid and left.

Back in the SUV, he tapped in Kent Speckman’s address and followed the Satnav’s directions for twenty minutes to a large modern house, the type often disparagingly called a McMansion, churned out to order like cheeseburgers. He climbed out and lit a Marlboro as he stared through the twelve-feet high wrought iron gates. The mansion was set back from the road, red brick with a brown slate roof, and a triple garage to the left. The high wall that ran around the boundary was free of spikes or barbed wire but well covered with CCTV cameras and two more cameras covered the gate. There were signs on the wall saying that the house was under the armed protection of a local security company. As he turned back to his SUV an SFPD cruiser pulled up and a female officer climbed out, short and dumpy with hair so uniformly chestnut that it could only have been dyed.

“Good afternoon, sir.  Is this your car?”

“It’s a rental,” said Nightingale.

“License and registration, please?”

Nightingale went back to the car, opened the glove compartment and gave her the rental agreement before fishing his driver’s license out of his wallet.

She checked the documents and handed them back. “Thank you, sir. Why are you waiting here?”

Nightingale had learned over many years that cops never responded well to sarcasm so he played it straight. “My wife’s thinking of moving up here officer, so I was looking at houses, trying to get a feel for the area. I needed a cigarette, and I don’t like smoking when I’m driving.”

“You’re Australian?”

“British.”

“But you have a US license?”

“I’ve lived here for a while.”

“Green card?”

Nightingale nodded. “My wife’s American.”

The officer nodded. “This is a residential area, sir, and people get a little nervous if they see strange cars parked here. Maybe you could find a mall car park to smoke in. That’s generally what I do.”

“I’ll do that, thank you.”

“No problem, sir. Enjoy your day.”

She went back to the cruiser, but was obviously waiting for him to leave first. He reset the Satnav with the location of the Rite Aid on Hillsdale Boulevard where Mitchell had left his Porsche and drove away while she watched. He had no idea whether the cruiser had been on patrol, or whether someone had noticed a strange car and called it in. Either way, a surveillance job outside Speckman’s house wasn’t going to be possible. The officer would have logged his license and the car registration. He checked his mirror, just in time to watch a white Humvee drive out of Speckman´s gates and head in the opposite direction.

He followed the ice blonde’s curt instructions but even with light traffic it took more than forty minutes to get to the Rite Aid. That ruled out the Speckman mansion as being the place where the nun was killed, but Nightingale had expected that. Finding the mansion where the killings were taking place was going to require more detective work. And probably a decent helping of luck.

CHAPTER 11

The little middle-aged woman was talking. Her voice was soft but persistent, like a teacher twittering away at her young pupils, filling every moment of potential silence with inconsequential noise. “Ah, you’re awake, Mr. Mitchell,” she said. “I am sorry about the inconvenience. I’ll try not to keep you too long, I’m sure you have a thousand things to do. You’ve probably got quite the headache and aren’t feeling at your best. It’s a nasty little drug that, but very quick acting, you probably didn’t even feel the little prick.”

Mitchell shook his head, and instantly regretted the decision - the left side of his face was on fire. He tried to raise his hand to it, but couldn’t move it. He dropped his gaze and saw the duct tape that held his wrists firmly to the arms of the chair. His ankles were bound to the chair legs. Something had been stuffed in his mouth and he couldn’t speak. He was naked. All his clothes lay, neatly folded, in a pile on the floor in front of him. The woman stood in front of him, her green tweed jacket on the sofa, her crisply-starched white blouse with the loose black bow at the throat reinforcing the image of the schoolmistress. Her graying brown hair was wrapped in a tight bun, and she wore black leather gloves.

He moved his eyes, rather than his head, to look around. It was a large garage, though there was no car, just the sofa, a teak sideboard and the chair on which he was sitting. The chair was bolted to metal brackets, which were firmly fastened to the floor. Plastic sheeting covered the floor. In one corner stood a mop and bucket. The woman twittered on. “As I said, I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, but I do have some questions for you.”

Mitchell struggled to speak, but she put a cautioning finger to his lips.

“Not yet, Mr. Mitchell. There’ll be time enough for you to speak later.”

She walked across to the teak sideboard, picked up a small brass plate and held it in front of him. There was a blood-stained piece of flesh, placed exactly in the middle. Mitchell gazed at it in horror, and strained against the duct tape. Neither his wrists nor his ankles moved an inch.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s a bit of a cliché this business of tying you to a chair, isn’t it. I do hope you won’t chide me for it. If I were on...er...home territory, so to speak, I’m sure I could have come up with something more imaginative which you might have appreciated a little more, but I’ve just borrowed this place for an hour or two. Now, let me show you these.”

She held up a large pair of shears.

“Quite beautiful these. Cost much more than you might imagine. Fabric shears. For cutting cloth you know. Chrome vanadium steel, apparently, and ever so sharp. Though it does depend on the strength of one’s hand, you see. Now my grip is a lot stronger than you might imagine, and I have managed to cut off a finger or two from time to time. No, no, keep still now. If I were at home, I’d much prefer to use bolt cutters for that, but a lady can hardly carry bolt cutters through the streets, can she. Whereas these, a roll of tape and one or two other useful little things fit nicely into my large reticule. I suppose if anyone asked, I could say I used them for dressmaking. Still, I’m hardly likely to be stopped by the police.”

Mitchell continued to strain against the tape, with no success. The woman’s voice was gentle, kind, almost reassuring, like a mother trying to soothe her child to sleep. But the words, the words were the seeds of nightmare.

“I don’t really like to use it to cut bone, it seems a little crude, like using an artist’s paintbrush on the outside wall of a house. Besides, there are so many soft parts to the human body. I like to start on the unimportant ones. Do you recognize this, Mr. Mitchell?”

She raised the brass plate with its grizzly contents into his line of sight. He strained upwards and grunted.

“Yes, that’s right, it’s your earlobe, the left one. Now, shall we even things up on the right-hand side?”

Mitchell shook his head violently and desperately strained to speak.

“No? I’m sure it would look much more symmetrical. Still, it’s entirely your choice, at the moment.”

She dropped her voice to a whisper, and gave him a conspiratorial wink.

“I tell you what we’ll do...why don’t I take that nasty gag out of your mouth and then you can tell me one or two things I’d like to know. Just a few easy little questions, and then you can be running along. But no noise now, and no fibs. We’re all alone here, nobody about to hear you scream, and there’s some awfully good soundproofing too. I can easily put the gag back in if you get tiresome, and after that it might not be up to you to decide which little bits you stay attached to.”

She gave his groin a gentle pat and Mitchell practically had a seizure. He nodded his head frantically.

“Oh good. I’m sure we won’t have any misunderstandings. Remember now, no noise, and no fibs.”

Again he nodded, and the woman gently removed the gag.

“Now then, Mr. Mitchell. I’d like you to tell me what you did this morning.”

“Nothing,” he said. “I’d been sleeping on the streets and was heading for the Amtrak station.”

The woman gave him a disapproving look and shook her head.

“Tut, tut. I do believe that’s a fib,” she said

She hummed a little tune to herself and lifted the shears to his right ear. She gave him a kindly smile, then snipped off the lobe. Mitchell screamed and strained against the tightly wound duct-tape. Blood poured down his cheek and onto his shoulder.

“OK, OK,” he shouted. “I went to Alcatraz and met someone. He was going to help me.”

“And the name of this obliging gentleman?” she asked

“Jack.”

She tilted her head to one side, pushed her lips out and frowned.

“I think I’d prefer his full name, if you’d be so kind.”

She placed the shears over his left nipple and squeezed the handle gently.

“No, no. That’s the name he gave me. I don’t know any more than that. Jack. That’s all he said. I swear.”

Again he roared in pain as the blades closed. She moved over to the right nipple. He babbled at her.

“I swear, no please, I swear, that’s all he said, he was going to get me out, he wanted me to go with him but I said no.”

“Go where?”

“His motel. La Luna Inn. It’s on 101.”

“Do you have a telephone number for this Jack?”

“In my phone.”

The phone lay on the pile of clothes, she picked it up and checked the contacts log. “That’s a good boy,” she said. She put the phone down again and walked to stand in front of him. She stroked his cheek. “Now I want you to tell me everything that you told this Jack. Everything. Don’t leave anything out.”

“Then you’ll let me go?”

She patted his cheek gently. “Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it, shall we?”

CHAPTER 12

Nightingale grabbed a croissant and a coffee from a Starbucks and ate as he drove to the school where Sister Rosa Lopez had taught until a month ago. The school was in a less than exclusive district. The houses were in poor repair, the cars generally old and rusty and most of the shops seemed to sell liquor or fast food. There was a car park at one side of the school building and he found a space for his SUV and walked into reception. A dark-haired woman of forty or so squinted over the top of her glasses at him. “Good morning, sir. How can we help you?”

“My name’s Jack Keeley, I’m a reporter, working on a story about the disappearance of Sister Rosa Lopez,” he said. “I was wondering if there might be someone who could help me with a few questions.”

“One moment please, sir,” she said. “I’ll see if our Administrative Officer is available.” She made a quick phone call and then directed him down a corridor to see a Mrs. Dalton. 'Susan J Dalton. Administrative Officer’ was the sign on the door. Nightingale knocked and was told to come in. Mrs. Dalton was in her fifties, her brown hair worn short, just to the bottom of her ears. She stood up, came round from behind her desk and gave Nightingale what felt like a practiced, firm business handshake. She was wearing a dark green tweed jacket and skirt over a white blouse. “You’re a reporter?”

“I’m a freelance,” said Nightingale.

“You’re English?” She waved him to a chair.

Nightingale nodded. “My accent gave me away?”

“I’m a huge fan of Downton Abbey,” she said, sitting back behind her desk. “I love the accent. But why is an English journalist interested in a missing member of our staff?”

“I’m writing a general article about missing people and how different police forces approach their cases.”

“And why are you interested in Sister Rosa?”

“Because she’s not the normal missing person. Nuns don’t usually go AWOL.”

Mrs. Dalton nodded. “We’re all baffled by her disappearance,” she said. “But I’m not sure what I can tell you that hasn’t already appeared in the Chronicle. There was a lot of interest when she first went missing and they wrote several articles, but now…” She shrugged. “People have such short attention spans these days.”

“It’s the internet,” said Nightingale. “What did Sister Rosa do here?”

“She taught Spanish and some French.”

“Had she always been a nun?” asked Nightingale.

“Well, I’m not actually sure what age people start, but I think she went into the convent straight from college. I never asked.”

“She lived in a convent?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Convent of the Holy Virgin. She’d drive back there after school each day.”

Nightingale hadn’t known that nuns could drive, but then he hadn’t known much about nuns in general. The photo on the Missing Persons report showed a middle-aged woman wearing black-framed glasses and a blue headscarf which covered her hair. Nightingale had no idea what a nun’s headscarf was called. She looked a little older than her fifty-three years, probably since she didn’t have the opportunity to enhance her looks with the usual array of help that the modern woman had at her disposal. Nightingale supposed that nuns didn’t do Botox, collagen, fillers and facelifts.

Mrs. Dalton appeared to be waiting for his next question so he nodded encouragingly.  “Can you talk me through the day of her disappearance?” he said.

“She taught her classes as normal, left here at four according to John Wheeler, one of our history teachers, who walked out with her. It’s about a thirty-minute drive to Holy Virgin, but she never arrived. She drove a white Chrysler, and the police haven’t found a trace of it, or her. It’s awful.” Her eyes were full of tears now, and she fumbled for a handkerchief in her purse. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Nightingale leaned forward. “There’s no need for apologies,” he said. “It’s perfectly natural. You obviously think a lot of her.”

The woman dabbed her eyes and put the handkerchief back in her purse.

“Everyone does. She’s such a good, kind person. Always so understanding with the students. She was a natural teacher.”

“Who took the missing person’s report?” he asked.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“When you contacted the missing persons unit. Who did you talk to?”

“An Inspector Chan. Or Chen. Do you think the police will find her?”

Nightingale knew that Sister Rosa was dead and had died horribly, but there was no way he could tell Mrs. Dalton that so he forced a smile. “I hope so,” he said.

CHAPTER 13

The little dumpy woman took out a small and simple cellphone in a tartan case and tapped out a number. “It’s Judas,” she said. “All done. I have information for you, so perhaps we should meet.”

“Soon. Meanwhile tell me whom he talked to.”

“A man named Jack, apparently an agent of someone called Wainwright.”

“I have heard of Wainwright. This could be problematic. Was it messy?”

“I’m afraid so, yes.”

“I shall send Matthew around to help clean up.”

“That would be most helpful, thank you. And I have something that belongs to this Jack. A credit card. He gave it to Mr. Mitchell.”

“Excellent. Bring it with you.”

She ended the call and sat on the sofa with her hands in her lap. Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang and she went to the front door and opened it. Matthew was a tall, dark-haired man in a pair of blue overalls bearing the name of a cable company.

She took him through to the garage. It wasn’t the first time that Matthew had seen the results of her handiwork, and he wasn’t a squeamish man, but he felt himself start to retch as he looked at what was left in the chair. He forced the bile back down and set to work with the wrench and knife. He cut the duct tape, unbolted the chair and dumped the contents onto the plastic sheet. He rolled it up, being careful not to allow any parts to escape, then wrapped the package with more duct tape. He brought in a large black nylon bag and with the woman’s help maneuvered Mitchell’s remains inside. The woman looked around the garage.

“Another hour’s cleaning for me, I think,” she said.

“Thaddeus has brought the van round,” said Matthew. “He’ll help me, then we’ll go straight down to the boat.”

“Good. But find somewhere quiet, and close to the shore. Abaddon wants this one found and quite soon. To send a message, it seems. You should have no trouble, arrangements have been made to ensure no interruptions.”

“Of course. See you later,” said Matthew.

“Yes, indeed,” she said.

She hummed her little tune again, as she headed for the mop and bucket. She planned to leave the tiled floor as sparkling clean as she always did. She did so hate a mess.

CHAPTER 14

Nightingale was eating a ham and cheese sandwich in his room when there was a double knock on his door, followed a couple of seconds later by another double knock, louder this time.  He put down his sandwich and padded in his bare feet over to the door. He pressed his eye against the door viewer. There was an Asian woman standing in the corridor, wearing a gray suit, her long black hair tied back in a ponytail. Her right hand was at an unusual angle and he realised she was getting ready to draw a weapon. A cop, he figured. He opened the door and smiled at her. “Amy Chen?” he said.

She frowned and her hand tensed. “Now how would you know that?”

“Because I don’t now anyone in this city. Because you look like a cop. And because I was told that a Chinese detective was investigating the disappearance of Michael O’Hara. Father Mike. I figure Ms Winthrop told you I’d been to see her.”

She nodded slowly. “Nice deduction,” she said.  “Inspector Amy Chen. SFPD. Can I come in?”

“I’m not really geared up for guests,” he said. “But I’m more than happy to help San Francisco’s finest.” He held open the door. “I didn’t tell Ms Winthrop where I was staying, though.”

“No, but they took down the number of your car and you gave the hotel desk the registration number when you checked in.”

Nightingale closed the door and he waved her over to one chair in the room, by the dressing table. She sat down and adjusted her jacket. There was a holstered Glock on her hip. She stared at him for several seconds. “Do you have some ID you can show me?”

“Sure,” he said, taking out his wallet. He handed her a California driver’s license. It was one of the many forms of ID that Wainwright had given him and Nightingale had been assured it would stand up to any scrutiny. Inspector Chen studied it and then gave it back.

“And why are you in San Francisco?”

“I’m a journalist. Freelance. I’m putting together a story on missing persons.” He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“You’re English?”

Nightingale nodded.

“With a California driver’s licence?”

“I’m here a lot. The States, I mean. Not San Francisco.”

“Green card?”

“No. Can I ask you a question?”

“That’s not normally how it works.”

Nightingale smiled. “I know. I just wondered why you’re here.”

“Why do you think I’m here?”

Nightingale looked into her eyes. But like policemen the world over, Amy Chen’s eyes gave nothing away. He smiled. “The Bible.”

“Got it in one,” said Chen. “So you admit stealing it?”

“I borrowed it,” said Nightingale. He stood up. As he moved, the detective’s hand shifted towards the butt of her Glock. Nightingale raised his hands. “I’m just going to get it from the drawer.”

“Why don’t you sit back down and I’ll get it,” said Chen. Nightingale did as he was told. The detective went over to the bedside table, opened the drawer and took out the Bible. As she bent down he saw a can of mace in a holster on the opposite hip to where the gun was. She went back to the dressing table but didn’t sit down. “Do you want to tell me why you stole it?”

“I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it. I had every intention of returning it.”

“You still haven’t told me why.”

“I wanted some background. Father Mike spent a lot of time with his Bible. He made notes in it.” He shrugged. “I thought the notes would be helpful.”

“Were they?”

“Not really.”

Chen looked at him without speaking. It was a cop’s trick, he knew. Leave a long silence and eventually the suspect would say something, anything, to break it.

“What are you thinking, Inspector Chen? Are you thinking that I’m the killer and wanted a souvenir?”

“Who said anything about a killing?” said Chen, quickly.

“Killing. Kidnapping. What’s the difference?”

“At the moment Father Mike is just a missing person. Or do you know something the SFPD don’t?”

“He’s been missing for a while. Most missing people turn up within a few days.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You seem to know a lot about detective work.”

“I watch a lot of TV. Big fan of Law And Order.”

“And what got you started on Father Mike’s case?”

“I’m looking at unusual cases. And he’s unusual, that’s for sure.”

“What are the other cases you’re looking at?”

Nightingale reached into his raincoat pocket and took out the printed sheets that Wainwright had given him - Sister Rosa, Suzanne Mills and Father Mike.

She flicked through the sheets, nodding. “These are all my cases,” she said. She grimaced at the Mills sheet. “Suzanne was walking home from choir practice and never showed up. No history of problems. I’ve always had a bad feeling about Suzanne.”

“Because she was a pretty girl?”

Her charcoal eyes narrowed. “You say ‘was’ like you know something, Jack?”

“Slip of the tongue,’ he said. “Have you made any progress on the three cases?” he asked.

“No. Not really.”

“They’re not the typical missing persons cases, am I right?”

“A nun, a priest and a choir girl, no, I’d say not.”

“Like I said, most missing persons turn up eventually, don’t they?”

She nodded. “Ninety-nine per cent. And those that stay missing are usually alive and well but have a good reason for staying missing. Abusive spouse, debts they can’t pay, the cops on their trail. To be honest, most of my work is just keeping track of who is missing and who has turned up. The difference between the two is quite small and as I said, most of them have gone missing voluntarily.”

“And these three?”

Inspector Chen sighed. “Father Mike and Sister Rosa aren’t priorities, obviously. I checked all the hospitals and the morgues but other than that...” She left the sentence unfinished. Nightingale assumed that like police officers around the world she was overworked and underpaid. “The girl, I was more concerned about abduction but no one saw her being taken. I spoke to the family, no problems at home, and I checked her social media and she didn’t seem to be planning to run away with a boyfriend.” She smiled. “Or girlfriend. I did the basic checks, now we wait.”

“Wait?”

“To see if she turns up. I put her name in all the databases, if she tries to get on a plane or use her credit card or comes into contact with the police, I’ll be notified. And we check her against all Jane Does as they come in.”

“But other than that, the investigation has gone cold?”

“We’ve got priorities. You know about the two ten-year-olds who went missing last week?”

Nightingale shook his head.

“Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker. Both just plain vanished.”

“Any connection?”

“None that we can see. He’s white and from a good family, she’s black, mother’s a single parent. They live on opposite sides of town. But they went missing on the same day.”

“Coincidence?”

“I hope so.”

“You hope so?”

“If it’s the same guy then he could strike again. If they’re just missing and they turn up, then all’s well that ends well.”

“You’re assuming a guy.”

She shrugged. “Women don’t usually abduct children, other than family members. And we’ve run all the usually family checks on both kids. Missing kids are always our priority.”

“Sure, of course. I hope they turn up.”

“You and me both.” She gave him back the papers. “So when are you going to level with me?”

“Level with you?”

She smiled coldly. “You’re a journalist but you don’t take notes. You ask cop questions. And you’ve got a cop’s eyes.”

Nightingale forced a smile, but his mind was racing. He couldn’t tell her the truth, but she’d already seen through one lie. All he could do was to try to tell her a better lie. And a better lie was one that was closer to the truth. “You’ve got me,” he said. “I’m a private eye.”

“An English private eye working in the States. I’m not sure I buy that.”

“Father Mike has relatives back in Ireland. They want to know what’s happened to him.”

Inspector Chen pulled a face as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. “They think we’re not up to the job, is that it?”

“They understand that you have priorities and they wanted to make sure that everything that can be done is being done. And I think there might be a financial motive too.”

“How that?”

“Father Mike still has some assets back in Ireland. Some land and a farm that’s rented out. If he disappears then it’ll be at least seven years before they can get their hands on it. But if he dies…”  He shrugged. “They didn’t say that of course, they acted all concerned about his welfare, but it seemed to me if they were all that concerned they’d have taken care of him themselves and not dumped him in an old folks home.”

“But why are you looking at these three cases?”

“Because like you I couldn’t make sense of the fact that he’s just vanished. Old people don’t disappear into thin air. They have accidents and end up in hospital, or the morgue, or they turn up homeless on the streets, or they make their way back home. If Father Mike really has disappeared, then that has to be because someone did something to him. I don’t see that an old priest can have made many enemies so I started thinking that perhaps someone has it in for Catholics.”

Inspector Chen’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“I started looking into missing persons cases in the city and I came up with these three. All Catholics, all vanished without trace, all with no valid reason for disappearing.” Her phone buzzed and she took the call, turning away from Nightingale and cupping her hand over her mouth so he couldn’t hear what she was saying. When she’d finished she put the phone away. “Duty calls,” she said. She picked up the Bible. “I’ll return this. Don’t go borrowing things again without asking.”

“I won’t.  Can we talk again?”

“You can’t come to the precinct,” she said. “I can’t be seen talking to a private eye.” She smiled. “Or a journalist. Or a tourist either, for that matter.”

“Let’s make it social then,” said Nightingale. “Look, I’m going to be digging into these cases, I might come up with something helpful. I’m happy to share anything I find with you.”

She nodded slowly and then shrugged. “What the hell. Most nights we have a few drinks down at Raw Bar, just down the road from the precinct.  If you swing by there and say hello, I don’t see that’d be a problem. Just don’t lie to me next time.”

“It’s a date,” said Nightingale, and grinned at her look of surprise. “Joke,” he said.

“That’d be that famous English sense of humor I’ve heard so much about,” she said. “I don’t get it.” She flashed him a tight smile and let herself out of the room.

CHAPTER 15

Nightingale had just climbed into bed when his cellphone rang. He glanced at the display. It was Wainwright. “Jack? Where are you?”

“In bed? My motel.”

“Did you tell Mitchell where you were staying?”

“Sure. But he didn’t want to come back with me. I’m seeing him tomorrow.”

“Get out of there now,” said Wainwright. “Call me from your car.”

The line went dead. Nightingale rolled out of bed, dressed, grabbed his belongings and hurried out of his room, taking the back way to get to his car. As he left the car park, he narrowly missed hitting a black SUV. Nightingale realised he’d forgotten to switch his lights on. He flicked them on and accelerated away from the motel. He drove for five minutes before calling Wainwright. “What’s going on, Joshua? What’s the panic?”

“Mitchell’s dead. A cop on my payroll just called me to say they found his body on Alcatraz. Or what was left of his body, it was missing a lot of pretty essential parts. They’re thinking he was chewed up by a boat propeller. I’m thinking he wasn’t.”

“I saw him get on the ferry, back to the mainland.”

“So whoever killed him dumped him back in the sea. I’m not happy about this.”

“I’m not thrilled, either.” He stopped at a red light and tapped the steering wheel impatiently, then realised he didn’t actually know where he was going.

“I sent you to take care of him,” said Wainwright.

“He wouldn’t go with me. He said he felt safer on his own.”

“Well that didn’t work out well for him, did it?”

“Joshua, I could hardly march him back at gunpoint.”

“You should have persuaded him. But that’s water under the bridge. Looks like they had questions for him and my guess would be he answered them. Which means they know all about you. And me. I’m pretty safe, you, not so much. I doubt they’ll welcome interference, so watch yourself.  Find yourself a new hotel.”

“Joshua, I might have a problem. I gave Mitchell one of my credit cards.”

“Shit. A skilled Adept could track you through that pretty easily, no matter what name is on it. Jack, you’re going have to watch your back. These people don’t fool around and you’re in their sights now.”

“I hear you,” said Nightingale, ending the call. The light turned to green and he drove off in search of a place to stay.

CHAPTER 16

Nightingale booked himself into a cheap hotel just off Market Street. He shoved a chair under the door handle before undressing and climbing into bed. But he slept fitfully and woke up every time he heard footsteps outside. He climbed out of bed at eight o’clock the next morning, showered and shaved and grabbed a coffee and a Danish before heading back to the hotel car park. He walked around for a good ten minutes before he was sure the car wasn’t being watched but his heart was still pounding like a jackhammer as he unlocked the door and climbed in. He switched on the GPS, tapped in the location of Mitchell’s house and took a bite of his Danish as he waited for directions.  It was less than thirty minutes before he pulled up in front of Mitchell’s house. It was modern and large, painted pink with white window-frames. There was a black Porsche 911 in the graveled driveway.  Nightingale drove slowly by and found a place to park a short walk away, by the side of a pizza restaurant. He locked the SUV and walked slowly back to the house. It was a nice enough neighborhood, the houses were well-maintained and there were several dog-walkers on the sidewalk. A woman in a pink tracksuit with her dyed blonde hair pinned back in a ponytail flashed him a smile as she jogged by.

He walked by the Porsche and saw that the driver’s door was ajar.  The front door of the house was firmly shut though and he rang the bell twice, before walking around the side of the house. There were French doors that opened onto a small terrace. Nightingale tried the handles and the doors opened. He stood and listened for a full minute before stepping inside.

“Anyone in here?’ he shouted, just to cover himself. His voice echoed but there was no reply and he stepped into the living room. He quickly went through the house. It was expensively furnished with plenty of black leather furniture, thick cream carpets, high ceilings and top-end appliances. Mitchell had an extensive collection of books, but none of them dealt with the occult. Nightingale had no real idea what he might be looking for, which always made a search more difficult. There was no sign of a computer or a laptop, but there was space on a the desk in the study where one might have been. There was no iPad or smart phone but there was a PlayStation 4 plugged into a massive TV and a collection of games scattered across a coffee table.

There was a dining room with a long black wooden table and eight matching chairs.  A pair of silver candelabras stood at either end, but there was no tablecloth or places laid. There were another two candelabras on a black sideboard, either side of an ebony case containing solid silver cutlery. He pulled open the sideboard doors but there was only expensive crockery inside.

He went upstairs. Mitchell’s master bedroom also came with cream carpet. There was a huge bed with black sheets and quilt cover. A giant TV hung on the wall opposite. Nightingale opened the closets on a large selection of designer suits, hand made shoes and shelves full of shirts, many still in their wrapping. He rummaged in pockets, looked under shirts, even checked inside shoes, but found nothing.

“Come on, Lee,” he muttered to himself. “Help me here. Give me something to work on.”

Nightingale checked the wardrobes and closet space in the other two bedrooms, bathroom cabinets, drawers and even looked under the beds. Nothing. He went back downstairs.

He thought back to his years as a police officer.  He’d been on dozens of  drug searches and it had always surprised him how predictable dealers were when it came to hiding their wares. Toilet cisterns, loose floorboards, freezers. The floors in the house were solid hardwood and not easily lifted and all the toilets were plumbed into marble walls, but there was a large fridge-freezer in the kitchen, a stainless steel German model that was almost big enough to walk into.

There were a dozen or so frozen steaks, each the size of a dinner plate, and underneath them a Tupperware container containing a small leatherbound book, the cover scuffed with age. Nightingale sat down on a stool by the breakfast bar and opened the book.

It appeared to be gibberish at first sight, but Nightingale had seen something similar before. It was mirror writing,  as used by Da Vinci to write his diaries and by generations of Satanists to hide their activities. Nightingale tried to make out a few words, then realized he was looking at reversed, Latin. He slipped the book in his raincoat pocket. Finding a way to decipher it could wait till he got back to his hotel. He shivered. It had gone suddenly cold in the kitchen. There was an air-conditioning unit set into the wall but it didn’t seem to be on. He buttoned his coat and headed for the front door.

As he stepped into the hallway he realized that his breath was feathering in the cold air. He stopped, frowning. His hands were cold and he blew on them, then realized his feet were freezing, too. He stamped his Hush Puppies on the hardwood floor , but it didn’t warm them and it didn’t make any sound. A wave of fear swept over him, the hairs on his neck stood on end and his stomach started to cramp. The urge to panic and run became almost uncontrollable as he spotted a wisp of yellow smoke at the bottom of the front door. His eyes widened as the plume of smoke grew larger, thicker and darker until he could hardly see the door at all. The temperature dropped even further and he began to shiver uncontrollably. He backed down the hall as the smoke began to coalesce.

His legs had gone numb and he could no longer feel his feet. He took a step back and almost stumbled. Ice was forming on the walls. The smoke was shimmering as if it was made of ice crystals. Something formed within the cloud. A face, but not a human face. Then a claw, but not the claw of any animal Nightingale had ever seen. Another face formed, a girl, crying, then it disappeared and lower down a mouth filled with teeth appeared, snarled and then vanished. Nightingale shivered, then shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The shifting cloud was closer now, so close that he could almost touch it.

He retreated along the hall, and into the living room, slamming the door behind him. He pushed an armchair against the handle, then watched in horror as the yellow smoke reappeared on his side of the door.  Within seconds the smoke started to coalesce again. Faces. Shapes. Talons. A shifting mass of horror. Ice began to form on the walls and his breath was feathering as soon as it left his mouth. Nightingale staggered around one of the sofas and as the solidifying cloud followed him. He stumbled towards the door, flung it open and hurtled down the hall and into the kitchen.

Nightingale became aware of a dog barking, in the distance but getting closer. There was a knife block by the sink with half a dozen wooden-handled knives embedded in it. Nightingale pulled out a carving knife just as the swirling cloud oozed into the kitchen.

He held the knife in front of him, swishing it from side to side. The barking was louder now and then a Rottweiler came hurtling down the corridor and hurled itself at the cloud. As soon as the dog penetrated the fog it went silent and seemed to explode into a pulpy mass of fur, blood and bone that slopped to the floor.

Nightingale stepped forward and slashed at the cloud. A face formed, an old man with parchment-like skin and watery eyes, then it faded and something lizard-like snarled at him. He slashed the cloud again, taking care not to touch it with his hand, but the blade had absolutely no effect. Nightingale took a step back. A few fragments of a spell surfaced in his memory and he struggled to say the words but the fog kept coming towards him.

Nightingale tried reciting the Lord’s Prayer but it was as ineffective as the incantation he’d tried. The fog was almost on him now, and it gave a roar of what might have been triumph as grinning faces swirled at its centre.

Nightingale threw the knife at the cloud and then stumbled around the island in the center of the kitchen and into the hallway, his mind racing.  Spells hadn’t worked, neither had the Lord’s Prayer, and the knife had been useless. He ran out of the kitchen and slammed the door but within seconds smoke began oozing underneath it. He rushed into the dining room as the smoke started to solidify. He pulled open the ebony box and grabbed a fish knife. Stainless steel hadn’t done any damage but silver would sometimes accomplish what a regular blade couldn’t.

As he turned he felt the air go suddenly colder and he turned to see the cloud oozing into the room.  His hands were sweating so he wiped his right hand on his raincoat before gripping the handle tightly. Nightingale stepped forward, thrusting the knife into the cloud. There was a loud roaring sound from somewhere within the cloud, then a face appeared, a young girl with her mouth open in pain which quickly morphed into a bald man with a scarred cheek and yellowed teeth, screaming for all he was worth. Green slime gushed from the fog over Nightingale’s hand. He thrust the knife deeper into the fog but then it slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

Nightingale dashed to the table and grabbed the nearest candelabra, holding it by the candle holders. He thrust it into the cloud and this time there were a dozen screaming voices - men, women, children and animals. The fog began to swirl around and Nightingale pushed the candelabra. It seemed to meet resistance and the screams intensified. Nightingale pushed harder and there was a bright flash of blinding light, then a rent appeared in space and the cloud disappeared with a wet sucking sound. The candelabra clattered to the floor. Nightingale got to his feet but then he felt the strength drain from his legs and he put a hand against the wall to steady himself for a minute or so. It was only when he was lighting a cigarette with shaking hands that he realized the green slime had vanished from his coat. It was as if the terrifying creature had never existed.

CHAPTER 17

Nightingale fumbled to get his car door open, climbed in and sat there panting, trying to regain his composure. He looked across at the house but there was nothing out of the ordinary, no hint of the horrors that it had contained.  He switched on the engine with a trembling hand, then drove away. He waited until he was a mile away before calling Wainwright on the hands-free. The young Texan picked up on the first ring. “Listen, Joshua, when your guy went around to Mitchell’s house, everything was okay, right? Nothing happened?”

“What do you mean?” asked the Texan.

Nightingale explained what had happened the previous day.

“You’re a lucky man, Jack, Mitchell could have had brass candelabras,” said Wainwright once Nightingale had finished. “Elementals can be vicious sons of bitches, I’ve heard.”

“What the hell is an Elemental?”

“They’re summoned from Hell, to the bidding of whoever calls them,” said Wainwright. “There are four types – earth, fire, water and air. Sounds like yours was a water one. Silver kills them. And gold. Base metals aren’t so effective. Lead kills the air one, I think. Fire kills earth. Trouble is there isn’t much known about their weaknesses because whenever they’re summoned they usually kill the object of their affections.”

“I wondered if maybe Mitchell was using it as a sort of guard dog but if it wasn’t there when your guy went round then someone else must have set it up. The Apostles, maybe?”

“To get Mitchell if he went back?”

“To get Mitchell or anyone else snooping around, such as yours truly. Damn near worked, too.”

“You really need to be careful. Even if that first Elemental was just a guard dog, if they have that credit card, they could send another, targeted just for you. Now are you any closer to finding out what the hell’s going on?”

“A little.”

“The clock’s ticking, Jack. These people need to be stopped.”

“I’m on it, Joshua. Mitchell gave me two names.  Lucille Carr and Kent Speckman.”

Wainwright let out a long whistle. “No shit? They’re Apostles?”

“That’s what Mitchell said. I’m doing some digging as we speak. Also I have a diary he left behind, it’s in Latin, but I’m planning to get it translated pretty soon.”

“Be careful, Jack.”

“Careful is my middle name,” said Nightingale. “Actually that’s a lie. My middle name is scared shitless.”

“You hide it well.”

“We’ll see.”

CHAPTER 18

On the way back to his hotel, Nightingale spotted a jeweler’s shop, its window filled with old rings and necklaces. He parked the SUV and walked back to the store. A bell pinged as he pushed open the door and a balding man in a black suit looked up from a display of wedding rings. The man straightened up and held his hands together in front of his chest as if he was about to pray.

“I’m looking for a silver knife,” said Nightingale.

“What type?” asked the man. “I have carving knives, silverware, fruit knives.”

“It’s a gift, I was thinking a pen knife or something like that.”

The man nodded. “For a man or a woman?”

“My uncle,” lied Nightingale. “He used to have a penknife but he lost it a few years ago and it’s his sixtieth next month, so I thought…”

“You’d replace it? Wonderful idea. I might have just the thing.” He went along to a glass cabinet, opened it and took out a white penknife, four or five inches long. “Now, strictly speaking this is lady’s fruit knife, but it’s a penknife by any other name.” He handed it to Nightingale. “Sterling silver, hallmarked obviously, made in 1896 in Sheffield, England.”

Nightingale held the knife in the palm of his hand. The handle was mother-of-pearl that glistened under the overhead lights.

“It was manufactured by William Needham, a very respected silver-maker. And that is genuine mother-of-pearl.”

Nightingale pulled open the blade. There was no locking mechanism but the blade looked strong. He pressed his thumb against the blade and could feel its sharpness.

“It’s larger than the normal pocket fruit knife,” said the salesman. “And as you can see, it’s in pristine condition.”

“Perfect,” said Nightingale. He looked at the price tag. It wasn’t cheap but he’d be using one of Wainwright’s credit cards and it was a valid expense. “I’d also like a silver cross on a chain, the bigger the better.”

“Another gift?”

“For my aunt,” lied Nightingale.

The salesman rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to say that most people prefer their crosses to be made of gold,” he said.

“My aunt has always preferred silver,” said Nightingale.

The salesman went over to another display case and peered into it. “I have several small ones,” he said.  He took out a cross and held it up. Nightingale wrinkled his nose. “I was hoping for something bigger,” he said.

The man straightened up. “Let me check out the back,” he said. “We had some items in from an estate sale last week, I seem to remember there was a large cross but I’m not sure what it was made of.”  He disappeared through a door leaving Nightingale alone in the shop. Nightingale was surprised at being left alone but then realized that the shop was covered with three CCTV cameras.

The man was only away for a minute and he reappeared with a red velvet box. “I was right,” he said, opening the box and holding it out. Inside was a large silver cross, about three inches long and two inches across. There was a ring at the top through which was threaded a thick silver chain.. “It’s quite heavy, but not hallmarked,” said the salesman. “Central European, we think. Probably mid-nineteenth century, I’m guessing once owned by a high-ranking church official.”

Nightingale picked up the cross. It had a rough texture, like wood, and seemed to have been cast in one piece. The chain was almost three feet long so it would have hung down almost to the wearer’s waist.

“It’s an unusual piece,” said the salesman. “Probably too large for your aunt.”

“No, I think it’ll be perfect,” said Nightingale. He gave it back to the salesman along with a Visa card that Wainwright had given him. “I’ll take them both.”

“I haven’t put a price on the cross yet,” said the salesman, frowning.

“Whatever you think is fair will be fine with me,” said Nightingale.

“Excellent,” said the salesman. “Would you like them gift-wrapped?”

Nightingale shook his head. “I’ll do that at home,” he said.

Five minutes later he was back in his SUV. He slipped the penknife into his right pocket and the cross and chain in his left.  He hoped that he wouldn’t have to face an Elemental again but if he did at least this time he’d be prepared.

CHAPTER 19

Nightingale woke early and after showering and shaving he went out to buy a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle. Lee Mitchell’s murder was on the third page, including a photograph of the man standing next to his Porsche that appeared to have been lifted from a Facebook page.  Nightingale went to a nearby diner, ordered coffee, toast, scrambled eggs and bacon and read the article as he waited for his food to arrive. The headline was 'Mutilated Body Of Young Banker Found On Alcatraz’ which summed it up, pretty much. Twenty-two year old Lee Charles Mitchell’s body had been found washed up on San Francisco’s famous prison island. The young man had worked for the Bay Banking Corporation in their securities department, where he was described as a 'rapidly rising star’, but hadn’t shown up to work for two days. A security guard making her rounds of the island had found the body in the small hours, and it had been identified by the credit cards and driver’s license in the billfold. The body had severe injuries, leading police to suspect Mitchell had fallen from a boat, been hit by the propeller, then carried by the fierce currents onto the island.

Nightingale wasn’t convinced. He was pretty sure that Mitchell had suffered most of those injuries before they put him in the water. And the fact that the body had been found so quickly indicated that the killers wanted to send a message.

Nightingale’s phone rang as he stepped out of the diner. It was Mrs Steadman. “I haven’t called at a bad time, have I?” she asked. “I can never get the hang of time differences.”

“It’s fine,” said Nightingale, shutting the door.

“I do have someone you can talk to there, though he now lives outside San Francisco. It’s been a few years since I spoke to Father Benedict but I’ve spoken to him and he’s happy to help if he can.”

“Brilliant,” said Nightingale, reaching for a sheet of hotel stationery and a pen.

“He’s the abbot of Our Lady Of Spring Bank Cistercian Monastery out near Santa Teresa, which is about sixty miles from San Francisco. But he lived in the city for many years and is very familiar with it.”

Nightingale frowned. “Now that’s one heck of a coincidence,” he said.

“What is?”

“A monk from that monastery went missing about five months ago.”

“Do you think that is connected to the Satanic group you were talking about?”

“I hope not,” said Nightingale.

“You can tell Father Benedict everything,” said Mrs Steadman. “I’ve known him a long time.”

“Do you know if he reads Latin?”

“I would be very surprised if he didn’t.”

“You’re an angel,” said Nightingale.

Mrs Steadman chuckled. “Now we both know that’s not true,” she said. “But I do appreciate the flattery. And remember what I said, Jack. Be careful.”

“I will be,” said Nightingale. “Cross my heart.”

She paused and for a moment Nightingale thought he had lost the connection. He moved the phone to his other ear and was just about to speak when she continued. “Something happened, didn’t it, Jack? You were in danger.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I crossed paths with something that didn’t appear to have my best interests at heart,” he said.

“Tell me.”

Nightingale grimaced. After all her warnings, he was reluctant to tell her what had happened in Mitchell’s house, but he had the feeling that she already knew.  He told her, but kept the details to a minimum.

“It was a Water Elemental, Jack,” she said. “Do you realize how much danger you were in?”

“Of course. But all’s well that ends well. Really.”

“Only the most powerful Satanists are capable of summoning and controlling a Water Elemental. You were lucky. They’re creatures born from filth and putrescence. Pure metals like gold and silver are about the only weakness they have.”

“Yeah, I was lucky.”

“I’ll say you were. But if they can summon one, they can summon more. And next time you might not be so lucky.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“I’m serious, Jack. This Elemental was guarding a house, you say?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what happened, yes. I went in and then it just sort of materialized.”

“Then hopefully that will be the end of it,” she said. “But from now on you must be very careful. The people you are dealing with are capable of summoning other Elementals to pursue you.”

“How exactly?”

“If they get a lock of your hair, for instance. Or something very personal to you. They can summon an Elemental and send it after you. It will appear wherever you are. There would be no escape. Wherever you are in the world, it would appear.”

Nightingale flashed back to the hellish cloud and he shuddered. “I’ll be careful, Mrs Steadman.”

“There are four types. Earth, Fire, Water and Air. All are deadly.”

“That’s what Joshua said,” began Nightingale, then he screwed up his face. Mrs Steadman didn’t have a high opinion of Joshua Wainwright.

“I’m not surprised he is aware of Elementals,” she said frostily.

“He said fire would kill an Earth Elemental, is that right?”

“I believe so. And Fire Elementals can be killed with water. Pure water. The purer the better. Base metals can kill an Air Elemental. But Jack, you don’t want to go anywhere near an Elemental.”

“I’ll do my best to avoid them,” said Nightingale.

“I’m serious, Jack.” She sighed.  “I wish there was something else I could to help,” she said. “But my best advice would be for you to leave town right now. But even as I say that I know it’s not going to happen.”

CHAPTER 20

It took the SatNav just over an hour to guide Nightingale to the Our Lady Of Spring Bank Monastery. He drove up the tree lined main entrance and parked in front of the 'Welcome Center’. The place looked more like a modern school than any monastery he’d ever seen before, though the chapter house and church looked more like Nightingale’s idea of traditional religious buildings. Everything was bare stone, no paint to be seen. Nightingale walked through some tall arches and followed the sign for reception.

The man in the office wore a dark suit and heavy black-framed glasses. Nightingale asked to speak to Father Benedict and explained that they had a mutual friend, Mrs Steadman of London. The man asked Nightingale to take a seat and picked up a phone. After a few minutes the man called over to Nightingale and pointed off to the left. “The abbot can see you now, his office is just across the cloister, through that door.”

Nightingale thanked the man and walked across the courtyard, along an arch-framed corridor, knocked on the door where the sign said “FATHER BENEDICT” and opened it. Behind a medium-sized desk sat a monk wearing a black habit with a white hooded robe over it and a plain metal crucifix on a chain round his neck. Father Benedict had a full head of gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Nightingale’s image of a monk had been Friar Tuck from the Robin Hood stories, fat and jovial, but father Benedict was tall and very thin. He looked around sixty and had gold half-moon glasses perched halfway down his nose.

“Welcome, welcome,” said Father Benedict, getting to his feet and walking across to greet Nightingale, his sandals whispering on the tiled floor. “Mrs Steadman told me all about you,” he said. “She’s quite a fan.”

“That’s good to know,” said Nightingale.

The Abbot waved Nightingale to four chairs around a glass-topped wooden table. “Please sit,” he said. “So tell me, how do you know the lovely Mrs Steadman?”

“We met in her shop in London, not that long ago,” he said, sitting down.

“She’s a sweetheart, an absolute sweetheart,” said the Abbot, sitting down opposite him. “Now would you like tea or coffee, or I can offer you iced water.”

“I’m good, thank you.”

“So what is it you want?” he asked, sitting back on his chair and interlinking his fingers.

“To pick your brains, really.”

The Abbot spread his hands wide. “Pick away,” he said.

“I know I’m going to sound crazy, but have you had much experience with Satanists?”

“Satanists? Devil worshipers?” He squinted at Nightingale. “You are joking, right?”

“I wish I was, but no, it’s a serious question. I think there might be a coven of Satanists active in San Francisco.”

“Doing what exactly?”

Nightingale shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Human sacrifice,” he said.

The Abbot frowned. “And why on earth would you think that? There’s been nothing on TV or in the papers.”

“You watch TV?” asked Nightingale.

“We’re a commercial monastery, Jack. We’re not sealed off from the outside world. Our wines win awards, you know. Though I have to say I prefer reality shows to the news. The news is always so depressing these days.”

“Tell me about it,” agreed Nightingale. “But to get back to your question. I’ve spoken to a man who was part of the group, and he told me what was going on.”

“Human sacrifice in the twenty-first century, it hardly seems likely, does it?”

“I’m fairly sure that’s what’s happening, Father Benedict. Though to be honest I don’t have much in the way of proof.”

The Abbot nodded thoughtfully. “You know of course that Satanism started here in San Francisco?”

Nightingale frowned. “That’s news to me.”

The Abbot nodded. “Organized Satanism was born in San Francisco on April 30, 1966.”

“That can’t be right,” said Nightingale. “Surely devil worship has been around for centuries? Since the dawn of time.”

“On an individual basis, that’s true. But the organized ceremonies, the rituals and so on, they are a much more modern phenomena. That all started in 1966, at 6114 California Street to be precise. The Black House.”

“I’m stunned,” said Nightingale. “This is the first I’ve heard of this.”

“So you’ve never heard of Anton LaVey?”

“No. Who was he?”

“The founder of the Church of Satan, author of The Satanic Bible, The Satanic Rituals and the Satanic Witch. Inventor of modern Satanism.”

“Maybe he’d know what this is about. Would he talk to me?” asked Nightingale.

“I doubt this would be his scene, one of his main precepts was never to harm little children. Besides, he hasn’t been talking to anyone since 1997. He died. His daughter is still alive, but I don’t think she has anything to do with the church any more.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

“I don’t, I’m sorry. But I do know that the Church of Satan wouldn’t have anything to do with human sacrifice.”

Nightingale nodded. “This is a bit of a change of subject, but what can you tell me about Brother Gregory’s disappearance?”

“It’s very much a mystery,” said the Abbot. “He simply vanished. And no one has any idea where he might have gone.”

Nightingale leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me about him.”

“I knew him ever since he came to us as a novice, some thirty years ago. He was nearly fifty when he disappeared. A quiet man, even by the standards of a monastery, he seldom spoke other than at services, though he was no fool. A very gifted viticulturist.”

“Sorry?” said Nightingale.

“Wine grower, he had a caring touch with the plants. As I said we produce award-winning wine here. Oddly enough, he was quite happy to talk to the vines all day, and they seemed to respond.”

“What happened on the day he disappeared?” asked Nightingale.

“I wish I knew. The brothers had been working in the fields as usual, and walked back up to the monastery when the bell was tolled for Vespers. After that we took our evening meal in the refectory and it was noticed that Gregory was not there. It was dark by then, so a full search of the grounds wasn’t made until the next day, after which we called the police, but no trace of him was ever found.”

“Could he have got into a car?”

“Well, the road is quite near to where he was last seen working, but why should he do so?” The Abbot looked at him quizzically. “This isn’t a change of subject, is it? You think that Brother Gregory was taken by Satanists, don’t you?”

Nightingale shifted uncomfortably again. “It’s a possibility. I’m sorry.”

“But what would Satanists want with a monk?” His eyes widened as he answered his own question, and his hand went up to his mouth. “You think he has been murdered?”

Nightingale nodded. “I’m sorry.”

The Abbot swallowed nervously, clearly unsettled by what Nightingale had told him. “It’s a pleasant morning,” he said. “Would you care to take a stroll around the vineyard? I could show you where Gregory worked.”

“I’d like that,” said Nightingale.

They left the Abbot’s office and walked back across the courtyard and out of the main entrance, then down a gentle hill for a few hundred yards to the start of the vineyard. The vines were planted in rows, each one carefully pruned back to avoid overgrowth into the next. Nightingale knew almost nothing of viticulture, and had never been much of a wine drinker, preferring to stick to beer, or, when stronger measures were needed, brandy or malt whiskey. He asked a few questions, more from a desire to keep Father Benedict talking than through any genuine interest. They stopped at the bottom of the vineyard where they could see the main road some fifty yards away, and hear the traffic. The vineyard was full of other monks working. They had swapped their robes and habits for more practical blue overalls out in the fields. There was very little talking.

“Have you ever heard mention of a Satanic group who call themselves the Apostles?” Nightingale asked as they started to walk back to the monastery.

The Abbot shook his head. “I find it strange that devil-worshipers would take the name of Christ’s disciples. The first martyrs.”

“Martyrs?”

“Well, yes,” said Father Benedict. “The first ones after Christ himself, of course. They all died for their faith. Rather nastily too, in most cases.”

“What do you mean?” asked Nightingale.

“Well, Christians weren’t popular in the early days, and were cruelly dealt with. St Peter was crucified upside down, St Andrew crucified on an X-shaped cross, St Bartholomew flayed alive, and St Thomas killed with a spear. The rest were also martyred, but I can’t recall the details. None died easy deaths, though, that much I can tell you.”

“I think the Apostles are a group of Devil-worshipers. Have you any experience of that sort of thing?”

“Very little, my path lay in the opposite direction, of course. But I know of Devil-worshipers and their beliefs.”

“They don’t believe in God?” asked Nightingale.

“Oh, quite the opposite, they believe He created the world and all that’s in it.”

“But then...”

“But then, He went away,” said the Abbott. “He left this world behind, to create others. And He left it in the care of Satan, 'The Lord Of This World’ as they call him. So he is the one they worship, they seek to gain power from him.”

“I’ve heard it said that power is just like electricity,” said Nightingale. “Not good or bad in itself, it just depends how you use it.”

“Now there I’d disagree. Christians don’t seek to use that power, but to be guided by it. I don’t think we’d equate ourselves with White Witches, using power to do good.”

The Abbot started walking back to the main monastery building. Nightingale walked with him. “Do you have something that belonged to Brother Gregory?”

“We still have his possessions, yes.”

“Could I borrow something?”

“Do you mind telling me why?”

“It might help me find out if he’s…”  Nightingale looked away, unwilling to finish the sentence.

“If he’s dead?” the Abbot finished for him.

Nightingale nodded.

“Come with me,” said the Abbot. He led Nightingale back into the main building and along a corridor to a room marked ‘STORAGE’.  Inside were rows of metal shelving, filled with office and cleaning supplies. At the back of a room was a cardboard box, not much bigger than a microwave. “Brother Gregory wasn’t one for possessions,” said the Abbot, lifting the lid. “Mainly clothes and a few books.”

Nightingale peered inside. There were several habits, a dozen pairs of socks that had been rolled up and neatly-folded underwear. There was a well-thumbed Bible, a rosary and several dog-eared paperbacks, all of them religious works, including the Koran.

Nightingale picked up the Koran and flicked through it. “An interesting choice for a monk,” he said.

“He was always interested in other religions,” said the Abbot.

Nightingale put the Koran down and picked up the rosary. “Can I borrow this?” he asked.

“I don’t see why not.”

“I’ll bring it back in a day or two,” promised Nightingale. He reached into his raincoat pocket and took out the notebook that he had taken from Lee Mitchell’s freezer. He handed it to the Abbot. “What do you make of this, Father Benedict?”

The Abbot opened the book and immediately frowned.  He tilted his head on one side and flicked through several pages. “It appears to be gibberish, but why would someone go to so much trouble to write down nonsense?” He ran his finger down a page and a smile slowly spread across his face. “Ah, it’s mirror writing,” he said. “But not English.” His smile widened. “Latin. Goodness me, that is quite something. Where did you get it from?”

“It’s complicated,” said Nightingale. “But I’d be very interested to know what it says. Do you think you could translate it for me.”

“Do you think this book is connected in some way with Brother Gregory’s disappearance?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I will more than happily go through it.”

Nightingale gave the Abbot his cellphone number scribbled on a piece of paper. “Give me a call when you’re ready,” he said. He held up Brother Gregory’s rosary. “I’ll be back with this soon.”

The Abbot nodded and replaced the lid of the cardboard box. “I just hope you’re wrong,” he said. “I can’t bear to think of a good man like Brother Gregory dying at the hands of Godless Satanists.” He shuddered. “The world can be a terrible place at times.” He crossed himself and shuddered again.

“You’re telling me,” said Nightingale.

CHAPTER 21

Nightingale got back to San Francisco at three o’clock in the afternoon.  He drove to Mission Street library and found a free computer. He needed to recharge his crystal before using it again. There were several options including burying it in the Earth for twenty-four hours or leaving it soaking in sea salt for a whole day, but the quickest was smudging and smudging was best done by a professional. He Googled crystal smudging and came up with a shop called Crystal World on Market Street and a contact name - Rowena Feinstein.

Then he went to Wikipedia for a list of the Apostles. Much to his surprise, there was no definitive list of Christ’s original twelve followers. The names varied from one Gospel to another, and John’s Gospel only mentioned eight of them. Matthew in one gospel equated to Levi in another. Thaddeus could be Jude. But it wasn’t the names that Nightingale was interested in, so much as their deaths. But Father Benedict had been right, as far as he’d remembered. St Andrew had been martyred on an X-shaped cross, and St Peter had also shared Christ’s fate, reputedly asking to be crucified upside down, so as not to be compared with his master. Simon had been sawn to pieces. Thomas had been killed with a spear, while Bartholomew had been flayed alive with a knife. Thaddeus, or Jude had been shot to death with arrows, while John had been poisoned. The only one of the original Apostles not to have been martyred was Judas Iscariot, who was generally thought to have hanged himself in remorse for taking his thirty pieces of silver to betray Christ.

He printed out the information he had and then spent the next half hour researching the career of Lucille Carr, and another half hour watching YouTube videos of Kent Speckman. 'The Specter’. He was tall, lithe and muscular with zig-zags shaved into his short hair.  With his gold helmet on, there was nothing much to distinguish him from his scarlet and gold uniformed team mates. Until he started to run. Then everything changed. Nightingale watched, fascinated, even though he was no fan of American football. He didn’t seem any faster than anyone else, or any stronger, but according to the commentators he’d broken records for rushing and touchdowns that season. The more Nightingale looked at him, the more he thought that the other team had just agreed not to get in his way. When he was carrying the ball, he seemed to be able to sway round any attempts to tackle him. Rarely did any of the opposition manage to lay a hand on him. When he was running to catch a pass none of the defensive team looked as if they wanted to block him. The man seemed almost to have an exclusion zone around him, as if all the other players just moved according to his wishes. But that would be quite impossible. Wouldn’t it?

He went outside, programmed the SatNav with the shop’s address and fifteen minutes later he was talking to Ms Feinstein, who was around forty, small with long gray hair, dressed in something long, flowing and purple. Nightingale explained what he wanted.

“Of course, sir,” she said. “We can do that while you wait.” Smudging meant fanning incense over the crystal for thirty minutes, and Nightingale decided to use the time replenishing his wardrobe. He’d arrived in San Francisco with only the clothes on his back. When he returned half an hour later with new socks, underwear and a couple of shirts, his crystal was ready for him.

“That’s rather an unusual piece, Mr...er...”

“Jack. Yes, a gift from a friend,” replied Nightingale.

“It’s always hard to date a crystal, but the bag is very old, isn’t it?”

“I’m told so, yes.”

“You use it for healing?” she asked.

“No, it’s for divining. Thanks.”

He paid and left before the woman could ask any more questions

CHAPTER 22

Back at his hotel, Nightingale showered, twice, and slipped on the white cotton robe, before lighting his two white church candlesand taking out the crystal and Brother Gregory’s rosary. He placed the rosary on the floor, knelt down before it and said a prayer with the crystal between his palms. The prayer finished, he let the crystal swing free over the rosary as he repeated the name of Brother Gregory West over and over again. The crystal remained motionless.  Nightingale took a deep breath, said another prayer and tried again as he visualized a pale blue light around his body. Still the crystal refused to move. Eventually he gave up – Brother Gregory was most certainly dead.

CHAPTER 23

Nightingale arrived at the Raw Bar at around eight. It was a large room, furnished in dark bare wood throughout, a long bar at one end, with doors to a kitchen on the left and the restrooms on the right. The remainder of the room was filled with tables and chairs, a couple of waitresses in white T-shirts and short black skirts threading their way between them with drink orders. There were around twenty people inside, mostly at the bar, but Nightingale sat at a table and ordered an Anchor.

He was halfway through his beer when Amy Chen walked in, flanked by two tallish guys in dark suits. Chen noticed him as she walked towards the bar, but a curt nod was all he rated. She and her colleagues ordered a pitcher of draft and took stools at the bar. They talked and laughed together. Chen had a sexy, throaty laugh which carried across the room.

Around ten minutes later, Chen picked up her glass, held up a hand to her colleagues and walked over to Nightingale’s table. “Not stalking me, are you?” she said.

He raised his glass. “You said you might be here, remember?”

“I remember.”

He waved at an empty chair. “Can we talk?”

“I guess so,” said Chen. She sat down. “You eaten?”

“Not yet, no.”

“How are you with oysters?”

Nightingale shrugged. “I’ll give them a go.”

Chen waved a waitress over.  “Sue, bring us a dozen raw. And another Anchor.”

“You’re buying me dinner?” asked Nightingale.

“No, you’re picking up the tab,” said Chen.

“No problem,” said Nightingale.

The gun wasn’t on her hip and she caught him looking at the place where it had been. “I changed holsters,” she said. “Off duty it’s under the arm.” She pulled open her jacket to reveal the butt of her Glock.

“How did you know what I was thinking?”

“I’m a cop. That’s my job. So, you were a cop, before you were a private eye? I was right about you having a cop’s eyes?”

Nightingale nodded. “I was a beat cop for a while, walking around London in a pointy hat.”

“They really wear those? I thought that was just a tourist thing?”

“Only when you’re on foot,” he said. “They’d keep getting knocked off if you were in a car. Then I joined the armed response unit.”

“Yeah, I never understood why most of the British cops go out unarmed.”

Nightingale shrugged. “They call it policing by consent. The idea is that the public respect cops and do as they’re told.”

Chen laughed. “And how does that work?”

“In the good old days it worked just fine. These days, not so well. There isn’t the same respect that there used to be, and a lot more gangbangers carry guns.”

“So they should give all the cops guns too.”

“It’ll come,” said Nightingale. “But at the moment guns are only carried by Specialist Firearms Officers. That’s what I was. I carried a Glock and an MP5 mainly.”

“Ever fire a shot in anger?”

“I never shot anyone, if that’s what you’re asking. I was a negotiator, too.”

“Talking to would-be suicides?”

“People in crisis is what we called them. Sometimes suicides, sometimes people with weapons who’d got themselves into a situation, more often than not domestics.”

“And you gave it all up to become a gumshoe?”

“Cops in the Met are swamped with paperwork these days. A lot of the fun has gone out of the job.”

“The Met?”

“Metropolitan Police. It’s what they call the London police force.” He smiled. “Actually it’s not a police force any more. Hasn’t been for a few years. It’s a service. And the criminals are clients. You couldn’t make it up.”

“And you make a good living as a private eye?”

“Sure. I do a lot of legal work, a fair bit of checking on businessmen and companies, and I get a lot of cases that the cops can’t be bothered to do.”

He sipped his drink and wondered if she would mention that she had gone to Father Mike’s retirement home.

“And you got a pension?”

“I wasn’t in long enough,” he said.

“It’s one of the best thing about this job,” she said. “Do your thirty years and you’re set for life.”

“You’ve a long way to go,” he said.

“I’m getting there.”

“And you chose Missing Persons?”

She shook her head. “It’s not what I want to do. Robbery Squad is what I’m after but that’s very much male-dominated and apparently I don’t have the required testosterone levels.”

“You seem quite feisty to me,” said Nightingale, and her eyes narrowed again.

“You do like using that English charm, don’t you?” she said.

“I just meant that you could hold your own in a male squad, that’s all.”

Nightingale was saved any further embarrassment by the arrival of their waitress with a platter of oysters on ice and a fresh beer for Nightingale.

Nightingale had never been a big fan of oysters, but he figured that he needed to keep her company. Chen squeezed some lemon onto an oyster, held it to her mouth, sucked and swallowed. Nightingale followed suit. He tasted the lemon, felt a slippery sensation in his mouth, then his throat, and that was all.

“Good?’ asked Chen.

“Hits the spot,” lied Nightingale. A salty taste had kicked in but he still wasn’t over-impressed. Chen was already on her second.

“I’ve been Googling,” he said.

“Have you now?”

“And I’ve come up with a few more Christians that have gone missing.”

She frowned. “What?”

“Christians. Father Mike, Sister Rosa, Suzanne Mills, their Christianity was a common thread.”

“They were all white, too. And probably right-handed. Why have you singled out their religion?”

“Maybe I’m clutching at straws.”

“But it’s Father Mike you’re interested in. Why are you bothering about other cases?”

“Because it’s starting to look to me as if Father Mike isn’t just missing.”

“You think he’s dead?”

“I do, yes.”

“But you need proof because that’s the only way his relatives are going to get paid out?” She took another oyster, squeezed lemon on it and swallowed it in one smooth motion.

“If I can show that a serial killer has targeted Christians then I could possibly get him declared dead and that’d be a result for me, yes.” He didn’t like lying to her, but Nightingale didn’t see that he had any choice.

“Tell me about the other cases,” she said.

Nightingale reached into his coat and pulled out the sheets that he’d printed in the library. She flicked through them, nodding slowly. “Morton Steele only went missing last week.”

“He was a regular church-goer, according to the paper. And Caroline Shaw was a church organist and a devout Christian.”

“That was some time ago.”

Nightingale nodded. “Six months.”

“You think this has been going on for some time?”

“I don’t see why not. If there is a serial killer targeting Christians, he could have been doing it for a while.”

“Shirley Davenport. It doesn’t say she was a Christian.”

“Seventy and unmarried. Spinsters tend to be religious.”

“And a monk.”

“Yeah. He just vanished.”

“Five months ago?”

“Yeah, vanished into thin air. You tell me, how often do monks go missing? It’s not as if they have families to run away from, is it?”

Chen put the sheets of paper down on the table and tacked another oyster. She washed it down with beer and then cocked her head on one side. “What is it you want from me, Jack?”

“I can only get so far on Google,” he said. “I really need a look at the California Missing Persons’ Register.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“No, but you can access it.”

“And do what?”

“See if there are more that I haven’t found.”

“Missing Christians?”

“I’m looking for a pattern. One a month, maybe.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Just a hunch. And I think they might be going missing in the run up to a full moon.”

Her eyebrows shot skywards.  “Why would you think that?”

“Because Father Mike went missing a week before a full moon. So did Sister Rosa.”

She shook her head. “You’ve got to be careful extrapolating like that.”

“I’m looking for patterns, that’s all.”

“I can see that, but focusing on patterns that don’t exist can mean that you blind yourself to real connections. If there are any. You might be chasing shadows.”

“It’s worth a try. An hour or so on a computer.” He smiled. “Pretty please.”

“And then what? Assuming there are more?”

“We look for a link.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? You think there’s a serial killer targeting Christians?”

“You don’t think it’s a possibility?”

“I think you’re grasping at straws, that’s what I think. If there was a serial killer at work, I’m pretty sure PCD would know.”
“PCD?”

“Personal Crimes Division. Part of the Investigations Bureau. They investigate homicides.”

“If whoever is doing it is covering their tracks they’d stay under the radar.”

“That’s one hell of an ‘if’, I have to say.”

They were interrupted by one of the men she had walked in with shouting her name. Chen looked over and the man mimed playing a pool shot.

“I’ve got to go,” she said. She swallowed a last oyster and stood up. She took out her phone. “You’ve got a cell?”

Nightingale told her the number and she keyed it into her phone. “If I find anything, I’ll call you.” She pointed at the rest of the oysters. “They’re aphrodisiacs, you know?”

‘Wasted on me then,” said Nightingale.

“You never know, the night is young,” she said. She laughed and went off to join her companions.

CHAPTER 24

Nightingale phoned Father Benedict after breakfast. The call went through to voicemail and Nightingale left a message. He was halfway through his second coffee when his phone rang. It was the Abbot returning his call. “I was in the vineyards,” he said. “A problem with the irrigation system.”

“No rest for the wicked, so they say,” said Nightingale.

“That’s certainly true,” said the Abbot.

“I was joking,” said Nightingale.

“I got that,” said the Abbot. “I assume you’re calling about the diary?”

“Are you getting anywhere?”

“I’m about halfway through,” said the Abbot. “I spent most of the night working on it, in fact I fell asleep at three o’clock in the morning and missed dawn prayers. It’s fascinating stuff, and really very, very worrying.”

“So it is a diary?”

“It’s a diary, but it’s more than that. It contains details of various rituals, including the words that need to be spoken. It’s nasty stuff, Jack. Very nasty. And you are right, I’m afraid. This group is all about human sacrifice.”

“That’s what I feared.”

“I’m transcribing this onto my computer. When I’m finished, what do you plan to do?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You have to take it to the police, surely?”

“The problem with that is that they almost certainly won’t take me seriously. There are no bodies. No forensic evidence, in fact no evidence at all that any killings have taken place.”

“You have this diary.”

“Which could be a work of fiction,” said Nightingale. “The police will want proof, and so far I don’t have any.”

“I saw something that might help you take this further,” said the Abbot. “There was a Latin phrase that seemed a little out of place, where the author refers to seeking enlightenment on the path of hatred from the prophet who watches the stars.”

“That’s a strange thing to say.”

“That’s what I thought. It was a bit of a puzzle and I have to say I’m a fan of puzzles. Crossword puzzles, especially. Then it hit me. He was referring to Haight Street. It was a pun.” He spelled out the word for Nightingale. “Haight. Hate. Very clever.”

“Haight Street? Where’s that?” he asked.

“In the city’s Haight-Ashbury district. It’s where all the hippies lived in the seventies. I would suggest you continue your search there.”

“When do you think you’ll have finished?” asked Nightingale.

“Late tonight, I hope,” said the Abbot. “Unfortunately I have several meetings this afternoon, but I’m clear from four o’clock onwards.”

“I’ll drive out to see you tomorrow morning,” said Nightingale. “I can return Brother Gregory’s rosary.”

“Was the rosary any help?”

“It’s not good news, I’m afraid. You need to prepare yourself for the worst.”

“I’d already done that,” said the Abbot. “And if this diary is true, there is more to come.”

CHAPTER 25

Nightingale’s SatNav took him to the middle of Haight Street but he ended up driving around for another fifteen minutes before he could find a parking space. He lit a cigarette and started walking back down towards the city center. He could well believe that this had been Hippy Central in the seventies, and plenty of traces of it still remained. The stores here were much smaller than in the center, none of the major chains, small clothes boutiques, music shops, a succession of bars catering to all preferences, smokers’ requisites, second-hand book stores. He had walked about a quarter of a mile when he came across an astrological shop. The sign above the store read WRITTEN IN THE STARS. It was a single unit with one large window to the left of the door. The window display consisted of a variety of crystals and candles set against a background of astrological charts and T-shirts bearing the signs of the Zodiac.

Nightingale pushed the door open and stepped inside. Bells announced his arrival and a short, bald man appeared from a back room.  He wore a neatly trimmed gray goatee, and was dressed in tight black jeans and a black, ribbed, roll-neck sweater. There looked to be not an ounce of fat on his body. The lack of hair made him look older, but Nightingale guessed early thirties. The man leaned forward against the shop counter and flashed Nightingale a professional smile. “Well, good morning. And how can I help you?” he said.

“This is a shot in the dark, but have you ever seen this man. Lee Mitchell?” Nightingale showed him the photograph of Mitchell that he’d ripped from the newspaper. He figured it would be best not to reveal up front that Mitchell was dead.

The man squinted at the picture, then his face creased into a smile. “Young Lee,” he said. “Such a very nice boy. And how do you come to know him, Mr.....”

“Just call me Jack,” said Nightingale.

“Jack it shall be then.  I’m Gabriel. Gabriel Starr. Two 'r’s.”

“Quite appropriate, you being an astrologer.”

“So it is, that’s why I took it. Kronstein didn’t work so well at all. Hah, but look at me, we’ve  known each other two minutes and already I’m telling you my life story. So tell me, why did our friend send you to me. What can I do for you...Jack? And why haven’t I seen him in a while?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure how you can help. I’m in the dark, so far. Grasping at straws, really.”

“I don’t follow you,” said Starr.

Nightingale took back the photograph. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“Dead?”

Starr grimaced. “Poor little sod. He was always in way over his head. Bastards. Let’s have  some privacy.”

He walked over to the door, slid the bolt and turned the sign to 'CLOSED’. He ushered Nightingale into a back room and they sat at opposite ends of a faded and cracked brown leather sofa. The room was as big as the shop itself and appeared to contain nearly as many trinkets, candles, T-shirts and charts. There was a large desk at one end, covered in charts, rulers, protractors and compasses.

“What do you mean, he was in over his head?” asked Nightingale.

“I’m sorry, I need a drink,” said Starr. He stood up, looked for a second as if he was going to lose his balance, then went over to a bookcase and picked up a bottle of brandy. He poured himself a slug and threw it down, then refilled the glass and waved the bottle at Nightingale. Nightingale shook his head. Starr shrugged and carried the bottle and glass back to the sofa.

“How much do you know about what young Lee had got himself into?” asked Starr as he sat down heavily.

‘Some of it,” said Nightingale. “I found a diary of his.”

“A diary? He kept a diary?” Starr shook his head. “He was playing with fire, it’s not surprising he got burned. What happened?”

“His body was found washed up on Alcatraz. The police think that he fell off a boat and was churned up by the propeller.”

“The police have no idea what’s going on,” said Starr. He emptied his glass and refilled it. “You know he was gay?”

Nightingale shook his head. “I didn’t.” Nightingale was sure that Mitchell wasn’t gay, though he might well have been bisexual. But he figured it best not to burst Starr’s bubble.

“I met him about four years ago, at a party somewhere. He hadn’t really...accepted himself then, still trying to fight it, but it was easy to see. We hit it off, met a few times. Took it a little further. I was his first, but there was always something a little different about him, and not just being unsure.”

“Different how?” asked Nightingale.

“He was inexperienced, young, gauche almost. But there was a power within him, he was going places in the bank far younger than you might have expected. Of course, I figured it out fairly quickly, the first time I ever drew his chart. He was tapping into a source of power and wanted more. I spoke to him about it, but he was reluctant to admit it.” He shrugged. “We were pretty much over by then, he kept trying to change himself, deny his real needs. Maybe he saw me as a symbol of them, so he drew away from me. I think his occult friends expected him to swing both ways. I didn’t see him for months, but then last week he showed up here. Needing help badly, or so he said.”

“Did he say what he was afraid of?”

“He’d fallen in with a bad crowd. Some very heavy-hitters. He had realized that he was in over his head. Way over.”

“Did he mention a group called The Apostles?”

Starr shivered and nodded.

“And the sacrifices?”

Starr nodded again, then frowned. “Sacrifices? He told me about one. That was when he came to me. I told him to get out straight away, but he was working for someone. Playing both sides. A dangerous game.”

“Playing both sides? What do you mean?”

“He said he’d found someone who would help him, but that someone wanted more information about the group. He wanted names. And he told Lee that he had to stay in the group a while longer. It was driving Lee crazy. He was so scared.”

“So if someone was already helping him, why did he come to you?”

“The stars, Jack. He knew there was something big coming up, he wanted me to tell him what and when.”

“And did you?” asked Nightingale.

“No. No data. I could have cast his chart, but I didn’t know any details for the other people. We figured out that the first girl he saw sacrificed was Suzanne Mills, and I was able to run her chart  and read the numbers on her. But it was nowhere near enough. I had no idea where these Apostles were going by sacrificing her.”

“What about Lee’s chart? What did that say?”

“It predicted a crisis on the twentieth, crossing the path of an emissary from Saturn on the twenty-second...and then nothing more, though I didn’t tell him that. I’m good at this. Too damned good.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Nightingale. “Sometimes you can’t save people, doesn’t matter how hard you try.” He leaned towards Starr. “I need to stop these people, Gabriel, before anyone else gets hurt, and before whatever they’re planning comes off, because it won’t be good. Will you help me?”

Starr nodded. “I’m not sure what help I can be, though?”

“I’m not sure either, yet. But maybe your charts can help me put me a time-line on what’s happening.’ He spent the next fifteen minutes telling Starr everything he knew, though he didn’t tell him about the Elemental appearing at Mitchell’s house. Some things were better left unsaid.

“So, you have a missing nun, a disappearing priest, a monk, a spinster, various church folk. All Christian, obviously. But you can see the other obvious connection, can’t you?”

“I don’t follow you,” said Nightingale.

“Virginity,” he said. “Never been kissed, my dear. The Great Unfucked. Monks, nuns and priests take vows of chastity. The others are young, utterly fugly or maybe never got asked. Can’t be sure, of course, but a fair guess. They’re sacrificing virgins. Christian virgins.”

Nightingale opened his mouth to speak but Starr silenced him with a wave of his hand. “I’m an astrologer, Jackie, not a Satanist...but even I know that virgin blood has more potency than anything else in a sacrifice. Do you have the date of birth of the ones that are missing. I’ll cast horoscopes for them and see what they tell me.”

“I don’t have them to hand. I’ll call you with the dates when I get them.”

“I can make a start with their names.”

Nightingale frowned. “How does that work?”

“Numerology,” said Starr. “You can tell a lot from a person’s name.” He gave Nightingale a business card. “And what about your date of birth, Jack?”

“You want to do my chart?”

“It might show you what is coming,” said Starr.

“If it’s bad news, I’d be better off not knowing,” said Nightingale. “I’ll pass.”

CHAPTER 26

Nightingale drove back to the Mission Street library and spent an hour on a computer looking for the birthdays of Sister Rosa, Father Mike and Brother Gregory. He had no luck and realized that there was only one way he was going to get the information he needed. He phoned Amy Chen. “It’s that pest of a Brit, I’m afraid,” he said when she answered. “I need a favor.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Can you let me have the dates of birth of the missing persons we spoke about?”

“Your missing Christians?”

“Yeah, do you mind?”

“Do you want to tell me why?”

Nightingale closed his eyes and winced. He didn’t like lying to her but he didn’t see he had any choice. “I just want to do a search of official records, see what I can dig up.”

“Okay, I don’t see why not,” she said.

“Have you had a chance to look at other missing Christians?” A librarian walked over, a hatchet-faced woman in her fifties, and she jabbed a finger at his phone and then wagged it. No phones in the library.

Nightingale waved a silent apology and headed outside, the phone still stuck to his ear.

“Yeah, I was in two minds about calling you about that,” said Chen.

“You found someone.”

“I found another two cases of Christians vanishing a week before a full moon.”

“So there is a pattern?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. If you stare at a blank wall long enough you see patterns. Your mind plays tricks, it tries to make sense of nothingness.”

“Christians going missing a week before a full moon is pretty specific.”

She sighed. “Yes, I know.”

“Who are they, these new cases?”

“Jack, I’m busy right now. And I’m not over happy about discussing cases over the phone. Do you like jazz?”

“Depends. Ella, Louis, Bessie Smith, yes. Not modern stuff very much.”

“Billie Holiday?”

“Overrated and a thin voice, even when she wasn’t strung out. Diana Ross did it better.”

“There’s a group of us going to The Blue Room tomorrow night. Fillmore Street, 8.30. Swing by and we’ll talk.”

“It’s a date,” said Nightingale.

“No it’s not,” said Chen. “It’s a meeting. I’ll see you there.”

The phone went dead and Nightingale slipped it back in his pocket. He took out his pack of Marlboro and lit one as he walked back to his car.

His phone rang again as he was walking into his hotel. It was the Abbot. “Jack, I’m more than halfway through the diary and it’s bad. Really bad.”

“In what way?”

“The individual sacrifices are just the start of it. When all twelve have been carried out there is to be a final ceremony, a ritual that will literally change the world.”

“What happens at this ceremony?”

“The diary talks about a young white cockerel and a young black hen being killed, but I think they are metaphors. I think they’re referring to children. There is to be a ceremony involving a double sacrifice that has to occur at a particular time. I’m still trying to work out when that might be. But I can tell you that before they are sacrificed, the children have to be branded.’

“Branded?”

“With hot irons. The mark of a demon has to be seared into the flesh. It has to begin healing and then the children are sacrificed.”

CHAPTER 27

The moment that Father Benedict mentioned the sacrifice of a white boy and a black girl Nightingale flashed back to the conversation he’d had with Inspector Chen. Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker, both ten years old and both abducted on the same day. He went back outside and bought a copy of the Chronicle and flicked through it. He found an article on the top of page five, complete with photographs of the two children. The police hadn’t made much progress and although the story covered both abductions, the police weren’t prepared to say that the cases were connected. There were two bylines on the page four story, Karl Woods and Sonja Price. Nightingale went back to his SUV and entered the Chronicle’s address – 901 Mission Street – into the SatNav.

The building was on the corner of Mission and Fifth, a three story building with a clock tower in the middle. Nightingale found a parking space a short walk away and headed into reception. A young blonde girl with a headset flashed him a plastic smile and Nightingale asked if he could speak to Sonja Price, figuring that he’d probably have more luck with a female reporter. She wasn’t at her desk so Nightingale asked for Karl Woods. The receptionist nodded at a phone on the counter and Nightingale picked it up. “Yeah, this is Karl Woods,” said a brusque voice.

Nightingale introduced himself as a freelance journalist who was writing a feature on child abductions and asked if Woods could spare a few minutes.

“Are you a smoker?” asked Woods.

“Do you not talk to smokers?” asked Nightingale, confused.

Woods laughed. “No, that’s not it. I’m due a cigarette break now so I can talk to you on the sidewalk, if you want.”

“Perfect,” said Nightingale. “I’m happy to provide the smokes.”

“What brand?”

“Marlboro.”

“Red or gold?”

“Red.”

Woods laughed again. “My day is getting better and better. Give me five minutes.”

The journalist had a big voice but he turned out to be a short ginger-haired man who Nightingale figured weighed under a hundred and fifty pounds. Woods was around five foot six, twenty-five or so with a faceful of freckles and black plastic glasses.

“Jack?” said Woods, offering his hand.

“Thanks for this,” said Nightingale, shaking the reporter’s hand.

“No problem,” said Woods as he took Nightingale outside. There were two young men standing in the smoking area and they both nodded at Woods. Nightingale offered the journalist a Marlboro and took one himself. They lit their own and blew smoke contentedly.

“So what do you need, Jack?” asked Woods.

“I’m putting together a feature on abducted children, basically showing how the Brit cops handle things differently to the Americans.”

“Which paper?”

“I’m freelance,” said Nightingale. “But the Guardian is interested and the Independent has taken my stuff before. So I saw you were working on the Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker case.”

Woods pulled a face. “Strictly speaking, we don’t know if it’s a case. The cops certainly aren’t connecting them.”

“They went missing on the same day?”

“Sure, but other than that there’s no connection. White, middle-class boy, black working-class girl.”

“But you covered both kids in the same stories.”

“Because it’s easier that way. And the fact they vanished on the same day sort of connects them even if the situations are different. Sonja Prince did the interviews, I wrote up most of it.”

“Okay, so tell me about the boy.”

“His father’s a VP at Bay City Bank and has been making plenty of noise. He’s on the phone to me every day, pushing me to keep the story in the papers. And I gather he’s been hounding the cops. But it’s a tough story to keep writing because there’s no new angle, no sightings, no clues, nothing. It’s a strange one too, Brett normally waited for his father to collect him after baseball, but this time it looked like he left early. One of the other kids in the team said he told him he had to go with his aunt, but he must have got that wrong, Brett doesn’t have an aunt.”

“So no-one saw him leave?” asked Nightingale.

“No, the kids generally change after a game,” said Woods. “But Brett never went back to the changing room. All his street clothes were still there.”

“And the police have no leads?” asked Nightingale.

“None they’ve cared to share with the press. I kind of think they were expecting a ransom demand, but nothing I’ve heard about.”

“And what can you tell me about the girl?’ asked Nightingale.

“Same deal, nobody saw anything, nobody knows anything, no sightings. The father’s long gone, the mother’s holding down two jobs. They live out in the Tenderloin, and to be honest if the story wasn’t linked to the Michaels disappearance, Sharonda wouldn’t make the paper.” He shrugged. “That’s the way of the world, I guess.”

“So do you have any theories?” asked Nightingale.

Woods shrugged. “Probably the same as anyone else. Nothing good. Both cases are still open and the cops say they’re actively seeking leads. Which means they got nothing and every day that passes lengthens the odds of things turning out well.”

“Karl, did you ever hear any reports of organized groups snatching children?”

Wood’s shrugged again.

“Pedos? I haven’t, but it’s as good a theory as any, I guess.”

“What about other groups?” asked Nightingale. “Satanists maybe?”

“Devil worshipers? You don’t believe in that shit?”

“Doesn’t matter what I believe, it’s what they believe that counts.”

“No such thing,” said Woods. “You get killers saying that the devil told them to do it but it’s bullshit.” His eyes narrowed. “Is that an angle for you?”

“It’s possible, it depends on what I turn up.”

“Does it happen in the UK?’

“No evidence of it. But then if they were good at it, there wouldn’t be, would there? A lot of kids disappear, and most are found eventually. Most turn up alive and well, and sometimes it ends badly. But there are some cases where nothing ever turns up. No body, no nothing. Who knows what happened in those cases?”

“We get that, sure,” said Woods. “But if these two kids don’t turn up one way or another, devil worshipers would be right down at the bottom of my list of suspects.” He took a final drag on his cigarette and then stubbed it out in a metal receptacle built into the side of the building. “And with that final thought, I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Can you do me a favor, Karl? Can you let me have their addresses? I’d like to go around and talk to the parents.”

“No problem. I think they want as much publicity as they can.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket, scribbled down two addresses and handed them over. “Quid pro quo, yeah? If you get anything new, give me a call?”

“Deal,’ said Nightingale. “Have you got a card?”

CHAPTER 28

On the way to Sharonda Parker’s home, Nightingale stopped off at a camera shop to buy a Nikon SLR camera and a camera bag. The tenement block where the Parkers lived was in a poor state, but fitted in with the rest of the street, where burnt-out cars and dumpsters provided the background decor. Nightingale figured it wouldn’t be a good idea to leave the near-new SUV on the street so he found a parking garage a ten-minute walk away. He smoked a cigarette as he walked. He had the camera bag over one shoulder and the Nikon hanging around his neck.

The Parker apartment was on the fourth floor. A young black woman opened the door, but kept the chain on.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Parker?” said Nightingale. “I’m Karl Woods from the San Francisco Chronicle.”

He handed over the card that Woods had given him. The woman gave it a cursory glance and handed it back. The chain stayed on.

“Why you here?”

“Our paper is going to run a fresh appeal for sightings of Sharonda. And I wondered if I could ask you some questions.”

“Where you from?”

“England. But I work for the Chronicle.”

She squinted at the camera and slowly nodded. “Okay,’ she said, and took off the chain.

“Sure,” she said. “Come in. Anything that’ll help.”

She unchained the door and Nightingale walked in. The apartment was a world away from the Mitchell mansion. One room with an aging green sofa and two mismatched chairs, a tiny kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. It hadn’t been decorated in a long time, but was clean and tidy. Mrs. Parker was around her late twenties, dressed in cheap well-worn clothes. She’d obviously been doing a lot of crying.

“I’m so sorry about what’s happened,” said Nightingale, which was pretty much the only truthful thing he’d said since she opened the door.

“What you want from me?”

Nightingale held up the camera. “I want to take a photograph of Sharonda’s bedroom. Is that okay?”

“Why?”

“It would show people what’s waiting for her. Make them think about her. Remind them that she is still missing.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “Sure yes, anything you want, I don’t care, anything that helps. I just need her home.”

Nightingale put his arm round her. She sobbed against his chest for a while, then straightened up.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“Take the photos...it’s through there,” she said, pointing at a door.

Nightingale walked in to the bedroom. There was just the one single bed, so he assumed the baby slept in its mother’s room. The furniture was cheap, the paint peeling, but again it was spotlessly clean. Sharonda’s clothes hung from a string stretched across an alcove, there was a teddy bear on the bed and a couple of dolls. A big orange cat was curled up asleep on the pillow. The girl had her own little dressing table and mirror.  Nightingale turned to check that she hadn’t followed him into the room and then slipped a pink hairbrush into his raincoat pocket. He took half a dozen photos, then walked back into the living room, where Mrs. Parker was sitting at a small dining table. She looked up. “You done?”

Nightingale nodded. “I do have a question for you. When is Sharonda’s birthday?”

“Her birthday?”

“Yes. When is it?”

“Why do you want to know when her birthday is?” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“We can plan a big piece on her birthday. Again, it’s a way of reminding people, of keeping Sharonda’s name out there so that people keep looking for her.”

She dabbed at her eyes again. “It’s in two months,” she said. “The twenty-first of June. She’ll be eleven. I bought her a tablet.”

“A tablet?”

“One of those computer things, like an iPad. It’s a cheap one, from China. She wants an iPad but I can’t afford one.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I’m a really bad mother.”

“No, you’re not,” said Nightingale.

She nodded frantically. “I am,” she said. “I’m the worst mother ever.”

Nightingale was torn between hugging the woman or rushing out of the room. He hesitated for a few seconds and then took her in his arms and allowed her to sob into his chest as he stroked the back of her head.

CHAPTER 29

According to the SatNav, the house where Brett Michaels lived was just eight miles and nineteen minutes away from Sharonda Parker’s tenement block, but it might as well have been on the other side of the planet. The roads and sidewalks were immaculate, the houses were pristine and surrounded by landscaped gardens that must have cost a small fortune to maintain. Most of the lawns were dotted with small but very visible signs that said the homes were under the protection of armed security response teams. The Michaels house wasn’t quite in the same league as Kent Speckman’s mansion, but it wasn’t far off. There was no wall and no CCTV cameras so Nightingale was able to park in the road and walk up the driveway. There was a treble garage to the right of the house and a white Range Rover parked outside.

Nightingale rang the bell and an overweight Hispanic woman wearing an apron opened the door. Nightingale gave her Karl Wood’s business card and asked to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Michaels. The woman nodded blankly and closed the door. Several minutes passed and Nightingale was just about to ring the bell again when the door opened and the maid gestured for him to come inside. The hallway was massive with a double staircase that wound around a chandelier that was the size of a small car.

Mrs. Michaels was sitting in a room the size of a basketball court filled with white furniture. She was sitting on a white leather sofa that must have been twenty feet long. She was tall, stick thin with unnaturally blonde hair. She was wearing a UCLA sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms and her eyes were red from crying. Like Mrs. Parker, she didn’t appear to have slept much. She was holding Karl Wood’s business card in both hands. She didn’t get up. “How can I help you, Mr. Wood?”

“I’d like a photograph of Brett’s bedroom, if you don’t mind,” said Nightingale. “The picture editor wants to run it as a way of getting people thinking about Brett and where he might be.”

Mrs. Michaels nodded. “I suppose that’s okay,” she said.

“Is your husband here?”

She shook her head. “He has a thing at work. He had to be there.”

“Have you heard from the police?”

“I haven’t. But my husband is in touch with them regularly.” She looked at the business card and frowned. “So are you a reporter or a photographer?”

“We tend to do a bit of everything these days,” said Nightingale.

There was bottle of wine on the table in front of her, half empty or half full depending on your point of view. And a glass that was very nearly empty. She refilled it with a trembling hand. Nightingale couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have a child taken from you and he hoped that it wasn’t something he’d ever have to experience first hand.

“I’m so sorry about what’s happened,” said Nightingale.

She smiled thinly. “Thank you.”

“I hope he turns up, I really do.”

She nodded and he knew how hollow his words sounded.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Maria can show you to Brett’s room,” she said, saving him further embarrassment. The maid led him upstairs and down a corridor to a room that was at least ten times larger than his hotel room, with a door that led to a palatial bathroom. There were popstar and sports posters on the walls and a large screen TV connected to a PlayStation and a DVD player. It was a typical boy’s bedroom, just on a much larger scale than usual. There were stacks of comics, sports equipment, a guitar and amplifier and a collection of superhero figures.

Nightingale put his camera bag on the bed while he took a few photographs. “Maria, do you know when Brett’s birthday is?” he asked.

The maid nodded. “In two month’s time,” she said. “Mrs. Michaels was planning a big party.”

“Which day exactly, do you know?”

“Of course, it’s June 21st,” she said.

CHAPTER 30

Nightingale waited until he was back in his hotel room before phoning Gabriel Starr. He apologized for the lateness and then told him that the two missing children were born on the same day.

“I am sure you have realized that cannot be a coincidence,” said Starr.

“Gosh, do you think?”

“I assume you are being sarcastic,” said Starr archly. “Now would you have the time they were born?” asked Starr. “That improves the accuracy of a chart no end.”

“I don’t,” said Nightingale. “I couldn’t ask without looking suspicious.”

“Well, beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose,” sighed Starr. “I shall do what I can with what I have.”

“When will you be ready?”

“It shouldn’t be too long,” said Starr. “Obviously there is only one chart to do and I’ll start on it now. What about the birth dates of the other missing people?”

“I’m still working on that,” said Nightingale.

Nightingale put the camera bag on the bed and took out the baseball cap and the brush before heading to the bathroom to shower. It was almost midnight before he knelt on the floor with the crystal. He used the hairbrush first.

He said a short prayer as he held the crystal, then let it swing free. He focused on picturing a pale blue aura around his body as he took slow deep breaths, and then he began repeating Sharonda Parker’s name over and over again.  Almost as soon as he began saying the little girl’s name, the crystal began to swing from side to side. Nightingale kept his mind focused on the aura as he repeated her name on autopilot. The trick was to disconnect his mind from the process so that it was the crystal that did the work. Slowly but surely the crystal began to move in an anti-clockwise circle. It picked up speed and Nightingale finally allowed himself the luxury of a small smile. Sharonda Parker was still alive.

He stood up and paced around the room for several minutes, then repeated the process with the baseball cap. The crystal indicated that Brett Michaels was also still alive. Nightingale let out a slow sigh of relief. The crystal continued to move in a fluid circle, but Nightingale frowned as he felt a burning sensation in his fingers. Within seconds the chain had become too hot to hold and he yelped and let it go. The crystal fell onto the cap and Nightingale stared at the burn marks on his fingers.

CHAPTER 31

The screaming was ear-splitting, but none of the adults paid it any attention. Two Apostles, John and Thaddeus, each held one of Brett Michaels’s arms, and pressed his naked body down against the marble slab in the middle of the temple. The blonde woman, James, held the boy’s feet together so he couldn’t kick. The tall redhead, the one who called herself Peter, held the red-hot branding-iron between the boys shoulders, pressing down and inhaling the aroma of scorching flesh. Her green eyes were bright, and her throat was starting to flush.

“That’s enough, Peter,” said the blonde woman. “We don’t want to go too deep.”

Peter shook her head, as if to clear it, and pulled the iron away. The child kept on screaming, then went limp over the altar. Peter placed the branding iron back on the charcoal brazier, then returned to study the boy’s back. She nodded in approval at the horrible, livid wound on his flesh. A pentagon, with a capital letter 'B’ placed inside it.

“I’ll take him back upstairs,” said John.

“Put a dressing on the wound, it’ll heal sooner,” said the woman James. “It might be better if he didn’t wake for a day or two, stop him rubbing at it until it scabs.”

“I’ll see to it,” said John. “You and Peter fetch the girl. Be sure they don’t meet.”

James nodded.

“Do I get to do her too?” asked Peter, eagerly.

“Not possible, I’m afraid,” replied Thaddeus. “The ritual states she must be branded by a man. My turn, I think.”

Five minutes later, a naked and sobbing Sharonda Parker was carried in, placed face-down on the altar, and stretched out by the three Apostles. Thaddeus picked up the branding iron from the brazier, spat on the end and heard it sizzle, then pressed down.

Again the screaming echoed around the temple.

CHAPTER 32

Nightingale cursed as he walked up to his SUV. The tarmac around the front passenger side window was littered with cubes of broken glass.  There was more glass over the seat and as he pulled open the door, cubes tinkled down onto the ground. The only thing missing was the SatNav, and Nightingale knew that he wasn’t going anywhere without it. He took the rental agreement out of the glove compartment, phoned the car rental company and explained what had happened. A quiet-spoken woman said that the quickest way to resolve his problem would be for him to return the SUV to the airport and pick up a replacement. The traffic was bad and it took the best part of an hour to drive to the airport. When he did eventually reach the rental car office it took only minutes to exchange cars, this time for a white Ford Escape with a new SatNav.

The new SatNav had the same ice blond voice and he followed her instructions to the Our Lady Of Spring Bank Monastery. He saw the cruisers in front of the Welcome Center as he drove up the tree-lined road. He slowed and considered turning around but two uniformed officers were already looking his way and he knew that a U-turn would be suspicious. He slowed and started to plan what he would say. There was an ambulance parked behind the cruisers but the lights weren’t flashing which suggested there was no urgency, and there were two Crime Scene Investigation vans on the other side of the Welcome Center which meant that something untoward had happened.

He parked and climbed out. A man in a gray suit with the world-weary eyes of a man who was used to being lied to walked over and flashed his shield. “Do you work here?” he asked.

Nightingale shook his head. “I’m a visitor. Here to see Father Benedict. The Abbot.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“We hadn’t agreed a set time, I said I’d swing by this morning. Has something happened?”

“Your name is…?”

“Jack Keeley.”

“And what is your business with the Abbot?”

Nightingale shrugged. “It’s a social visit. We have a mutual friend and she suggested I drop by to say hello.” He grinned. “I’m a big wine drinker and the wine here comes highly recommended.”

“You’re a Brit?”

Nightingale nodded. “Born and bred.”

“Tourist?”

Nightingale nodded again. “Heading back to the UK next week. Is there a problem?”

“I’m afraid the Abbot is dead,” said the detective.

Nightingale had already guessed as much but he feigned surprise. “That’s awful,” he said. “What’s happened?”

“We think he was killed during a robbery that went wrong,” said the detective.

“He’s a monk, he wouldn’t have anything worth stealing.”

“Monks use computers,” said the detective. “His laptop was taken.”

“When did it happen?”

The detective frowned. “Why would you want to know that?”

Nightingale tried to look sheepish. “I know it sounds stupid but when I was showering this morning I had a premonition. You know? A bad feeling. I almost phoned Father Benedict but then I decided I was driving out anyway.” He shrugged. “It sounds ridiculous, I know.”

“It happens a lot,” said the detective. “You’d be surprised how often it happens. But I can tell you that the Abbot died long before you got into the shower. We think it was the early hours of this morning. Four or five o’clock.”

“How was he killed? Shot?”

The detective shook his head. “He was stabbed. We think it was a junkie because…” He put up a hand. “Best I don’t say, it wasn’t pretty. Anyway, I’m sorry you had a wasted journey.”

Nightingale continued to feign astonishment. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Who would kill a monk?”

“Junkies don’t care who they’re robbing,” said the detective.

“Do you think you’ll catch him?”

“We’ve got a CSI team in there at the moment looking for evidence. Junkies don’t tend to be over-careful when it comes to forensic evidence, so we’re hopeful.”

“I hope the bastard gets the electric chair,” said Nightingale.

“We tend not to execute our killers in California,” said the detective. “Unfortunately. And when we do, it’s by lethal injection.”

“I think the Bible had it right. An eye for an eye. The punishment should fit the crime.”

“Amen to that,” said the detective.

A man in a dark suit appeared at the entrance to the Welcome Center and gestured for the detective to join him. “Duty calls,” said the detective. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“He was a friend of a friend, I didn’t really know him,” said Nightingale. “But I sure hope you catch his killer.”

“You and me both,” said the detective. He nodded and walked over to join his colleague.

Nightingale lit a cigarette as he watched the two detectives disappear inside. He doubted that they would be apprehending Father Benedict’s killer anytime soon. Drug addicts were notoriously lax at covering their tracks but the Apostles were more than capable of removing any forensic evidence. The theft of his SatNav now made perfect sense. They had used it to track its movements and had stolen both the Abbot’s computer and Mitchell’s diary. Nightingale blew smoke up at the mid-day sky as he pondered his next move. One thing was certain – he was running out of options.

CHAPTER 33

Nightingale drove up to Haight Street and parked close to the Written In The Stars store. Gabriel Starr was behind his counter and looked up as the bells announced Nightingale’s arrival. “Ah, Just Jack. Lovely to see you, my dear. Let’s close up for thirty minutes while I show you what I’ve found.”

Once settled on the sofa in the back room, the astrologist passed some charts across to Nightingale. They didn’t make a whole lot of sense to him. “Can you explain it in idiot’s language?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Starr. “I’m an expert with idiots. Let’s start with numerology, shall we? There are quite a few systems, but being a good Jewish boy, I work with the Hebrew system, the Gematra. Now, each letter in a name has a numerical value from 1 to 9. For example A is 1, B is 4 and to find your dominant number, we just add them up and reduce them to the lowest factor. So, Gabriel sums up to 40, then we add the 4 and 0 to get 4. Starr comes to 22, we add those together and get another 4. So, four is a big influence on me, but we can add the two 4s together to get 8. So, my major numbers of influence are 4 and 8.

“I thought you said Kronstein was your real name?” said Nightingale.

“It is, but I chose Starr, which makes it a powerful influence on me. Besides, Kronstein factors down to a 4 too, so it works either way.”

Jack had a vague understanding of numerology, so his head wasn’t spinning as fast as it might have been. But the important question needed to be asked. “So, what about the names I gave you? The missing people.”

“Ah, yes,” said Starr. “Now that was interesting. Very interesting indeed.”

“Any chance of you cutting to the chase and telling me?”

“Ooh! I do love a masterful man. 7s and 5s, Jackie...all of them, just 5s and 7s.”

“Which means what?” asked Nightingale.

“Which means it’s a hell of a coincidence...or they were selected for that reason. Personally, I’d be going for the second option, especially once we consider the Astrological evidence.”

He was enjoying his dramatic pause, but Nightingale wasn’t about to ask any questions. He was far too experienced at the waiting game. The little astrologer broke first.

“Different days, months and years of births, and without the exact times, I can’t be precise, But they’re all children of Mars, Jacky-boy and all with Neptune dominant.”

“Is that unusual?” asked Nightingale.

“Not at all, happens all the time...but the chances of five random people all sharing the same numerological influences and astrological houses must be fairly...astronomical, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“So, who’s targeting virgin Martians with a Neptune influence whose dominant numbers are 7 and 5?”

“Beats me. I’m just grateful that I’m none of those.”

“And what about the two missing kids with the shared birthday?’

“Two little solstice babies, both born on June 21. And both virgins too, or so you’d hope at going on eleven. Yes, I’ve done the horoscopes for the two kids. They’d have been more accurate if I’d known their times of birth, or if I’d had something of theirs to pick up vibrations from. I also did a numerology and Tarot reading for each of them.”

“Just tell me,” said Nightingale.

“It comes up danger. They’re in peril now and it’s getting worse. But that’s not the worst of it.”

“Well?”

“The danger ceases on the thirtieth. After that I get no reading from them at all.”

“Which means?” asked Nightingale.

“I think it means they’ll be dead then,” said Starr.

“But that’s not infallible, right? You can’t be completely sure?”

“I see what’s written, Jack, but it’s not necessarily the final version. But that’s what I see written for those two kids. Nothing after the thirtieth of this month. And that’s only five days away.”

“Shit,’ said Nightingale.

“That’s putting it mildly. You probably don’t know this but the thirtieth of April sees a second full moon of the month, a genuine Blue Moon. And on a Walpurgisnacht  Wednesday too. Must happen about once in every hundred years. A very favorable time for all kinds of ceremonies. Oh, there’ll be magic afoot that night, Jackie-boy, you can rely on that. You’ve got till then to find those kids, I’d say.”

“Gabriel, have you ever heard of Anton LaVey?”

“Of course.  He founded modern-day Satanism.”

“I heard he had a daughter.”

“Indeed, but she has nothing to do with the Left Path. But if it’s information on Anton LaVey you’re seeking, why don’t you pop up the road to dear Margaret’s shop, Pagan World. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to sell you a book or two. She’s far more knowledgeable about the Occult and Wicca than I am. She might even know some people.”

“Who is Margaret?” asked Nightingale.

“An old friend,” said Starr. “Margaret Romanos. She’s a little strange but then the Haight draws us weirdoes like flies to shit. Look, let’s be serious here, whoever’s doing this is a whole different ballgame to LaVey and his old followers, and they’re probably a coven of Occultists, not LaVeyan Satanists, who were really a pretty harmless bunch. But stuff like that is far more her area than mine, so she’ll maybe have a lead or two.”

Nightingale got up to leave. Starr reached up and grabbed his wrist. “Jack, be careful, will you.”

“I always am.”

“Why don’t you give me your date and time of birth and I’ll draw up a chart for you.”

Nightingale shook his head. “I already told you, whatever lies ahead, I’d prefer not to know,” he said.

“Suit yourself,” said Starr.

“There’s something I have to tell you, Gabriel.”

“I’m all ears.”

“My car was broken into. They stole my SatNav. I think someone wanted to know where I’ve been and who I’ve been talking to.”

“That sounds a little paranoid.”

“Yes, I know. But I have just found out that an Abbot I visited has been killed. I’m just saying, be careful, will you?”

“You think I’m in danger, Jack?”

Nightingale looked pained. “I don’t know. Maybe I am being paranoid. Maybe it’s a coincidence that my SatNav was stolen. Just be careful, okay?”

“It sounds to me that you’re the one who needs to be careful.”

“No argument here,” said Nightingale.

CHAPTER 34

Nightingale lit a cigarette and walked a few hundred yards further up Haight Street. The double-fronted window display of Pagan World was full of candles, crystal balls, brass bowls and knives, amulets and astrological charts. Nightingale stamped out his cigarette and walked in. The place was bigger inside than Starr’s shop, with the front full of pagan paraphernalia and the back room given over to shelves of old books. Mounted on the walls were a variety of stuffed animals, deer heads, bear heads, whole raccoons, beavers and snakes. The woman behind the counter had frizzy blonde hair and wore a pair of large green plastic framed glasses on a chain  round her neck, Her floor-length dress had been tie-dyed, a riot of greens, yellows, blues and reds. She smiled at Nightingale. “Welcome to Pagan World,” she said.

“Are you Margaret?”

“I am indeed. What can I do for you?”

“Gabriel sent me along. I was wondering whether you had anything on Anton LaVey and the Church Of Satan. Perhaps a copy of one of his books.”

The woman pursed her lips. “Ah, Mr. LaVey, not one of my favorites, I must confess. As it happens I’ve recently bought in some nice first editions of his better-known ones, from a collector who’s downsizing. I can offer you The Satanic Bible, The Satanic Rituals and The Satanic Witch, if you were interested.”

“I’ll take all three,” said Nightingale.

“Are you sure, they are quite expensive.”

“Not a problem, I have plenty of cash.”

“That’s always good to hear,” said the woman. She went into the back room, returning a few minutes later with three slim books bound in leather with the title and author’s name picked out in gold. She handed him one. “This is the Satanic Bible,” she said. “It was actually a special presentation copy that LaVey had printed to give to close friends and followers. It’s signed too.”

Nightingale opened the front cover. The flyleaf was indeed signed 'To my dear friend Basil’ and the inside cover had a book-plate marked  'ex libris Basil Dukas.’

“Who’s Basil Dukas?” he asked.

“A friend of LaVey in his early years of the Church of Satan, though he claims he outgrew them fairly quickly. He does the taxidermy on the animals we sell. Very talented. He’s rumored to have one of the best libraries of the Occult in America, not that many are ever invited to see it. Or him, he’s a notorious recluse. He offered me these three by e-mail.”

The woman told Nightingale how much she wanted for the books and he paid her in cash. Wainwright was an avid collector of books on the Occult so he knew he’d happily find a place for them in his library.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” she said brightly.

“What’s your opinion of LaVey?”

“He wasn’t my scene at all, I’m a Wiccan, and his views ran pretty much counter to mine.”

“Yeah, I suppose worshiping Satan is a bit of a departure from love potions and crystals.”

“Ah, but he and his followers didn’t worship Satan, they didn’t even believe in him as an entity.”

“How did that work?” asked Nightingale. “That 'Satanist’ name’s a little confusing then.”

“I think they saw it as more of a force than an entity,” she said. She gestured at his purchases. “If you read the books, they are surprisingly tame compared with most people’s perceptions.”

“So, no slaughtering of a goat at the full moon and capering around naked?”

“No, animals were not to be harmed, nor children, and sex was only by consent, I think. It’s a long time since I read his books.”

“Are there still covens in San Francisco today?” he asked.

“As far as I remember, the Church of Satan called them 'Grottos’  and I wouldn’t know. I stay well away from the Left-Hand path. And, as I said, LaVey and his followers were quite tame compared to what people expect.”

“What about this Mr. Dukas. Would you have a number for him?”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t know much about those people. Mr. Dukas’ number is unlisted, and I don’t think he’d be happy for me to pass it on. Why not send him an email? There’s a contact form on his website. www.basildukas.com.” Her telephone rang and she turned to answer it, flashing him an apologetic smile. Nightingale thanked her and was about to leave when he saw a display case in which there were several crystal balls. He bent down to look at them.

Margaret finished her call and came up behind him. “Something else I can help you with?”

Nightingale pointed at the largest of the crystal balls. “Can I take a look at that?”

“You have a good eye,” she said. “That’s very old. More than a hundred years old, as it happens.”

“I’ll be careful with it,” he said.

“All damages have to be paid for in full,” she said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.

She smiled and opened the case. She produced a white cotton handkerchief and used it to hold the ball before passing it to him.

“Do you know its history?” he asked.

“It was an estate sale, a year ago,” she said. “It belonged to an old lady. She had a lot of interesting things.”

“Wicca things?”

Margaret nodded. “Several interesting books, quite a collection of herbs, several crystals and this ball.”

Nightingale held the ball up and moved it from side to side, checking the clarity of the crystal. It appeared to be perfect.”

“Not a single defect,” she said. “I don’t think I have ever seen a better crystal ball.”

“I think you might be right,” said Nightingale. He held it so close to his face that his breath beaded on the crystal. “How much?”

“I’m asking four hundred dollars.”

“I’ll buy it then,” he said, handing it back to her. “I need a few other things,” he said. “A brass bowl, blue candles, some lemon twigs. And some herbs, I’ll write them down for you.”

“Now that’s much more like it,” she said. “You were starting to worry me with all your talk about Satanism. You are a follower of Wicca?”

Nightingale smiled. “I dabble.”

“You do more than dabble,” she said. “Not many people know how to really use a crystal ball.”

“I’m still working on my skills,” he said.

“You have a pink crystal, then?”

Nightingale nodded. “I do.”

“I would love to see it.”

“I don’t have it with me,” he said. “Maybe next time.”

She went off to wrap the crystal ball while Nightingale wrote down a list of the herbs he’d need.

Later, with several hundred dollars more charged to Wainwright’s credit card, Nightingale carried his purchases back to his SUV and drove to the Mission Street Library to resume his acquaintance with their free computers. He sat down and typed in the address of Basil Dukas’s website. It was dedicated to taxidermy, palmistry and the buying and selling occult books. The taxidermy section featured photos of what looked to be the inside of a house, lined with stuffed animals of all sizes and rarities. There were prices quoted for stuffing customers’ hunting trophies as well as for buying ready-stuffed small animals.

The palmistry section was decorated with diagrams of hands, a brief explanation of the art and a list of prices for private readings, while the book page had photos of an extensive library together with a list of books for sale, and a much longer list of books that Dukas would be happy to buy. The ones for sale were mostly run-of-the-mill works at reasonably low prices, but Dukas’s wish list featured some far more obscure and esoteric items, one or two of which Nightingale knew to be in Wainwright’s library.

Nightingale pressed the contact button on the web page and typed in a short message, along with his cell phone number.

He drove back to his hotel and phoned Mrs Steadman. “I’m sorry, I’ve got bad news for new,” he said as soon as she answered.

“The Abbot?”

“You know?”

“I had a feeling.”

“I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. They killed him.”

“You couldn’t have known what would happen, Jack. He was simply helping you.”

“He was a good man. If I hadn’t taken him the diary, none of this would have happened.”

“We choose our own paths, Jack.”

“I’m so, so sorry.”

“There is nothing to be gained from regret,” said Mrs Steadman. “The question is where do you go from here?”

“I have to stop them. I have to stop the Apostles.”

“Then do that. But be careful.”

“Everyone seems to be telling me that these days.”

“With good reason. And do not worry too much about the Abbot. Trust me, he is in a much better place now.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Absolutely.”

She ended the call and Nightingale spent the rest of the afternoon reading the three books. It turned out that LaVey's Church Of Satan was the polar opposite of what he’d imagined a Satanist collective to be. For a start, they denied the very existence of Satan as an entity. The Satanic Bible described Satan as a dark force of nature, the “Black Flame” representing the inner personality and desires. In LaVey's world there was nothing supernatural, neither God nor Devil. In fact Satanists were meant to be their own God. Most important of all from Nightingale’s point of view, there was no concept of sacrifice, since there was no entity to which anything could be sacrificed.

Whatever The Apostles believed in and were trying to achieve had nothing to do with traditional San Francisco Satanism, and went back a whole lot further. Which meant Nightingale was no closer to tracking them down.

CHAPTER 35

Nightingale took a cab to the Blue Room, figuring that he’d be drinking and the SUV was best left in the hotel car park. He waited for several minutes to check that he wasn’t being tailed before walking inside. There was a long bar to the left and tables for drinkers on the right, and further down the room was a larger dining area and a young Asian girl dressed in black stood behind a lectern illuminated by a brass lamp. At the far end was a small stage with a piano and a drum set and several large speakers. He was early so he took a seat at the bar and ordered an Anchor. He was halfway through it when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Amy Chen smiling at him. “How are you finding the local beer?” she asked. She was wearing a black pant suit over a pale blue polo neck sweater. There was a small gold cross around the neck of her sweater.

“Truth be told, it found me,” he said, raising his glass.

There were two women standing behind Chen, a tall black girl in her twenties with long dreadlocks and razor-sharp cheekbones and a brunette with pretty much the longest legs he’d ever seen. “I assumed you’d be coming with colleagues,” he said.

“How do you know they’re not cops?”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He raised his glass in salute. “Good evening, officers.”

“I’m a real estate agent,” said the brunette. “Melony. Melony Bagley.”

“I’m a cupcake maker,” said the black girl. “Misty. I’ll hold off telling you my surname until I know you better.”

“A cupcake maker?” repeated Nightingale.

“She makes the best cupcakes in San Francisco,” said Chen.

“Ah, that’s so sweet,” said the girl.

“And so are your cupcakes,” said Chen.

Nightingale held up his hands. “You’re not cops. I apologize.”

“What’s wrong with being a cop?” asked Chen.

“Nothing. I just meant…”

He stopped when he saw that Chen was laughing at him. “Its so easy to yank his chain,” Chen said to her friend and they all laughed.

“He’s a bit like Hugh Grant, isn’t he?” said Melony. “A younger version, anyway.”

“I was going to say Mr. Bean,” said Misty.

“Leave him alone, girls, he doesn’t have our American sense of humor.”

“Is there one?” asked Nightingale. He raised his glass. “Joke.”

“See, he has this thing where he says something insulting and then says ‘joke’ to take the edge of it,” said Chen.

“It doesn’t work, does it?” said Melony.

“It might for Hugh Grant,” said Misty.

“Why don’t you grab our table while I have a word with Jack,” said Chen, sliding on the stool next to him. She ordered a whiskey and Coke as the two girls went over to talk to the hostess.

“Did you get the dates of birth for me?” asked Nightingale.

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. She held it out to him but when he reached for it she moved it, just out of reach. “I looked at other missing persons, too.”

“And?’

“I found two that had gone missing a week before a full moon. Well, one was four days before, one was three days before. I figured that would be about right.”

“Christians?”

Chen nodded. “One was a church organist in Oakland. Just vanished one Sunday afternoon after church. The other was a man who looked after the graveyard of a church in Daly City. But that doesn’t mean I subscribe to your cockamamie theory, okay?”

“Okay.”

She handed him the paper and he opened it.

“Were either of them married?” he asked as he scanned it.

Chen frowned. “No. Why?”

Nightingale paused before answering. “There’s another common factor, looks like. All the victims seem to be virgins.”

The couple sitting on their right looked over at Nightingale. The woman whispered something into her partner’s ear and he nodded. “I think we’d be better discussing this outside, don’t you?” said Chen. She nodded at a side door. “There’s a smoking area outside, at the back.”

“Perfect,” said Nightingale, sliding off his stool. “Because I’m a smoker.”

“Let me talk to my friends, they’ll be wondering what I’m up to,” she said. “Do you want to eat with us? The show starts in about an hour.”

“Just so long as you’re not trying to fix me up.”

She arched one eyebrow. “Are you saying there’s something wrong with my friends?”

“Joke,” said Nightingale.

“I’ve already told you, that shtick doesn’t work.”

“I’d love to join you,” said Nightingale.

“I’ll catch up with you outside.” Nightingale pushed his way through the door while Chen went over to her friends.

CHAPTER 36

There were four Apostles with Abaddon.  It wasn’t a full Sabbat, but a full Sabbat wasn’t called for, not for what Abaddon needed to do. She had chosen John, Thaddeus, Bartholomew and Philip. The room had been cleansed and the incense had been burning for a full thirty minutes. Abaddon nodded at Thaddeus and Thaddeus rang the bell he was holding. The temple was illuminated by flickering black candles, each half the height of a man. They were standing at the five points of a pentagram which had been outlined with sea salt. Abaddon raised her left hand and pointed around the circle in an anticlockwise direction, invoking the four crowned princes of Hell: Satan to the east, Beelzebub to the north, Astaroth to the west and Azazel to the south.

In the center of the pentagram was a silver bowl full of glowing coals that had been sprinkled with various herbs and potions. They hissed and sparked as Abaddon finished invoking the princes. “In nomine dei nostri Satanas, Luciferi Excelsi,” began Abaddon. She spoke Latin for the best part of five minutes. When she had finished she reached into her black robe and took out the credit card that Judas had given her. She raised the card above her head, spoke the last dozen words of the ritual, leaned forward and dropped the card onto the burning coals. It curled up, then burst into flames. There was a plume of green smoke that turned to black and then it was gone.

Abaddon raised both arms above her head. “It is done,” she said. “Satan be praised.”

“Satan be praised!” chorused the four Apostles. “Death to our enemy!”

CHAPTER 37

Nightingale blew smoke up at the night sky.  He heard a piano start to play, followed almost immediately by a snare drum. It looked as if Chen had been wrong about the time the music started. He took another slow pull on his cigarette as he stared at the sheet of paper Chen had given him. It was a cold night and even with his raincoat on he still shivered. The famous San Francisco fog seemed to be on the move again, wet and clammy. He frowned as he stared at the cloying mist rolling down the alley towards him. The sea was a long way away and there had been no mist when he’d climbed out of the taxi.

The door opened and Chen appeared. “They’ve started early,” she said. “You’re still okay to eat with us? You seemed to have made a good impression on my friends.”

“Sure,” said Nightingale. He shivered and turned up the collar of his raincoat.

“Now what were you saying about virgins?”

“I just asked you if you thought these two were virgins or not. It’s a simple enough question.”

“It’s a ridiculous thing to ask.”

“Is it? We had a monk, a priest, a nun, a spinster. All virgins. What about the two you found?”

“I don’t want to play this game,” she said.

“Humor me, please.” His feet were starting to go numb so he stamped then to get the circulation going. “Were they married? Either of them?”

Chen sighed. “As it happens, no. The organist was a spinster. No husband, no kids. The man still lived with his mother.” She shrugged. “I think you’re reading too much into coincidences. The victims are all white but that doesn’t make them racist crimes. Not that we even know for sure that crimes have been committed.”

“There’s a pattern here, Amy. Can’t you see that?”

Chen sighed. “So now you’re telling me we’re looking for a serial killer who is targeting Christian virgins. That’s perverse. Really perverse.” She shivered. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“Do you want to borrow my coat?”

“That’s a nice gesture, but no. Thanks.” She frowned. “It shouldn’t be this cold, not this time of the year.”

Nightingale nodded at the cross at her neck. “You’re a Christian?”

“You sound surprised. Why? Chinese can’t be Christians?”

“That’s not why I’m surprised. It’s just that religion and police work tend not to go hand in hand, as a rule.”

“Well I’m a Christian, yes. But if you dare to ask me if I’m a virgin you will get your face slapped.”  She frowned as she stared at the gathering mist. “What the hell is that?’

“Fog,” said Nightingale, slipping the sheet of paper into his raincoat pocket.

“That’s not fog,” she said. “I’ve lived here my whole life and that’s not San Francisco fog.”

Nightingale sniffed the air. “Well it’s not smoke.”

As they stared down the alley the mist began to darken and to swirl around.

Nightingale cursed.

“What’s wrong?” asked Chen.

“I’ve seen something like this before.”

The mist was coalescing, dark shapes moved within it and there was a dry, rustling sound like the wind moving through dead leaves.

“What is it?” said Chen.

Nightingale put a hand on her shoulder. “Just move away, Amy.”

A face appeared in the left of the fog. A young boy, his face a mass of bruises. The mouth moved soundlessly, and then melted back into the fog.

“Jack, what the hell is that?”

“Just back away, Amy.”

Another face appeared in the mist. An old woman, her eyebrows pencil-thin and her lips curled back in a snarl. The fog was gray at the edges, almost black in the centre. Flecks of something glinted under the streetlights. The face melted back into the fog. The mist now filled the alley. There was no way of getting past it.

“Don’t touch it,” said Nightingale, remembering what the fog had done to the Rottweiler in Mitchell’s house.

Chen fumbled for her gun.

It was only feet from her and Nightingale pulled her back. “Keep away from it,” he said.

Chen pulled out her gun, held it with both hands and fired twice, the shots deafening in the confined space of alley. Both shots went through the darkest part of the fog and hit the wall of the alley.  The face of a young man appeared with an ugly knife wound across his face. She fired another two shots and both hit the face, but it rippled and vanished and the rounds buried themselves in the wall.

“Bullets won’t work!” shouted Nightingale.

“Well what the hell will?” shouted Chen.

Nightingale reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver cross and the penknife. He tossed the cross at her. “Hold this,” he said.

She looked at the cross in astonishment as he opened the penknife, then fired two more shots at the fog.

“I told you, bullets won’t do any good!” he shouted. He lashed out with the silver blade. The fog seemed to laugh at him, there was a deep throbbing sound from within and it pulsed like a living thing. He slashed the knife back and forth but it had no effect and the fog continued to slide towards them. He threw the knife at the centre of the fog but it went straight through and clattered against the alley wall.

Chen fired two more shots at almost point blank range and there was angry roar from within the mist.

He pushed her back and the gun fell from her hands. She bent down to pick it up and the fog lurched towards her.  Nightingale pushed her again. “Get away, Amy!” he shouted. “Get away from it!”

The mist had moved around them so that they were now hemmed against the wall.  “Jack, what’s happening?”

“Don’t let it touch you!” he shouted.

The lead bullets hadn’t hurt the fog. Neither had the silver knife. He was running out of options. He saw the can of mace on Chen’s hip and grabbed it. “You think mace will hurt it when bullets went right through?” asked Chen.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette lighter. “Mace probably not, but fire might,” he said. He pressed the trigger of the mace can and sprayed the fog. As soon as the mace began to spray he flicked his cigarette lighter and held the flame under the stream. It ignited immediately and he played the flame over the mist. There was a hideous, ear-shattering scream from within it and the mist curled back. Screaming faces appeared. A man. A woman. A baby. Something that looked like a wolf but with cat-like eyes. A blank mask with no eyes and an open mouth. All of them screaming.

Nightingale stepped forward and aimed the flame at the black heart of the mist. The scream intensified and then there was a blue flash and the fog folded in on itself and vanished. The screams stopped the instant the fog disappeared.

Nightingale took his finger off the trigger and the flame died. He gave the can of mace back to an astonished Chen and pocketed the lighter.

“Jack, what just happened?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“It’s okay, it’s over,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and putting his face close to hers. She shuddered, barely able to focus. He stared into her eyes. “Come on, Amy. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

She nodded. “I’m okay.”

She was still holding the silver cross and he took it from her, then he picked up the penknife, closed it, and slipped it and the cross into his raincoat pocket.

Chen was still staring at him, her mouth wide open.

Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

“I, I…” she started, but was unable to find the words.

Nightingale looked down the alley to his right. A middle-aged couple in near-matching coats were staring at them. They had probably heard the shots but Nightingale wasn’t sure what they had seen. The woman was pointing. Nightingale heard a squeal of brakes and a police cruiser pulled up, its lights flashing but no sound from the siren.

Chen stared down at her gun on the ground, then over at the cruiser. “I’m in so much shit, Jack,” she said.

“Why?”

“Why? Are you shitting me? I’ve just fired my gun half a dozen times in a city street. What do I tell them I was shooting at, Jack? A fog with heads in it? And where is it? If I tell them that, I’ll be on psych leave so fast that my feet won’t touch the ground and then I’ll be out on my ear.”

“It’s gone.”

“I know it’s gone. I can see it’s gone. That means I was firing at nothing and cops who go around shooting at shadows are out on their ear PDQ. I am so screwed.”

She was looking around frantically. The doors to the police cruiser opened and two uniformed officers climbed out, their hands moving towards their holsters. A second cruiser arrived and parked behind the first. They could hear sirens in the distance. “Here they come,” she said. “Shit.”

“Look at me, Amy,” said Nightingale.

She looked at him, panic in her eyes.

“I’m here, there’s two of us and I can back up any story you want to tell them.”

“Police! Put your hands in the air!” The two cops had drawn their weapons and were advancing cautiously into the alley. The couple in the long coats had hurried away.

Chen’s eyes darted in their direction. “Don’t look at them, Amy. Look at me. Here’s what we tell them. I came out of the restaurant for a smoke. Two guys came up, pulled knives and said they wanted my wallet. You came through the door and saw what was happening. You pulled your gun. They charged at you and you fired warning shots. They ran.”

“Police, put your hands above your heads!”

“Two guys, both white, wearing denim jackets and jeans. Meth-heads. Wide eyes, bad skin, they had the shakes. One of them had lizard cowboy boots. He had a switchblade. The other guy had a hunting knife. Got it?”

“Got it.” He could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

“Sure?”

“Two white guys wearing denim jackets and jeans. The one with a switchblade had lizard cowboy boots. The other had a hunting knife. They were mugging you.”

“The one with the switchblade went for you. You fired warning shots. They ran off that way,” said Nightingale, nodding at the alley to his left. The cops were still advancing on his right.

“Got it.” She sounded more sure now.

Nightingale smiled and slowly raised his hands. “It’ll be fine,” he said.

“You’ve clearly lied to cops before,” said Chen, following his example and putting her hands above her head.

“Sometimes you have to,” said Nightingale.

Chen turned towards the advancing uniforms. “I’m Inspector Amy Chen of the Family Crimes Unit. My handgun is on the ground. My ID is in my back pocket.”

“Keep your hands above your head,” shouted one of the uniforms.

“I am doing,” said Chen. “Just be careful there. There have been enough shots fired tonight.”

CHAPTER 38

“Tell me again, from the top,” said the detective. His name was Matt Richards and he was with Internal Affairs. He was sitting opposite Nightingale in an interview room. His colleague was a few years younger, Sal Mancino, and he was standing just behind Nightingale’s right shoulder. Mancino had barely said a word during the thirty-minute interview though Nightingale suspected that he was the senior officer. Richards was a big man, well over six feet, with a weightlifter’s physique and a military crew cut. Mancino was taller and softer, and his jet black hair glistened as if he’d run gel through it before starting his shift.

Four cruisers had arrived at the alley eventually, and the uniforms had insisted that Chen and Nightingale wait until Internal Affairs had arrived. One of the uniforms, a sergeant, had taken Chen’s gun and given it to Mancino when he had turned up in a gray sedan.

The uniforms had kept Nightingale and Chen separate and they were taken to the precinct in different cars, Chen riding with the two Internal Affairs detectives and Nightingale in the back of a cruiser.

They had questioned Chen first while Nightingale had sat alone nursing a tepid coffee in the interview room. When the two detectives eventually came into the room they didn’t have any recording equipment and they didn’t read him his rights, and he took that as a good sign. He didn’t bother asking if he could smoke. Richards had started by asking what had happened and Nightingale told them the story he’d agreed with Chen. Richards had listened without any reaction and when Nightingale had finished, the detective switched tack and asked about Nightingale’s background and why he was in the States. Nightingale stuck to his private detective story and told them that he had been hired by relatives of Father Mike. Again that obviously matched what Chen had told them so they didn’t call him on it. Richards then asked him to run him through what had happened again, obviously checking for inconsistencies.

Over the next hour he was asked to tell the story four times. Now Richards was asking for the fifth. There was no point in showing his annoyance, they were only doing their jobs. So he settled back in his chair, linked his fingers and ran through it again. He’d left the bar to have a cigarette. Two men had approached him, brandishing knives. He had been about to hand over his watch and wallet when the door had opened and Chen had appeared. One of the men had attacked her, the one with the switchblade and the cowboy boots. She had identified herself as a policewoman and fired the gun, several times. Nightingale couldn’t remember how many shots. The men had run off and Chen had fired again as she shouted at them to stop. The men had run out of the alley and away. At that point the first cruiser had arrived.

Richards looked up at Mancino and Nightingale sensed that Mancino was nodding. “I don’t think we need to detain you any longer,” said Richards. “It sounds as if you had a lucky escape.”

CHAPTER 39

Nightingale finally walked out of the precinct just after midnight. Chen was waiting for him. She smiled but he could see the concern in her eyes. “You okay?” she asked.

Nightingale shrugged. “I’m tired, but it’s all good.” He took out his cigarettes and lit one. He saw Chen staring at the pack.

She held out a hand. “Give me one, you bastard.” Nightingale gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. They both blew smoke up at the stars. “Let’s walk,” she said.

They headed away from the precinct. “You stuck to your story?” asked Chen.

“Of course. You?”

“It was a good story. They bought it. Six warning shots is pushing it, but at least they didn’t have a corpse to deal with.” She turned to look at him. “We need to talk.”

“I could do with a drink first.”

She smiled thinly. “You read my mind.”

Chen took him to a small bar tucked away down a side street. The barman knew her and asked her if she wanted her usual. Chen shook her head. “No, Brad, I’ll have a brandy. A double.” She looked at Nightingale.

“A Glenmorangie,” he said.

“Rocks?’ asked Brad.

“Just a splash of water,” said Nightingale.

“Actually, I’ll have the same,” said Chen. “Make them both doubles.”

The barman poured their drinks and then walked away. Chen took a swig of hers and shuddered when it went down. Nightingale sipped his drink. “You’d be better off with sweet tea,” he said as he put his glass down on the bar.

“You can go fuck yourself,” she said, and drained her glass. She waved it at the barman and he came back and refilled it.

“I’m just saying, a good malt whisky needs to be savoured and appreciated.”

She raised her glass and smiled sarcastically. “And once again, I’m telling you to go fuck yourself.” She took another long drink.

“You’re still in shock,” he said.

“Do you think?” She started to raise her glass but Nightingale put a hand on her arm. “Seriously, take it slowly. I’ve a lot to tell you and you’ll need a clear head.”

“You’re a patronising bastard, has anyone told you that?”

Nightingale nodded. “You’re not the first.”

He took his hand away and she sat looking at him, the glass on the bar in front of her. “What’s going on, Jack?” she asked eventually.

“It’s complicated.”

“Damn right it’s complicated. I’ve been attacked by a demon from hell. I saved your life, remember? You owe me an explanation.”

“I need a cigarette.”

“Yeah, and the shrinks call that displacement behaviour.”

“I call it needing a cigarette,” said Nightingale.

“After what happened last time, don’t you think we’re safer inside?”

“If another one comes it won’t matter where I am.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Cigarette first,” said Nightingale, sliding off his stool.

Chen waved at the barman. “We’re going out for a smoke, Brad, we’ll be back.”

The barman looked surprised. “I thought you’d given up.”

“Yeah, so did I.”

Nightingale walked out of the bar and Chen followed closely behind. She glared at him as he lit a cigarette and blew smoke. “This displacement behaviour is getting on my nerves,” she said.

“I’m choosing my words carefully,” he said. He offered her the pack. She took a cigarette and he lit it for her.

“Just tell me what the hell is happening.” She took a long pull on her cigarette. “Damn, I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed smoking.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you, but you’ll think I’m crazy,” he said.

She folded her arms. “That ship has well and truly sailed,” she said.

Nightingale sighed. “That wasn’t a demon from Hell,” he said. “A demon is a whole different kettle of fish. What we killed was an Elemental, sent to destroy me. Created by a bunch of Satanists, the Satanists who have killed Father Mike and Sister Rosa and up to a dozen other innocent people.”

“Satanists? Devil-worshippers?”

Nightingale nodded.

Chen looked at him scornfully. “There’s no such thing. Every now and then we get an alleged Satanic case and it always turns out to be a lunatic. Or kids. We had a case a while back where Satanic symbols had been painted on gravestones. Turned out to be a punk band doing a bit of self-promotion.”

“This is real, Amy.”

She shook her head. “We’ve had the occasional serial killer pretend that the devil told him to do it, but that defence never works. They’re either crazy or they’re straight up lying. There hasn’t been a single case of genuine Satanic murder ever, anywhere in the country.”

Nightingale blew smoke up at the night sky. “They say that the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he did not exist.”

“Who says that?”

Nightingale shrugged. “It was in that movie, Usual Suspects.”

“And that’s what this sounds like, Jack. A bad movie.” She shook her head. “But let’s suppose there is a bunch of Satanists out there killing people, why are they doing it?”

“To get Satanic power. So they can run the world.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You sound like you believe this crap?”

“I do. I know that makes me sound as if I’m as mad as a hatter, but that’s the way it is.”

“I’ve never understood that. It’s an English expression, right? Mad as a hatter?”

“Back in the 18th century most hats were made of felt and they used mercury to make the felt. Exposure to mercury leads to dementia so a lot of the workers in hat factories ended up going mad. Literally. I’m not crazy, Amy. No matter what you think.”

She smiled thinly. “The only reason I’m not walking away is because I saw that thing. And then I saw it disappear when you sprayed burning mace at it.” She shuddered. “It was like a bad dream. A nightmare.”

“It was real enough.”

“So why did the mace kill it and the bullets had no effect? And what was with the silver chain and knife?”

“The knife was silver and silver kills Water Elementals. But what attacked us wasn’t a Water Elemental.”

Chen shook her head, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m not an idiot, Jack. Explain it to me.”

“There are four types of Elementals. Silver kills the Water ones. I’ve been attacked by a Water one before and silver killed it. The one that attacked us in the alley was an Earth Elemental. They’re killed by fire. I’m told there are also Fire Elementals that you kill with water, and base metals will kill an Air Elemental.”

“So my gun would work on an Air Elemental?”

“Lead bullets? I guess so.”

“But silver bullets for werewolves, right?”

Nightingale chuckled. “So you won’t believe in Satanists, but you have no problems with werewolves.”

“I didn’t say I believed in werewolves, Jack. Do you?”

Nightingale blew smoke. “I’ve never come across one so I’m keeping an open mind. But I’ve seen and done stuff, Amy. Heavy stuff. So yes, I do believe in Satanic power and it scares the shit out of me.”

“I need a drink,” said Chen. “And no more patronising crap about a good whiskey needing to be savored. I need alcohol.”

Nightingale crushed what was left of his cigarette under his heel. “You and me both.”

CHAPTER 40

They sat at a corner table, Nightingale with both his hands around a glass of Anchor and Chen with a whiskey and water that she was already halfway through. “Give me the low-down, quick and simple,” she said.

“There’s a group of twelve, working for a woman who calls herself Abaddon, one of the names for the Angel of Death. The twelve followers are called the Apostles. They have an initiation ceremony which involves them killing a Christian in the style that the original Apostle died. They all met gory deaths – Andrew was crucified on an X-shaped cross, Bartholomew was flayed alive with knives, James the Elder was beheaded, James the Lesser was sawn into pieces. The Apostles carry out their killings in a group Sabbat and each time the coven gets stronger.”

“Twelve, you say? And how many have there been so far?”

“I think they’re close to finishing. Then there’s a final ceremony, where two children are sacrificed. A white boy and a black girl.” Nightingale picked up his lager and sipped it as he watched Chen’s reaction.

“The missing kids?” Her mouth opened in horror. “You are shitting me?”

Nightingale shook his head. “I wish I was.”

“So these scumbags are planning to kill Brett and Sharonda, for what? More Satanic power?”

“I don’t know the full story yet. I’m still working on that.”

“This is bullshit, right? Please tell me this whole Satanism thing is bullshit, Jack, that it’s just a group of crazies getting their rocks off by killing kids.”

“You saw the Elemental, Amy. I’ve seen much worse.”

“You’re telling me this is all true?”

Nightingale nodded.

Chen drained her glass and waved over at a waitress for a refill. “Who is in this group, do you know?”

“I’ve got two names,” he said. “Brace yourself.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll say I’m crazy.”

“Give me the names, Jack.”

Nightingale took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Kent Speckman and Lucille Carr. I’m told that they’re both Apostles.’

Chen’s jaw dropped. “You are out of your fucking mind.”

He raised his glass in salute. “Told you.”

She leaned towards him and lowered her voice. “Listen to yourself, will you? Kent Speckman is an NFL living legend and Lucille Carr is a movie star.”

“Yes, and three years ago Speckman was close to being cut by his team and Lucille Carr couldn’t get arrested in Hollywood. Something happened to both their careers, Amy. Something big. Within the space of a few months Speckman went from being a potential trade to Most Valuable Player. And Lucille Carr suddenly found every director from Scorsese to Spielberg knocking on her door. Now she’s being talked about as Oscar material for her last two movies.”

“And you’re telling me that it’s because they’re devil-worshippers?”

“I was told that they were in the Apostles. Then I looked at their past history.” He shrugged.

“And you didn’t think that maybe their success was down to hard work, talent and a bit of luck? You went straight to human sacrifice?”

“You don’t think it’s a coincidence?”

“I think there are all sorts of reason why people succeed.”

“Have a look at Lucille Carr. She was nothing and suddenly she was Hollywood’s flavour of the month. And I can show you a video of Speckman where it looks like he’s getting help.”

“Help?”

“Things happen when he plays, things that don’t seem quite right.”

The waitress returned with her drink and Chen gulped down half of it before speaking. “Let’s suppose for one minute that it’s true. That there is a gang of serial killers who are killing Christians and are planning to kill Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker. What the hell do we do?”

“We have to stop them.”

“And how do we do that?”

Nightingale sighed. “We need to find out who Abaddon is. We need to find out where they are carrying out the sacrifices. And we need to find out where the kids are and rescue them.”

Chen nodded. “So we have a to-do list. Any thoughts on what we do next?”

Nightingale smiled. “I was hoping you might have some ideas. I do know one thing, the mansion they use is a twenty-minute drive from the Rite Aid on Hillside Boulevard.”

“That narrows it down a bit, but not much.” She frowned. “How do you know that?”

Nightingale was reluctant to tell her too much about Lee Mitchell, in particular that he had been tortured and murdered after speaking to him. “The guy I spoke to a while back. The one I gave my credit card to. They took him to the mansion but they made him park twenty minutes away and took him there in a hood. I did have one thought. We know that Speckman and Carr are Apostles. If we put them under surveillance they’ll lead us to the rest eventually.”

“By ‘we’ I assume you mean the SFPD.”

“It’s a way in, Amy. You’d need pros, real arms-length surveillance.”

“And what do I tell my boss, Jack? If I start talking about devil worship and human sacrifice I’ll be on medical leave so fast that my head will be spinning.”

“You could say that you’d had a tip that they were involved in the abductions.”

“And who’s going to believe that? Seriously?”

“What about talking to your Drugs Squad? Say that you’ve had a tip that they’re involved in drugs, big-time.”

“I’m in Missing Persons. Why would I get a tip like that?”

Nightingale threw up his hands. “I’m just trying to help. Can you think of anything better?”

“Phone taps would be helpful, but I don’t see how I could arrange that. They’re too high profile, I don’t see any judge signing off on it. And my boss would want to know what the hell I was playing at. What about you?”

“Me? On surveillance?  One man’s no good, you know that. Good surveillance requires at least a six-man team and two vehicles and that’s the bare minimum. I’m guessing Speckman and Carr are both used to being stalked by the paparazzi. They’ll be able to shake off anyone they spot, I’m sure of that.” A smile slowly spread across his face. “I’ve an idea.”

“Care to share?”

“We bug their cars. GPS locators. Then we can track them by computer. If we follow them eventually they’ll go the mansion.”

“Assuming they go in their own vehicle. What if they get picked up?”

“I’m guessing they’ll want to involve as few people as possible. So if they’re going to a Sabbat they’ll drive themselves. If we can track them we’ll see if they ever meet up. And if they meet at a mansion somewhere then we’ve got them.”

“Sounds like a long shot to me.”

Nightingale ran a hand through his hair. Chen was right. But if there was even a remote possibility that either Speckman or Carr would lead them to Abaddon, it was surely worth trying.

“And how would we go about placing transmitters on their cars anyway?” asked Chen.

“I can get the equipment easily enough,” said Nightingale. “And I know a cop who could get us in, up close and personal.”

Chen stared at him as realisation dawned. “You’ll be the death of me, Jack.”

“Hopefully not,” said Nightingale. “Let’s order some more drinks and work on a strategy.”

CHAPTER 41

The bar shut at three o’clock in the morning and Chen and Nightingale stood on the sidewalk looking for a taxi.  “I’ll use Uber,” she said, taking out her smartphone. “Where are you staying?”

Nightingale cursed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t go back to the hotel,” he said. “They’ll know I’m staying there.”

“How?”

“The same way they were able to send the Elemental after me,” he said.

“You haven’t told me everything, have you?” she said.

“Amy, it’s a long story, and a complicated one. But I can’t go back to the hotel. I’ll have to leave my car, too. They could be waiting for me to go back for it.”

“How do you know they won’t send another Elemental after you?”

“It needs something personal to use to track me down. The ritual involves the destruction of that item so it can only be used once.”

“What was it?”

“A credit card. I gave it to one of the would-be Apostles.”

“Why would you do that?”

Nightingale looked pained.

“If you’re going to tell me it’s complicated, I swear I’ll slap you.”

“It’ll take time and I’m not sure that the street is the best place for that sort of conversation.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll need to find another place to stay.” He cursed under his breath, took out his cell phone and ripped off the back. He pulled out the Sim card, broke it in half and tossed it into the gutter before reassembling the phone. “The guy I spoke to had my number,” he said.

“And you think he’s told them everything about you?”

Nightingale nodded. “I’m sure of it.” He was sure because Mitchell had been tortured before he died but he wasn’t ready to tell Chen that just then.

Chen sighed. She tapped on the screen of her smart phone. “Okay, there’s a cab two minutes away,” she said. “You can sleep on my sofa tonight.”

Nightingale was surprised at her offer. “Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not sure. But you’ve still got some explaining to do and my apartment is probably the best place for that.’

CHAPTER 42

Chen lived in a converted warehouse that overlooked San Francisco Bay. There were exposed brick walls and metal girders criss-crossing the ceiling. The main living area was open plan with a kitchen area and breakfast bar at one end, and two large black leather sofas either side of a large flatscreen TV on a bareback wall.  There was a decent stereo system against one wall and  several hundred vinyl LPs on metal racks between the windows. There was a collection of framed family photographs on one of the window sills. The floorboards looked original. They had been sanded and varnished but were uneven and cracked in places and there were several squeaks as Nightingale walked over to the sofa and sat down. Chen pulled open a double-doored stainless steel fridge. “I can offer you wine,” she said. “Or water. Or a Dr Pepper.”

“Water,” he said. “But coffee would be better.”

She turned and look at him, stretched out on the sofa. “Just make yourself at home, why don’t you?” she said.

“Okay, water will be just fine,” he said.

She laughed. “I can make you a coffee,” she said. She busied herself at her coffee machine and carried over two cappuccinos. She put them down on a coffee table that looked as if it had once been an industrial workbench and sat down on the sofa opposite him.

“What are we going to do, Jack?”

“We find the kids,” said Nightingale. “We track down the Apostles and their leader and we stop them.”

“And what about after lunch?” she said. “End world poverty and find a cure for Aids?”

“What do you want me to say, Amy? We have to do something. If you’ve got any ideas, I’d love to hear them.”

“You’re one hundred per cent sure that Kent Speckman and Lucille Carr are in this group?”

Nightingale nodded. “As sure as I can be.”

“So let’s run with the idea you had. Put trackers on their cars. See if they ever go to the same place at the same time.”

“You’ll help me?”

“I don’t see that I’ve much choice,” she said. “What about the equipment? Do you have it?”

“Not yet,” said Nightingale. “But I know a man who can get it for me. Are you okay to get me in to see them?”

“Speckman and Carr? How do expect me to do that?”

“You’re a cop. Think of some reason you’d need to talk to them about an investigation. Say you need to check their car.”

“Without a warrant?”

“You spin them a story. Then while you’re talking to them I bug the cars.”

“And if we get caught?”

“We won’t.’

He leaned back and stretched his arms above his head. “I never thanked you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For saving my life.”

“I was thinking about myself, to be honest,” she said.

He shook his head. “It was coming for me,” he said. “It wouldn’t have harmed you.”

“What did you call it? An Elemental?”

Nightingale nodded.

“Have you come across something like that before?”

“Just the once.”

“That’s why you had a silver knife in your pocket?”

Nightingale nodded again.

“You might have warned me.”

“By saying what? That a weird cloud would materialize from nowhere and try to rip me apart? I’m sure you’d have invited me to a drink at the Blue Room after hearing that.” He leaned forward, picked up his mug of coffee and sipped it. “Amy, I need you to do something for me,” said Nightingale. “It’s important.”

“What?”

“I need you to go to the hotel to get my stuff.”

“Just leave it. You can buy anything you need. Today’s Saturday. I’ll go shopping with you.”

He shook his head. “If they get hold of any personal items, they can send another Elemental against me. And my washing stuff is in the bathroom – my toothbrush, my razor, my comb. Any one of those items would be perfect. I can’t go back, they’ll probably be watching the hotel now.”

Chen grimaced. “It’s four o’clock in the morning, Jack.”

“First thing, then. Eight o’clock, nine maybe. It’ll be better then because there’ll be more people around. You’ll stick out at this time of the morning.”

Chen thought about it for several seconds and then nodded. “I guess if I don’t there’s a chance one of those things will turn up here.” She shuddered. “Okay, you can sleep on the sofa. I need to get some shut-eye.” She went to a cupboard and took out a pillow, sheets and a duvet. She gave them to him with a smile. “And if you use the bathroom, don’t go leaving the seat up. And be careful where you pee. I’ve had guys stay over before and it doesn’t always end well.”

“Thanks for this,” said Nightingale. “I owe you, big time.”

“Well, if I ever need a favor from an English gumshoe being hunted by demons from hell, I’ll be sure to call in that marker.” She flounced off to her bedroom.

“It wasn’t a demon from hell,” said Nightingale, to no one in particular.

He took out his cellphone and then remembered that he’d thrown away his SIM card.

He pushed himself off the sofa and went over to Chen’s bedroom door. He knocked on it softly. “Amy?”

“Don’t even think about it,” she said. “I’ve got a gun, remember?”

“I need to make a phone call and my phone is useless at the moment.”

The door opened and Chen glared at him. She had changed into a baggy t-shirt and running shorts. “Who are you planning to call at this time of the morning.”

“There’s a guy I know who can get the tracking equipment for me,” he said.

“At four o’clock in the morning?”

“I don’t think he sleeps much.”

“The sort of people you know, I don’t think I’d want them having my number.”

“I’ll withhold it,” he said. “And really, I’d trust this guy with my life.” He smiled thinly. “Actually, I already have done.”

Chen stared at him for several seconds, and then nodded. “Okay, but I want to hear every word you say.”

“Deal.”

Chen went back into her bedroom and reappeared a few seconds later with her cellphone. She set up the withhold number function before giving it to him. Nightingale tapped out the number from memory and put the phone to his ear. Wainwright answered almost immediately and he sounded wide awake. “Joshua, it’s Jack. I need help.”

“I’m listening.”

“I need a couple of vehicle tracking things.”

“LoJacks we call them,” said Wainwright.

“Yeah, well I need to be able to keep an eye on a couple of people.”

“Speckman and Carr?”

“Got it in one,” said Nightingale.

“I’ll get something to you later today,” said Wainwright. “I use a guy called Dragan. He’s from Serbia but he’s lived in Los Angeles for a while. You can trust him, but he’s not familiar with the Left Path so no talking about what you’re up to there, okay?”

“Understood.”

“How are things?”

“I’m making progress.”

“What’s wrong, Jack? You wouldn’t be calling me at this time of the morning if some particularly nasty shit hadn’t hit the fan.”

“I’m using a friend’s phone, I’ll get a new Sim card tomorrow.”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“But your friend is standing next to you?”

“That’s right?”

“Call me when you can.”

The line went dead and Nightingale handed the phone back to Chen. “Who was that?”

“A guy I work for.”

“I meant his name.”

“He prefers to keep a low profile.”

“I could just call him and ask him.”

“You could. But I wouldn’t.” He smiled. “Thanks for this, seriously.”

“For what?”

“For taking me in. For helping me. For not just turning me over to the cops.”

“The way I look at it, if I tell anyone what we’ve been through over the last few hours, they’ll take away my badge.” She shrugged. “You’ve still got some explaining to do, and that’s going to work better face to face.” She gestured at the sofa. “Now get some sleep, you look like shit.” She closed the door in his face.

“Yes ma’am,” he said to the door.

CHAPTER 43

Nightingale awoke to the smell of frying bacon. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa in his shirt and jeans. She grinned at him as he padded over to the kitchen area. She was still wearing her oversized t-shirt and running shorts. She’d tied back her long black hair with a pink scrunchie and looked terrific for someone who had had less than four hours sleep.

“Easy over okay?” she said, nodding at the eggs frying in a pan.

“Brilliant,” said Nightingale.

“Can you make the coffee? You pop a capsule in that machine there and press the button. If you want a cappuccino or a latte you use a milk capsule first.”

The coffee maker looked like a fax machine but after staring at it for a while Nightingale grasped the concept and within a couple of minutes had made two black coffees. Chen put eggs and bacon on plates. “No toast,” he said, “I’m cutting back on carbs.”

“How’s that working out for you?” They sat down at a counter and ate. “Last night, you were serious about Kent Speckman and Lucille Carr being part of this group? The Apostles?”

“Dead serious,” said Nightingale.

“I’m going to need convincing,” she said.

“When you get back from the hotel, I’ll show you some videos of Speckman. You’ve got a computer?”

“Of course, or I can access the internet through the TV,” said Chen. She laughed at the look of surprise that flashed across Nightingale’s face. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Jack. About the hotel. I’m guessing it’s best I go alone, right?”

Nightingale nodded and passed her his room keycard. “Room 624.”

“And you’re sure they’ll be watching?”

“Ninety-nine per cent sure. They’ve already broken into my car. There was nothing personal in the car so that’s not an issue.” He sipped his coffee. “The thing is, the watchers could be anyone, literally anyone. It’s not like they’re FBI and all you have to do is to look for a couple of earnest men in dark suits. It could be a teenager, it could be a mother, a postman, a cop, a student.”

“I get it, Jack.”

“Just be careful. Get in, get my stuff, and get out. When you leave, walk for a while to check that you’re not being followed. You’ll have your gun, right?”

She smiled sarcastically. “I never leave home without it.”

“You need to bring everything from the room,” he said. “Even a toothbrush would leave me vulnerable.”

“I get it,” she said. She finished off her eggs and bacon, drank the last of her coffee and stood up. “I’m not thrilled about you staying here on your own but I don’t see I have much choice,” she said.

“I promise not to snoop through your drawers,” he said.

“See now, until you said that the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind,” said Chen. “Maybe I should make you wait outside in the hallway.”

“I’ll be good, Amy. I promise.”

CHAPTER 44

Chen used an Uber taxi to take her to the hotel, but had it drop her several blocks away. She was carrying a large shoulder bag and was wearing a bulky jacket over her sweatshirt and jeans, the better to hide her Glock in its underarm holster. Chen generally favored wearing her weapon on her hip but she was off-duty and the gun was better hidden. She walked slowly down the sidewalk, pretending to talk into her cellphone. She paused a short distance from the hotel entrance, waved her arm animatedly and did a complete three-sixty as if she was in the throes of an argument. There was a guy in blue overalls sitting in a cable van, and a couple of hooded teenagers standing at the entrance to an alley, smoking and bobbing their heads in time to music only they could hear.  There was a coffee shop on the other side of the road and half a dozen customers were sitting on stools facing her. She couldn’t risk looking at them closely so she started walking again.

She strode through the lobby and straight to the elevator, holding her phone to her ear and conducting an imaginary conversation with herself. There was an elderly man behind the reception desk and two people sitting in the lobby, a man in a wheelchair reading a newspaper and a middle-aged woman fussing over a Chihuahua that had been forced to wear a tartan coat.

She got into the elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor, and for the top floor. The elevator went up and she got out on eighth, walked down a corridor to the emergency stairs and walked down two flights to the sixth. She stood for a while at the fire door leading to the corridor, looking through a small window until she was satisfied that the corridor was empty. She pushed the door open and listened carefully.  The corridor didn’t contain 624. It led to the lobby and she checked the lights above the elevator doors. The one she had used had gone up to the top floor and had stayed there. One of the other elevators was on the ground floor, and the third was on the second floor.

She stopped and listened again. There was a sign opposite the elevator doors that indicated that room 624 was to her left. She had the keycard in her hand as she walked towards the door. When she was six feet away she had a quick look around to reassure herself that she was alone in the corridor, quickly opened the door and slipped inside.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her heart racing. She steadied her breathing and then went through to the bathroom. His toothbrush and toothpaste were in a tumbler and she put them and his comb into his washbag. What few clothes he had went into a carrier bag she had brought with her. There were three leather-bound books on the bedside table and she put them into the bag with the clothes. On the dressing table was a carrier bag from a shop called Pagan World containing a crystal ball and what looked like dried herbs and twigs.

She saw the camera bag by the side of the bed and she picked it up. She unzipped it and her eyes widened as she looked inside. She reached inside and pulled out the pink hairbrush. “You bastard,” she muttered under her breath.

CHAPTER 45

Nightingale could see from the look on Chen’s face as she let herself into the apartment that she wasn’t happy. “You’ve got some explaining to do,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

She dropped the camera bag and pulled out the baseball cap and threw it at him. As he was staring at it, she pulled out the pink hairbrush and waved it at him. “What are these?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” he said.

“That’s not an answer and you know it,” she said. She threw the hairbrush at him and it hit him in the chest. He bent down and picked it up.

“I can explain,” he said.

She took off her coat and he stared at the holstered Glock. She pointed her finger at him, as if reading his mind. “Just stay where you are,” she said. “You know what a trophy is, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Because these look like trophies. The sort of things a serial killer would take to remind himself of what he’d done.”

“I’m not a serial killer, Amy.”

“So explain what you’re doing with a child’s baseball cap and a pink hairbrush?”

Nightingale grimaced. “I needed them to help look for the kids.”

“Brett and Sharonda?”

Nightingale nodded.

“So how did you get them?”

“I went to their homes. I spoke to their mothers.” He sighed. “And I stole them.”

She stared at him in horror, lost for words.

“For the best of reasons, Amy. And stole is the wrong word. I’ll give them back.”

“I should never have let you stay here,” she said. “When the cops hauled us in I should have just told them the truth and let them hang you out to dry.”

“Will you let me explain?” asked Nightingale.

“Try,” said Chen. “Give it your best shot and then get the hell out of my apartment.”

Nightingale held out his hand for the bag and she gave it to him. He unzipped one of the side pockets and took out the pouch containing the crystal. She frowned as he undid the pouch and slid the crystal onto the palm of his hand. She reached for it but he shook his head. “No, you mustn’t touch it. You’ll sully it.”

“Sully it?”

“It has to stay pure. If it gets sullied it has to be smudged and that takes time.”

“You’re talking in riddles,” she said.

“It’s complicated,” said Nightingale.

“If you say that one more time…” she said, exasperated.

“I can use the crystal to check if they are alive or not, but to do that I need something personal. I borrowed those items so that I could use the crystal on them.”

“And?”

“And both the kids are alive.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “Show me,” she said.

“It takes time. And I have to shower.”

“Yeah, well you could do with one,” said Chen. She pointed at the bathroom door. “Get to it.”

CHAPTER 46

Chen stared at the crystal as it slowly turned anti-clockwise over the hairbrush. “You’re twisting it,” she said.

Nightingale was kneeling on the floor, wearing his bathrobe and nothing else. His hair was still damp from the shower. “I’m not,” he said.

“Let me try.”

He shook his head. “You can’t. The crystal has to be in sync with you. This is my crystal, it’ll only work for me. And like I said, if you touch it…”

“I know. It’ll be sullied.” She sat back on her heels. And watched as Nightingale held the crystal over the baseball cap For almost a minute it hung motionless and then it began to swing slowly until it was circling the cap.

“This crystal, can you use it to find out where the children are?”

“In theory, yes. But it’s much more..” He left the sentence unfinished.

“Complicated?”

He shrugged. “I need to use the crystal ball, and the other stuff you brought with you.”

“And that will tell you where the kids are?”

“Maybe. It’s not an exact science.”

CHAPTER 47

Abaddon and Judas met on a bench at Fisherman’s Wharf. Judas had brought a bag of cherries, and they shared them as they spoke, carefully putting the stones back in the bag. They spoke quietly, their conversation inaudible to passers-by, drowned by the honking of the Sea-Lions on Pier 39.

“The Elemental failed,” said Judas.

“Yes,” replied Abaddon. “This man is something special. We must not underestimate him again.”

“Twice now that he’s escaped with his life.”

“Yes, there’s no need to remind me.”

“Third time lucky,” said Judas.

“It’s not about luck,” said Abaddon. “We need to get ahead of the game. He can’t possibly know what he’s dealing with yet, so we must also ensure he can’t be given too much information. We need to think carefully about who might help him, and see that they don’t. More work for your scissors, perhaps?”

Judas gave a shiver of excitement.

“Oh, I do hope so. I really would have liked more time with the last one, but he wasn’t as strong as I’d expected.”

“He has not returned to the hotel?”

Judas shook her head. “He will know we are searching for him.”

“You must find him, Judas. You must find him and kill him. But before you kill him, you need to find out everything he knows.”

“I will,” she promised.

Abaddon got up from the bench and walked away. Judas popped the last cherry into her mouth, got up, dropped the bag of stones into the nearest litter-bin and walked off in the opposite direction.

CHAPTER 48

“I have to be honest, that robe really doesn’t suit you,” said Chen, as Nightingale lit the two small blue candles which stood on either side of the solid crystal ball in the middle of the coffee table.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Nightingale. “There wasn’t much on offer in the shop.”

“But why a bathrobe at all?”

“The real adepts do it naked,” he said. “So count your blessings. And while it’s okay for you to watch, don’t interrupt. Concentration’s very important.”

Chen raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Nightingale sprinkled herbs from a brass bowl into each flame, then made a small pile of lemon twigs in the bowl. He put Sharonda Parker’s hairbrush and Brett Mitchell’s cap on top of the pile and said a sentence in a strange language.

“Is that Latin?” said Chen.

Nightingale gave her an admonishing look and held a finger to his lips.

“I was just asking,” she said.

“No, it’s not Latin. It’s a language that pre-dates Latin. Now don’t talk.” Nightingale lit the lemon twigs with his lighter, picked up his pink crystal and held it by the chain six inches above the flames.

“Asmla oscsub ascihc odsidrept Sharonda Parker. Asmla oscsub ascsihc odsidrept Brett Mitchell.”

The crystal started to swing round slowly, then moved backwards and forwards regularly, from the north-east to the south-west.

“Asmla oscsub ascihc adidrept Sharonda Parker. Asmla oscsub ascihc adidrept Brett Mitchell.”

This time the crystal ball on the table clouded over and Nightingale repeated the incantation for the final time.

“Asmla oscsub ascihc adidrept Sharonda Parker. Asmla oscsub ascihc adidrept Brett Mitchell.”

The cloudiness cleared, and inside the crystal ball appeared the image of a huge mansion, seen from above, perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. There was an extensive lawn in front of it with a fountain playing in the center, and several garages or stables off toward the right. The main building was white, with black beams to give a Tudor look, though there was no chance of a genuine Tudor mansion in California. At each side of the vast edifice, a somewhat confused architect had added a square castellated tower. There were a few outbuildings dotted around but no sign of people, and no indication of where it might be.

“What the hell is happening?” whispered Chen.

“It’s called a Spell Of Propinquity. It can show where a missing soul is to be found.”

“So the ball is a projector?” she asked.

“No, it’s a focus for the energy of the crystal.”

“Bullshit. It’s some kind of projector. Where is that place?”

“No idea,” said Nightingale. “I was hoping for some local knowledge here. Take a good look now, it’s fading.”

The burning herbs in the brass bowl flickered and went out, and the image disappeared. Nightingale sighed. “That’s where they are, but we’re no further forward if we don’t know where it is.” He stretched. “You’ve never seen a mansion like that?”

Chen shook her head. “There are a lot of rich people in San Francisco. The Bay area has more Fortune 500 headquarters than anywhere else outside New York. We’ve got YouTube, Google, Facebook, Yahoo, WalMart, Gap, more multimillionaires than you can shake a stick at.” She frowned. “Google,” she said.

“Yeah, you said that.”

She shook her head. “No, Google. The search engine.” She went over to a desk on which stood a high-end Apple laptop. Nightingale went to stand behind her. “Jack, put some clothes on, will you? That robe leaves nothing to the imagination, seriously.”

Nightingale went through to the guest bathroom where he’d left his clothes. By the time he’d changed, Chen had a series of photographs on her monitor. “I Googled ‘cliff top mansion Tudor style San Francisco area’ and came up with hundreds of pictures,” she said. “Most aren’t local.” She scrolled down. A lot of the pictures had been thrown up by the word ‘Tudor’ rather than the location, and a lot of the houses were old and clearly in England. She homed in on one and clicked on it to enlarge it. It wasn’t the one that had appeared in the crystal.

Nightingale bent closer as she scrolled down the rows. He pointed at the fifth row.

“Stop, that’s it,” he said. “Click on that one.”

She enlarged the photograph and gasped. “That’s it,” she said. She clicked on to the link connected to the photograph and they went through to a page called Homes Of The Stars. She scrolled down to the photograph they’d seen and Chen read the copy. “The mansion is called The Elms,” she said. “It’s where Jerry King and Suzi Brook live.”

“Who?” asked Nightingale,

“Pretty much the biggest music names on the West coast.”

“I try not to listen to music by people who are still alive,” said Nightingale. “Tell me about them.”

“Seriously?” she said. “You didn’t hear their story? They were in a band producing their own stuff for the internet when one of their videos went viral on YouTube. Inside a month they were on Letterman, their first album went triple-platinum, had a contract for five more, a sold-out national tour. Says here they bought an old mansion overlooking the bay and spent a boatload renovating it. Not that too many people get invites, they’re shy on publicity, I’m told.”

“What are they? Husband-wife? Girlfriend-boyfriend?”

“No one knows for sure,” said Chen. “They’re a bit of an enigma. He’s just turned twenty-one, she’s nineteen.”

“When did all this happen?” asked Nightingale.

“Around two years ago, I think. Fastest thing you ever saw. Way faster than Justin Bieber’s rise to stardom. Funny though, they sell millions, but I never met anyone who actually liked their stuff.”

“So you wouldn’t have any?”

“Well, it happens that I do. My sister bought me a CD for Christmas. Never actually listened to it.”

“Maybe you should give it a try?” said Nightingale.

“It’s pop. I’m not a big fan of pop.”

“Me neither,” he said. “All sounds the same. Maybe just one track.”

“OK.”

She walked over to the bookcase and opened one of the CD boxes.

“Here you go, In Your Face. Just the first track, eh? Long After Dark.”

She pressed PLAY and the room filled with bouncy music. A catchy tune with two young voices apparently shouting at each other. Nightingale was no fan of pop music but despite himself he found his foot tapping in time to the tunes.

The music stopped. Nightingale looked at the display on the CD, it just showed the album length, 58m 18s. They’d listened to it all. He looked at Chen who was shaking herself, as if just waking up.

“Wow. Guess I drifted off there. What do you think?”

“Not sure, I think I drifted off too. So, they happened two years ago, eh? Around the same time as Speckman and Lucille Carr first hit it big?”

“More or less. But how can there be a connection between a football player an actress and two teen musicians?”

“They all got lucky. Except maybe it wasn’t luck.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” she said. “You really cannot be serious. Those guys have all the money they would ever need, what would they want with kidnapping and Satanism?”

“I think maybe it works the other way around,” said Nightingale. “Maybe the Satanism came first. We’ve found four people so far who were nobodies two years ago, then their luck changed and now they’re huge. And they’re all involved in abduction and murder.”

“You say. I’m seeing no evidence of any such thing, just some burning herbs and a picture in a crystal ball. You’re talking about multiple butchery. Ordinary people just don’t do things like that.”

“But they’re not ordinary people anymore,” he said.  “They’re the Apostles.”

“So you say.”

“What do you know about Speckman and Carr?”

“I know they’re both good, upstanding citizens. You never hear of them crossing any lines. They’re as rich as hell, sure, and they’re both incredibly successful. But they’re not child-killers.”

“Amy, if they were, they would hardly advertise the fact, would they? What about Speckman a few years ago. Where was he then?”

She shrugged. “Everyone knows the story,” she said. “At least all San Franciscans do. Speckman was a second-string running back at SFU, then suddenly he starts making waves, playing out of his skin. He was a wild card pick for the 49ers and has started every game since. Rushed for 1597 yards last season, 27 touchdowns and already on course to beat that this year. From nowhere to multimillionaire in two years.” She saw Nightingale raise his eyebrows and she held up her hands. “Right person, right time,” she said. “It happens.”

“Same as Speckman and Carr? Just lucky?”

“Sometimes people do get lucky, Jack.”

Nightingale nodded at the television on the wall. “You said that was hooked up to the internet? Can you get some of Speckman’s games?”

“Sure. I’ll set it up while you make us coffee.”

Five minutes later they were sitting on the sofas watching Kent Speckman work his magic on the football field.

“Don’t watch him,” said Nightingale. “Watch what’s going on around him.”

Speckman was charging down the field, the ball tucked under his arm.

“I don’t see it.”

“It’s as if they’re letting him through. They’re all just of a fraction of a second too slow.”

Chen laughed. “That’s because he’s fast.”

Nightingale shook his head. “Show me a video from three years ago.”

Chen used her remote to scroll through a menu and another game flashed up onto the screen. She frowned as she watched Speckman make a much less successful run. He was brought down after just a few seconds and the ball slipped from his hands. She flicked through half a dozen short clips and in none of them was he particularly successful. “Okay, but he improved,” she said, exasperated. “He trained hard and he improved.”

“Is one possibility. But again, look at the people around him. Look at how they are reacting to him.”

She watched several more videos of Speckman’s early games, then called up his most recent. She sat back on the sofa frowning as she watched him run. “I hate to say this, but you’re right. Before they would just charge him and take him down. Now they hesitate. Not by much, it’s a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to give him an edge.” She shook her head. “That’s impossible.”

“What is?”

“You know what is. You expect me to believe that Satanism has done this? Black magic?”

“That’s what black magic does. It gives you the edge. And the more Satanic power you have, the bigger your edge.”

CHAPTER 49

Chen took Nightingale to a local diner for brunch. Nightingale had a steak sandwich but barely tasted it. Chen nibbled at a chicken Caesar salad. Chen spent most of the meal asking Nightingale questions, about what had already happened and what he thought would happen next.

She lowered her voice as a waitress walked by. “And they’re going to kill the children on April 30? In four days?”

“It’s a blue moon. As in the expression it happens once in a blue moon. It’s when there are two full moons in a month. But this next blue moon is even more special. It’s on a Walpurgisnacht  Wednesday. That’s a big night for witches in Germany. But it also plays a big part in the Satanism of Anton LaVey who founded a Satanic church here in San Francisco. So yes, all the signs are that it’ll happen on April 30. We need to check out that mansion, Amy. And soon.”

“We’d need a search warrant. And I don’t see us getting one.”

“There has to be a way.” He cursed and hit his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“I sent an email to a guy who might be able to give me some information on the whole San Francisco Satanism thing. I gave him my number but I threw the Sim card away. If he does call..” He cursed again.

“No problem,” said Chen, waving for the check.

Nightingale took out his wallet. “I’ll get it,” he said. “I’m on expenses.”

“Damn right you’ll get it,” she said.

Nightingale paid the bill and Chen took him along to a T-Mobile store where he bought half a dozen pay-as-you-go Sim cards. “That’s a bit of overkill, isn’t it?” she said as they walked out of the shop.

Nightingale lit a cigarette, then offered her one when he saw how she was looking at the pack. He lit it for her and she cupped her hands around the flame of his lighter to shield it from the wind that was blowing down the street. “I’ve got to be careful,” he said. “I don’t know how well connected The Apostles are. For all I know, they could have someone high up in the phone company. Or in the FBI, the DEA, the CIA, any set of initials you can name. You don’t know who you can trust.”

“I trust you,” she said, then blew smoke up at the graying sky. “God knows why.”

He grinned. “The feeling’s mutual,” he said. “Look, I know I keep asking you to do things for me, but I’m going to need a car and I’d prefer not to get another rental.”

“So I save your life, let you sleep on my sofa, cook you breakfast, risk my life getting your stuff from your hotel…is there anything else?”

“That’s about it,” said Nightingale.

“And now you want me to give you my car?”

“Lend me your car. I’ll give it back.”

“You’ve got a cheek, Jack, I’ll give you that.”

“So is that a yes?”

“It’s a maybe. Today’s Saturday. I can drive you tomorrow. We’ll talk about Monday on Monday.” She held up the cigarette. “I can’t believe you’ve got me smoking again.”

“At least you don’t have to buy them.”

“Yes. there’s always that,” she said, her voice loaded with sarcasm.

CHAPTER 50

As soon as they got back to Chen’s apartment, Nightingale slotted one of the Sim cards into his phone. Chen let him use her computer to send another email to Basil Dukas, including his new phone number. He had just hit the button to send the email when the intercom buzzed. “That was fast,” said Chen. She went over to the intercom unit and picked up the handset. She listened and then turned to Nightingale. “Are you expecting a dragon?”

Nightingale looked at his watch. With no traffic it was a six-hour drive from Los Angeles to San Francisco, so Dragan had made good time. “The fire-breathing kind, no. But a guy called Dragan, yeah. Can you let him in? He’s delivering the tracking stuff.”

Chen buzzed the man in and a couple of minutes later there was a quiet knock on the door. Chen opened it and took an involuntarily step backwards when she saw the size of the man standing there. Dragan was a fraction under seven feet tall and almost as wide as the door itself.  He smiled showing slab-like teeth, acknowledging the effect he’d had on her. He was wearing a black leather coat that Nightingale reckoned had probably cost the lives of at least three cows, blue jeans and boots that were so large that they must have been custom-made. His head was almost a perfect sphere, his hair shaved to reveal two thick scars over his left ear. There were a dozen or so small scars on his right cheek, all irregular as if he’d been hit by shrapnel years earlier. He was holding an aluminum briefcase that looked positively tiny compared with his bulk. “I’m here for Jack,” he said. His voice was like gravel being poured from a metal bucket, Eastern European but softened by his time in America. Chen recovered her composure and opened the door. Dragan stepped through the threshold, ducking down slightly so as not to bang his head on the door frame. He nodded at Nightingale. “You Jack?”

“Sure am,” said Nightingale. He stood up and offered his hand. Dragan’s hand enveloped his own, like an adult grasping a child, and the slight squeeze he gave was enough for Nightingale’s fingers to go numb. “Bloody hell, Dragan, you’re a big one, aren’t you?”

“You should see my brothers,” said Dragan. “I was the runt of the litter. Now my dad, he was a big man.”

“Dragan, can I offer you a drink?” said Amy

“Do you have tea?”

“Sure, I have tea.”

“Green tea?”

“My favorite sort.”

“Then I’d love one.”

She waved him to the free sofa as she headed over to make the tea. Dragan put his briefcase on the coffee table and sat down. The sofa seemed to groan in pain as he settled his vast bulk. Nightingale sat down opposite him. Dragan looked around. “Nice place,” he said, approvingly.

“It’s Amy’s.”

“She’s nice, too.”

“She’s lovely,” agreed Nightingale.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

Nightingale looked over at Chen who was standing waiting for the kettle to boil, far enough not to be overhearing them. “Yeah, maybe.”

“I had a friend who had a Chinese girlfriend. He said the sex was great but half an hour later he wanted another one.” Dragan’s laughter boomed around the apartment. Nightingale looked over at Chen, hoping that she hadn’t heard the joke.

“Jack, do you want tea or coffee?” she said, so he figured he was in the clear.

“I’ll try the tea,” he said. He turned back to Dragan. Dragan smiled. “Did you drive?”

Dragan shook his head. “Flew most of the way,” he said. “Mr. Wainwright fixed up a plane for us?”

“Us?”

“I came with a few friends,” he said.

“The more the merrier, I guess,” said Nightingale. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“How much do you weigh?”

Dragan laughed. “I don’t know. Most scales don’t go up high enough.”

Dragan was big, but he was clearly fit, too. It was all muscle. Nightingale couldn’t help but wonder what it would take to kill a man like Dragan. A head shot maybe. Or a bullet to the heart. Anything else he’d probably be able to shrug off.

Chen came over with a brown earthenware teapot with a bamboo handle and three matching mugs on a tray. She put it down next to the briefcase and then sat down next to Nightingale before pouting tea into the mugs.  Dragan sipped his and nodded appreciatively. “Nice,” he said. He put down the mug and flicked the two locks on the briefcase. He swung it open and took out a small metal box, not much bigger than a pack of Nightingale’s favorite cigarettes. “This will stick to any metal,” said Dragan. ‘The chassis is best but under a wheel arch will do just fine. The battery is good for four to five days usually, any longer than that and you need to think about connecting it to the car’s electrical system. The tracker only switches on when the car is moving.”

“I don’t think hard-wiring will be possible, but four days should be long enough,” said Nightingale.

Dragan took an iPad from the case and placed it on the coffee table. He tapped the screen and they were looking at a Google map of San Francisco. “You can see all the activated units on this screen,” he said. “I’ll show you.” He picked up the tracking unit and pressed a small black button on the side. A few seconds later a small red dot flashed on the iPad screen.

Chen picked up the iPad and nodded. “That’s us,” she said. “That is a nice piece of equipment. And totally illegal without a warrant.”

“It’s untraceable,” he said. “No serial number, no manufacturer’s marks. No comeback.” He reached into the briefcase again and took out two iPhones. “The same app is on these phones if you want to carry them in your pocket,” he said.

“Brilliant,” said Nightingale.  “They’re just what we want.”

Chen nodded, impressed by the equipment but clearly still worried about the legal implications of what they were proposing to do.

Dragan took another three of the tracker units and put them on the table before closing the briefcase. “There’s four units, I can get you as many as you want.”

“Four is more than enough,” said Nightingale.

“Mr. Wainwright wants us to keep an eye on you,” said Dragan, leaning back on the sofa. The creaking sounds from the back legs made it sound as if the sofa was in pain.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” said Nightingale, switching off the tracking unit. The red light vanished almost immediately.

“We’ll be discreet. You won’t even know we’re there.”

“Who is this Wainwright?” asked Chen.

“He’s a guy I work for from time to time,” said Nightingale.

“He’s your boss?”

“Sort of,” said Nightingale. He looked at Dragan and gestured at Chen. “Amy here is a cop,” he said. “With a gun.”

“All cops have guns,” said Dragan. He pulled back his coat to reveal a handgun in a shoulder holster. “I’ve got one, too.”

Chen jumped to her feet but Dragan held up his hands to reassure her. “I have a CCW permit,” he said. “I’m legal.”

“I’d like to see that,” said Chen.

“No problem,’ said Dragan. He reached slowly into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black plastic wallet. He gave it to her and she opened it.

“CCW?” asked Nightingale.

“Carrying a concealed weapon,” said Chen, reading the information on Dragan’s permit. “California’s gun laws are quite restrictive, we don’t hand these things out like candies. But Mr. Dragan’s seems in order.”

She gave it back to Dragan and he smiled. “Friends in high places,” he said as he put it away.

“Clearly,” said Chen.

“Look, Jack, it’s great having your own personal cop but she’s not going to be able to set up a perimeter for you. We can see trouble before it gets to you. Hopefully deal with it before it becomes trouble.”

“How many people do you have?”

“Best you don’t know. Just act as if we weren’t there, the last thing I need is you looking around for us. Just forget about me, get on with your business. Believe me, you won’t know we’re there.”

“We know that guns won’t do any good, though,” said Chen.

Dragan frowned. “What do you mean?”

Nightingale flashed her a warning look. “Just that you can’t go firing your weapon in public,” he said.

“I don’t plan on shooting anyone,” said Dragan. He reached inside his coat and took out a  business card. There was no name on it, just a cell phone number. “Any problems, you call me.”

Nightingale took the card and nodded. “I’m changing my Sim cards on a regular basis,” he said. “Each time I change, I’ll send you a text.”

Dragan pushed himself up off the sofa with a grunt and headed towards the door, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Chen opened the door for him and he ducked to go out.

Chen closed the door and shook her head. “Was he big, or what?”

“A giant among men,” agreed Nightingale. “He doesn’t know about the Elementals. Or any of the black magic stuff. So far as he’s concerned, it’s just a straightforward body guarding job.”

“How is a guy that big going to follow you without sticking out like a very very large sore thumb.”

“He’ll have people, I’m sure. Did you see the size of his shoes? They were like bloody canoes.”

“You know some interesting people, Jack, no question of that.” She sat down and gestured at the tracking equipment. “We are going to get in so much trouble if we get caught doing this,” she said. “And by ‘we” I mean ‘I’ of course.”

“We’ll be careful,” he said. He looked at his watch. “Fancy striking while the iron is hot?”

CHAPTER 51

Chen took Nightingale downstairs to the underground car-park where she kept her car, a bright red Mustang convertible. Nightingale nodded his approval. “Now that, Amy, is one hell of a car.” He was carrying the briefcase that Dragan had given them.

“My pride and joy,” said Chen. “It’s a 1965.”

“I can see why you weren’t thrilled with the idea of my driving it,” he said. “I’ll pick up another rental.”

“He is my baby, it’s true,” said Chen, opening the driver’s side door. “You like classic cars?”

“In another life I had an MGB,” he said. “Nowhere near as nice as this. Did you do the work yourself?”

‘Some,” she said. “My dad’s a car nut, always has been. This was his 18th birthday present to me, but it was a wreck back then.” She climbed into the car and opened the passenger door for him. As he climbed in she turned the ignition key. It started first time and its healthy roar echoed off the car park walls.

Nightingale chuckled. “To get mine to start you had to pump the accelerator, turn it over at least three times and more likely than not get a jump start.”

“The engine’s cherry,” she said. “Dad and I had it on a bench in the garage for six months.” She looked across at him. “We need to do something about your clothes.” She was wearing a dark pants suit with a pale blue shirt and had her gun on her hip. He was wearing his raincoat over jeans and a polo shirt. “You look nothing like a cop.”

“Cops wear raincoats.”

“No they don’t. Not in San Francisco. The FBI do but theirs are black or blue. What color is that? Beige?”

“Brown.”

“Well cops in this town don’t wear brown raincoats. And they don’t wear brown shoes. What are they?” She gestured at his feet.

“Hush Puppies,” he said. “They’re very comfortable.”

“That’s as may be, but cops don’t wear shoes like that. And they wear neckties. And real shirts. No one is going to believe you’re a cop dressed like that. We need to go shopping.”

An hour later they walked out of Macys with Nightingale wearing a dark blue suit, gleaming black shoes, a white shirt and a dark blue tie. His Hush Puppies were in a carrier bag but he was still wearing the raincoat. Chen gave him a final once-over before he climbed into the Mustang. “You’ll do,” she said. “Now, this is how we’ll do it. I’ll introduce myself and show him my ID. I’ll introduce you as my colleague and as he’s looking at my ID, just flick your wallet out. Ninety nine times out of a hundred civilians don’t take a close look at our ID, they’re too flustered at being spoken to by a cop. Stand a little back from me and let me do the talking. Clear?”

“Clear,” repeated Nightingale.

“I’m serious, Jack. I could lose my job over this.”

Nightingale nodded. “My lips will be sealed,” he said.

“Good. I’ll tell him we need to check his car, I’ll stand with him on one side, you fix the tracking unit on the opposite side.”

“Got it,” he said.

They climbed into the car and Chen drove to the Speckman mansion. Nightingale kept checking the mirrors, looking for a tail.

“You’re jumpy,’ said Chen.

“I just want to be sure we’re not being followed.”

“I’m a cop with a gun, they’ll think twice about following me,” she said.

“I hope you’re right.”

Nightingale figured it best not to tell her that he’d already visited the place. He stayed in the car as she got out and pressed the button on an intercom at the side of the massive wrought-iron gates. She took out her shield and held it up at a CCTV camera and a few seconds later the gates grated open.

She got back into the car and headed up the driveway.

There was a white Humvee parked outside the triple garage and next to it a small blue Honda. “I’m guessing the Honda belongs to the maid,” said Nightingale.

Chen parked next to the Humvee. As they climbed out, the front door opened and Kent Speckman came down the stairs to meet them. He looked as if he had been interrupted during a work-out, he was wearing a gray sweat-stained t-shirt with cut-off sleeves and black shorts and had a white towel around his neck. “This isn’t about parking tickets is it?” he asked. “My assistant was supposed to have taken care of them last week. I wasn’t even driving.” He was well over six feet tall, his forearms were bigger than Nightingale’s thighs and his hands were the size of small shovels. Close up, Nightingale realised that the man’s hair was graying at the temples.

“It’s not about parking tickets, Mr. Speckman,” said Chen.

Chen took out her shield and showed it to him. “Inspector Amy Chen, I’m with the SFPD Missing Persons unit.”

Speckman looked at the shield, then at the gun on her hip,  and frowned. “No one I know is missing,” he said. “There’s a few people I’d like to be missing, though.” He looked back at the car. “What is it? A 1965?”

Chen nodded.

“You don’t see too many cops driving around in old Mustangs,” said Speckman. He nodded appreciatively. “That is one sweet ride.”

Chen nodded. “You’re a Mustang fan?”

Speckman ran his hand gently over the bright red hood. “Sure am. I’ve got a 1965 Cobra and a 1968 Shelby Cobra GT 500KR.”

“Excellent,” said Chen, nodding her approval.

“And a Ford Mustang Boss 429,” he said.

“No way,” said Chen. “The seven liter V8?”

“Of course.”

“Wow.”

“Is that good?” asked Nightingale. He had flicked out his wallet when Chen had shown her shield and was now slipping it into his back pocket.

“Half a million dollars good,” said Chen.

“And some,” said Speckman. “Do you want to see it?”

Chen’s eyes sparkled. “Damn right I do.”

Speckman laughed and led them around to the back of the house where there was a single-storey building with a flat roof that was a good fifty yards long. There were more than a dozen up and over garage doors leading onto the Tarmac courtyard.

“How many cars do you have?” asked Nightingale.

“I’m not sure. I have a dozen on order from Italy and Germany, I’m not sure what their delivery status is.” He pressed a button by the side of one of the doors and it rattled up. Nightingale’s eyes widened in amazement.  The area inside was filled with cars, most of them luxury sports models. Half were classics, half were modern, some looked futuristic. There were two Formula One racing cars which Nightingale doubted would be street legal. “Fifty or so. I lend some out to friends, and photo-shoots,” continued Speckman as they walked inside.  There was a black man wearing blue overalls leaning over the engine of a white Mercedes and Speckman called over to him. “Hey, Leon, how many cars we got now?”

“Fifty-six,” said the man without looking up. “But there’s the Ferrari arriving this evening, that’ll be fifty-seven.”

“There you go,” said Speckman. He frowned as he looked over at Nightingale. “You’re an Australian?”

“British,” said Nightingale.

“He’s on attachment to the SFPD,” said Chen quickly. “We’re showing the Brits how we do things in the US of A. This is an awesome collection, Mr. Speckman. You’re a very lucky man.”

Nightingale watched her behaving like a kid in a sweetshop. Yes, there was no doubt that Speckman was a very lucky man. But where had that luck come from?

“Is that a 1967 GT40?” asked Chen, nodding at a white sports car with black circles on the doors.

“Sure is,” said Speckman.

Chen looked over at Nightingale. “Ever seen a car worth a million bucks before?”

Nightingale shook his head. “How many does it do to the gallon?”

Speckman laughed. “Funny man.”

“So which of these cars do you usually drive,” asked Nightingale. “I’m guessing you don’t drive down to the supermarket in a million dollar car.”

“True,” said Speckman. “The Humvee is my runabout. It’s a good size and I feel safe in it. There are so many idiots on the road these days.”

Chen went over to the GT40 and reached out to touch it, then jerked her hand away as if reluctant to risk sullying the pristine paintwork. “Do you drive it?” she asked Speckman.

“Sometimes,” he said. “To be honest, it’s a bit small for me. But I love owning it. Jay Leno tried to buy it but I outbid him. He was madder than hell.” He put his hands on his hips. “So tell me again, why are you here? You said something about a missing person?”

“A young boy went missing last week,” said Chen. “You’ve probably heard of him. Brett Michaels. We’ve had a report that there was a white Humvee in the area when the boy disappeared. A white Humvee with a broken tail-light. We’re checking all the white Humvees in the area, obviously.”

“No problem,” said Speckman. “Come and look for yourself.”

He took them outside and over to the Humvee. Chen went with him to the back of the vehicle. “See,” he said. “Nothing broken.”

Chen bent down and examined the offside tail light. Nightingale walked nonchalantly to the front of the Humvee.  “Looks fine to me,” said Chen. She moved across to the nearside tail light. “Is that one cracked?”

Speckman bent down. At the same time Nightingale slipped a tracker under the offside wheel arch. “Nah, it’s cool,” said Speckman.

Chen bent down and nodded. “You’re right.” She straightened up. “The boy disappeared on Friday afternoon last week,” she said. “Do you happen to know where the vehicle was that day?”

Speckman rubbed his chin as he frowned. Then he nodded. “Poker night,” he said. “Some of the guys were over.”

“Starting what time?”

Nightingale moved away from the Humvee, his hands back in his pockets.

“Eight. Before that I was in my gym here, working out. There’s not much to do training-wise as the season doesn’t start until September.”

“What about the afternoon. Four-ish?”

Speckman frowned again. “I was here but I don’t know what I was doing.”

“And the car was here all day?”

Speckman nodded. “No question,” he said.

Chen smiled brightly. “Then I guess we don’t need to take up any more of your time,” she said.

“Always happy to help the SFPD,” said Speckman.

He walked them back to Chen’s Mustang and waved as they drove away, before heading back inside his mansion.

“He seems like a nice guy,” said Chen as she guided the Mustang through the gate and onto the highway.

“Devil-worshipers often do,” said Nightingale.

Chen looked across at him. “How many have you come across?”

“A few,” he said. “And they don’t all look like something from a horror movie. They can be sweetness and light in public, but when they’re in a Sabbat they reveal their true selves and their true natures.”

“A Sabbat? What’s that?”

“It’s a meeting of a coven. It comes from the French, s’ebattre which means frolic. Sabbats are when the really nasty stuff gets done, the special rituals. Then there are the Esbats, which are the regular meetings. They take place during the full moon cycle, generally, so there tend to be thirteen every year. That’s when they tend to teach the newcomers.”

“And on April thirtieth, will that be an Esbat or a Sabbat?”

“A Sabbat,” said Nightingale. “But it’s possible there will be a regular meeting before that. And if Speckman goes, hopefully we’ll be able to track him to the Temple.” He looked at his watch. “I guess it’s too late to visit Lucille Carr tonight.”

“Daytime would be better,” agreed Chen. “I still can’t get over the fact that you think that one of the biggest movie stars in America is a devil-worshiper.”

“Have you seen any of her movies?”

“Sure. And the TV show that made her. Blood Network.”

“Never heard of it,” said Nightingale.

“It’s a vampire show. Rubbish, but watchable. Why would a devil-worshiper appear in a show about vampires? Wouldn’t that be drawing attention to herself?”

“Hiding in plain sight,” said Nightingale. “It’s always the best way to hide.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I can eat.”

“How about Chinese?”

“Are you cooking?”

“I don’t cook, Jack. We’ll pick up a take-out on the way home.”

CHAPTER 52

Nightingale watched with amusement as Chen speared a chunk of Kung Pao chicken with her fork and popped it into her mouth. “I’d have expected you to use chopsticks,” he said.

Chen helped herself to fried rice. They were taking their food from cartons and spooning it onto their plates – chicken, sweet and sour pork, beef and broccoli, and egg fried rice. “My dad wasn’t allowed to use chopsticks. His parents came to the States in the fifties and they wanted their kids to fit in, to be real Americans. They spoke English all the time and made him use a knife and fork. My dad did the same with me and my brothers.”

“I’ve never understood why anyone would use chopsticks anyway, once they’d seen how a fork works,” said Nightingale.

“Tradition, maybe. But I don’t feel Chinese. I’m American through and through.”

“And your grandparents? Why did they leave China?”

“My grandpa was a Christian at a time when Christians weren’t well-treated in China,” she said. “He managed to get out and swore that he would never go back.” She put down her fork, stood up and went over to the framed photographs on the window sill. She picked it up and took it over to him. It was an antique silver frame, a dragon on one side and a tiger on the other, as if protecting the two figures in the photograph. The man was in his thirties, his back ramrod-straight, arms clasped behind his back as he stared straight-lipped at the camera. He was wearing a tuxedo and next to him stood a beautiful Chinese girl in a flowing white dress, holding a posy of pink flowers. “He met grandma here in San Francisco. Turned out she had lived in a village close to his in China but they had never met. He got a job mowing lawns and she was the maid in one of the first houses he worked at. They married six months later.”

“Life’s like that sometimes,” said Nightingale.

Nightingale examined the frame. “Is this Chinese?”

Chen nodded. “I got it at a flea market years ago,” she said. “I love it because grandpa was born in the year of the dragon and grandma was year of the tiger.”

“You must miss them?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

Nightingale held up the frame. “You know…”

She realized what he was getting. “They’re still alive, you idiot. They live in a retirement community in San Pablo. Still in love, still happy.” She shook her head. “You really are one of those ‘the glass is half empty’ guys, aren’t you?” She took the photograph from him and put it back on the windowsill before picking up a remote control and scrolling through the on-screen menu.

“Looking for something in particular?” asked Nightingale, helping himself to more sweet and sour pork.

“I’m pretty sure Blood Network is on,” she said. “Featuring Lucille Carr. There you go.”

The episode had just started. Chen put down the remote and continued eating. She had opened a bottle of red wine and they were half way through it.

Nightingale thought Blood Network was utter rubbish. Two gorgeous heroic sparkly vampires battling against a mob of demons and evil vampires. Naturally, the good vampires lived off artificial blood, could go outside on cloudy days and spent most of the show wandering around looking gorgeous and saying profound stuff about bad vampires.

Lucille Carr played a girl vampire, and the camera loved her. Every time she was in a scene, the camera focused on her almost to the exclusion of the plot and any other actors. Her long red hair and wide green eyes filled the screen, drawing Nightingale’s attention to her, and making him forget the paper-thin story. She was beautiful, but it was more than that. She had a magnetic quality, and it wasn’t just a sexual thing. Nightingale noticed that Chen’s breathing had slowed, she was giving all her attention to the screen. “She’s good, eh?”

Chen shook her head and gathered her thoughts. “I guess. She has something. I hate this kind of show, but I still watch this one all the time.”

“She makes it,” said Nightingale.

“Yeah, like I told you. She hit the big time at her first audition. I guess they were right about her.”

“It’s star quality, isn’t it?”

“There’s something about her. Something that makes you forget everything else.” She looked over at him. “And that comes from Satanism?”

“It can do, yes. It can give you money, power, influence. Anything your heart desires. All you have to do is give yourself over to the Left Path.”

“The Left Path?”

“Satanism. Devil Worship. Dark Paganism. The bad stuff.”

“She sells her soul to the devil and she gets to be a movie star?”

“I don’t think she has sold her soul,” he said. “The way I hear it, if you’ve sold your soul you can’t become an Apostle.”

“And you believe this, Jack? You believe that you can trade your soul with the devil?”

“Not just the devil,” said Nightingale. “There are lots of devils and you can offer your soul to any of them.”

Chen sipped her wine, staring at him over the top of her glass. The show finished and as the credits rolled Nightingale stood up, stretched, and walked to one of the windows. He could see the Golden Gate bridge in the distance, the outline picked out with lights. Chen came up behind him and handed him his glass.

“Get many jumpers?” he asked, nodding at the bridge.

She nodded.  “Over sixteen hundred since it opened in 1937.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Plenty of work for a police negotiator in this town. Though most of them didn’t wait around to talk. They don’t even have an accurate number, some of it’s based on finding abandoned cars in the parking lot, people who disappeared and were last seen heading that way. I hear they stopped the official count back in ‘95 at nine hundred ninety-seven, when some radio stations started offering prizes for the family of the thousandth jumper. They didn’t all die, I think around thirty of them survived. Two or three went back and did a better job the second time.”

“If at first you don’t succeed....”

“You did a lot of talking to would-be suicides, when you were a negotiator?”

“A fair bit.”

“I’ve never seen the point of suicide. It seems the coward’s way out, don’t you think?”

Nightingale shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“You always say that. It’s your way of avoiding a conversation.”

“No, seriously, it’s complicated. I can imagine situations where suicide might be the only option. If someone’s got a terminal illness, for instance. Or if by dying, you save someone else’s life.” He shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“It just seems to be so unfair to those that you leave behind.”

“Yeah, I think some people do imagine they’re going to teach everyone a lesson, then they’ll wake up afterward and everything will be better. Young people, they think it’ll make them more important. It doesn’t, it just makes them dead.”

“So, did you talk a lot of people out of it?” she asked.

“I doubt it. If they genuinely wanted to do it, they’d just kill themselves. Waiting for a trained negotiator to show up generally meant they wanted to talk, wanted somebody to take some notice of them. I don’t think I talked anyone out of it, just listened and helped them find the right moment to come back inside, maybe.”

They both jumped as Nightingale’s cellphone burst into life. He didn’t recognize the number but he took the call. The voice on the line was thin and high-pitched, the diction precise. “My name is Basil Dukas. You sent me an email an hour ago.”

“Yes, I did. Can we meet, Mr. Dukas?”

“I’m not sure that would be a good idea, Mr. Nightingale. But tell me, why do you think I might be able to answer your questions about the Left Path?”

“I have some books that used to be in your collection. By Anton LaVey.”

“And you think I might have information useful to you?”

“I hope so. I believe that something very significant is due to happen on the night of the blue moon.”

“Do you, now?  Ordinarily I do not see people, especially not in my home, but your message intrigued me. I am familiar with the name of Joshua Wainwright, and have done business with him on a number of occasions, though we have never met. What is your connection with him?”

“It’s a long story,” said Nightingale.

“You work for him?”

“I do.”

There was a long silence and Nightingale was starting to think that the connection had been cut. “Come and see me tomorrow at eleven,” Dukas said eventually. “I live at Nob Hill, in one of the famous Painted Ladies. Do you have a pen?”

Nightingale wrote down the address, and Dukas ended the call. Nightingale put his phone down and picked up his wine glass. “Who was it?” asked Chen.

“Someone who I hope can answer some of my questions. He lives in Nob Hill. Steiner Street, one of the Painted Ladies, he said. Any idea what’s that about?”

“They’re a group of Victorian houses painted in different colors,” said Chen. “Bit of a tourist attraction. Used a lot in movies and TV shows, there are always tourists walking around taking photographs.”

“Expensive?”

“Not as much as Speckman’s mansion, but big bucks, yes. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Best not. The sort of information I want from him, he might not want to talk about in front of outsiders.”

Chen frowned. “I’m an outsider and you’re not?”

“The guy I work for, Wainwright, has a bit of reputation.”

“And he’s the guy who asked you to look into Father Mike?”

Nightingale looked pained. “I might have been stretching the truth a bit when I mentioned Father Mike.”

“You lied to me?”

“I have a client who was very concerned about Father Mike’s death, that’s true. But Wainwright  isn’t a family member.”

“But you are a former cop?”

Nightingale nodded. “Amy, it was a slight bending of the truth because you’re a cop and I’m a foreigner. I’m sorry. I won’t lie to you again.”

“So you admit you lied?”

“Okay, I won’t bend the truth again. Look, you know everything now, you know who the Apostles are and that if we don’t do something Brett and Sharonda are going to die.”

Chen looked at him but said nothing.

“Can I stay on your sofa tonight, or are you kicking me out?”

She wrinkled her nose as she gave it some thought. “You can stay,” she said eventually. “But you’re on probation.”

“And can you run me out to the Painted Ladies tomorrow?”

Chen laughed despite herself. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“If you don’t ask, you don’t get.”

“True enough,” she said. “Okay, I’ll be your designated driver, for one more day anyway.”

“You’ll get your reward in Heaven, Amy.”

“You see, now I don’t know whether you’re joking or not when you say that.” She finished her wine. “Right, I’m off to bed. You know where the duvet and stuff is. And don’t forget the toilet seat.”

CHAPTER 53

Brett Michaels couldn’t sleep. The pain between his shoulder blades was throbbing again and he cried into his pillow. He had to lie on his stomach or the pain was unbearable. He knew his father wouldn’t be happy to see him crying like a little girl, instead of facing up to things like a man. His father always wanted Brett to be a real man, always told him how proud he was of Brett when he played well for his Little League or football team.

Brett wondered whether his father would be mad with him for going with a stranger. Brett hated it when his father was mad, he shouted a lot at him and at his mother. Never at Chelsea though, maybe because Chelsea always went up to her room and locked the door when his father was mad. Brett didn’t think Chelsea liked his father very much.

Brett tried for what felt like the hundredth time to reach the burning, sore spot on his back, but his arm just wouldn’t bend up that far. He knew it was a brand, he’d read about brands in a book once. Cattle had them, to show who they belonged to, but he’d never heard of children being branded. And it wasn’t like he belonged to these people. They’d stolen him. Stolen. And never going to be given back.

The brand throbbed worse than ever, Brett tried to bury his face in the pillow. He’d once seen a movie where someone had killed an old man by pressing a pillow on his face. Maybe if he pushed down on the pillow hard enough, he might never wake up.

CHAPTER 54

“Are you sure you don’t want me in there with you?” asked Chen. “He might be more forthcoming with a cop.”

She had driven him to Nob Hill, one of the city’s seven hills, once the home of San Francisco’s four main railway barons, the 'Nabobs’ or 'Nobs’. Their mansions had mostly been destroyed in the great earthquake, and they’d moved away, but the name remained for the rebuilt area that was still one of San Francisco’s most prestigious neighborhoods. They were sitting in Chen’s Mustang  outside Basil Dukas’s house. It was a three-storey Victorian townhouse, painted three different shades, set in a street of similar houses in a variety of bright colors. The famous San Francisco 'Painted Ladies’.  Nightingale briefly wondered why his guide book referred to the architecture as 'Victorian’ and 'Edwardian’, long after the occupant of the British throne had been in any position to influence things over here.

“These people aren’t intimidated by authority,” said Nightingale.

“This Dukas is a Satanist?”

“That I don’t know, but he’s a collector of books on Satanism and black magic. And once you’ve been involved with the Left Path in any way, you tend to lose respect for traditional authority figures.” He grinned. “No offense.”

“I worry about you being in there alone, that’s all.”

“He knows I work for Wainwright which will get me some respect.”

“Who exactly is this Wainwright, Jack?”

“A guy with his fingers in a lot of pies. And like Dukas, a collector of books on the Occult.”

“Why I do think there’s a lot you’re not telling me.” She held up an hand. “And if you tell me that it’s complicated I swear you can walk home.”

Nightingale opened the passenger door. “I won’t be long,” he said. “I’ll phone if I need help.” He climbed out of the car and walked up to the front door. There was a large brass knocker in the shape of a lion with a ring in its mouth. Nightingale knocked and the door was opened almost immediately by a young Latina woman in a maid’s outfit of short black dress with a white apron. The high heels and fishnet stockings seemed impractical for domestic work, but certainly contributed to an eye-opening overall effect. Nightingale did his best to keep a poker face, but the girl was a stunner. She might have been twenty, possibly a little younger. Nightingale gave her one of his most boyish smiles. “Jack Nightingale,” he said. “Mr. Dukas is expecting me.”

She opened the door wide enough for him to enter and he followed her down the hall. Nightingale was too accustomed to the unusual to gawp, but he’d never seen anything like this. Almost every inch of the wall was lined with stuffed and mounted animals and birds. Nightingale noticed a lion, tiger, a variety of deer, raptors, big fish, smaller birds and even a cat, but there were far too many to take in at once. The girl led him to a large oak door on the right. She knocked.

“Come.”

The voice was thin and querulous, but well used to giving orders and having them obeyed. The maid opened the door and gestured Nightingale inside.

“Thank you, Conchita. Do come in, sir. Let me look at you.”

The maid walked away, her high heels echoing on the tiled floor. It occurred to Nightingale that she hadn’t spoken a single word since opening the front door, but he didn’t have time to ponder the matter, as he stood open-mouthed staring around the study. If he’d thought the corridor was outlandish, then Dukas’s study was in a completely different league.

On the wall behind the huge desk were mounted the heads of a bull elephant and a male rhino. Flanking them were two white tiger heads. The whole of the huge room was lined with shelves, on which stood hundreds of glass cases, each containing a small stuffed animal or bird. Rabbits, small dogs, foxes, badgers, robins, magpies. His gaze swept over them all, before coming to rest on the strange figure behind the huge antique oak desk, a figure that suited the outlandishness of the room to perfection.

Basil Dukas was a dwarf, around the size of a five-year-old child, though his huge, high chair and the desk in front of him made an accurate estimate impossible. He was wearing a black suit that was obviously made to measure but looked like it was Armani, with a gray button-down shirt. From his lined face and gray hair, Nightingale supposed he’d be well over sixty. His tiny, stubby hands rested on the open book in front of him. Nightingale noticed it was very old, handwritten and bound in what appeared to be leather. Dukas lifted his disproportionately large head and gazed at Nightingale for a silent minute. If he had any opinion on what he saw he gave no sign of it.  Finally Dukas spoke. “Please sit down. You will pardon my not getting up and shaking hands. It is a ridiculous maneuver for one of my stature.”

The high pitched voice was weak, yet oddly compelling. Nightingale nodded, and sat in the antique leather Chesterfield chair opposite Dukas. For the moment, he decided to say nothing and allow his host to do the talking. The man’s measured, mannered speech could have originated at the same time as his house. “Permit me to offer you some refreshment, sir. Tea, coffee?”

“Coffee will be fine,” said Nightingale.

Dukas touched a button on his desk and spoke into an intercom.

“Conchita, a coffee for our guest please. Tea for me. Now, sir, I was intrigued by your mention of Joshua Wainwright, and indeed of a book in which I might be interested. His collection rivals my own, though I have not dealt via an intermediary before. What is your connection with him.”

“He’s my employer.”

“And you serve him in what manner?”

“Books, sometimes. I acquire them for him. Sometimes I sell them on his behalf.”

“You suggested as much in your email,” said Dukas. “But you also said that you wanted information. What, pray tell, does that have to do with book-selling?”

“I’m looking into something for him. Something which might turn out to be very dangerous indeed. I’m hoping you might be able to help me with it.”

Dukas said nothing, merely inclined his head to the left, then nodded once. He opened his mouth to continue but then the door opened and Conchita came in with a silver tray, on which were a coffee-pot, teapot, two cups a milk jug and a sugar bowl. She set it down on the desk and left as silently as ever. Nightingale wondered if she were actually dumb, and followed her with his eyes as she left. Dukas appeared to notice his interest. “I enjoy having attractive things around me,” he said. “And besides Conchita is an excellent medium who assists me in my operations, such as they are these days. I wish to know a little more about you. Come over here and show me your left hand, if you please.”

Nightingale walked over to the desk and held out his hand, palm upwards. Dukas stared at it for a few minutes, tracing a line or two with his broad stumpy fingers. Finally he looked up, his face impassive.

“So, what’s the verdict?” asked Nightingale heading back to the sofa.

Dukas pursed his lips, and pulled them in and out several times. At last he spoke. “I doubt I could tell you anything you didn’t know about yourself, sir, but it is surely one of the strangest hands I have ever read. It seems you have sailed perilously close to death several times, dared mighty things and enjoyed great good fortune. Your lifeline even has a distinct break in it, something I have never seen before. It might not be too poetic to suggest that you have lived many lives, many more than most people. Yet the love line is indistinct to the point of oblivion. It appears that you have no-one to care about, Mr. Nightingale, nobody at all.”

Nightingale smiled.  “But don’t I get to hear my future? Not even if I cross your palm with silver?”

“You are pleased to be cynical, sir,” said Dukas. “But I would strongly advise against it. I am not given to predicting the future, and yours seems indistinct. There might be more mighty things for you to dare, or your time may be very short indeed on this plane. There is a crisis ahead of you, sir, one you may well not survive. I merely read. I cannot read what is not written. But this is a distraction. Why are you here?”

Nightingale didn’t answer immediately, but looked round the room again.

“You shot all these yourself?” he asked.

“Do you see me hacking my way through the jungles of the world with a powerful rifle held to my shoulder? A foolish question, indeed. I shot none of them sir, I am no assassin. The majority I bought for my collection, some were brought to me and I used them to practice my taxidermy skills. Some I needed for other work. My ambition is, one day, to have a specimen of every American bird and as many of the world’s animals as possible. But now, sir, no more digressions. What do you want from me?”

“I have some questions,” said Nightingale.

“Questions about what?” asked Dukas.

“About Anton LaVey, for example. You were an associate of his when he first founded his Satanic Church?”

“LaVey? Briefly, until it became obvious he was deluded. He denied the existence of the supernatural and the occult with his ramblings.”

“You’re a collector, right? Why did you sell the three LaVey books to Pagan World?”

“I am a collector but I am also a dealer,” said Dukas. “I have several copies of the LaVey books. The ones I sold were less valuable. A collection has to be a living thing, it has to change and grow otherwise it withers and dies.”

“What do you think of LaVey?”

“I come from a line of Occultists which can be traced back for centuries. LaVey was merely a particularly clever self-publicist and a poor philosopher. But what of it, the man is long dead?”

“I need to find someone in San Francisco who can help me, and I thought, with what I’ve heard about you and your connection with LaVey and his Church, it might be you. A number of Christians have gone missing in San Francisco. I believe they have been murdered. Sacrificed, as part of a greater ritual, one that will end with the ritual slaying of two young children, almost certainly on the thirtieth of this month.”

“It sounds as if you know everything already, Mr. Nightingale?”

Nightingale shook his head. “I don’t know the nature of the ritual, and I need to know how to stop it.”

“The missing? Nuns, priests, monks? Virgins, all?”

Nightingale nodded.

Dukas closed his eyes and shivered. “Surely not. Surely not. Not again,” he whispered.

“I have it on good authority,” said Nightingale.

Dukas opened his eyes. “Tell me about the children.”

“I’m told those two fit different profiles from the adults. Born at a solstice, on the same day.  I went to see an astrologer and he suggested that virginity might be an issue for all of these people. He thinks they might be marked for sacrifice. Those that haven’t been sacrificed already.”

“This astrologer. Would that be Gabriel Starr, perchance?”

“Nightingale nodded. “You know him?”

“I know of him.” Dukas sat bolt upright in his high leather chair. Nightingale had often seen fear in the expression of people sitting opposite him, and he saw it now on Dukas’s face. The little man folded his arms across his chest and hugged himself.

“No, no. Surely not,’ Dukas whispered.

“This means something to you, doesn’t it?” said Nightingale. “Tell me, please.”

Dukas was silent. He unfolded his arms, laced his stubby fingers together and looked up at the large brass chandelier which hung from the elegant molding in the middle of the ceiling. He dropped his gaze back to his book, then raised it again and looked Nightingale squarely in the eyes.

“To be frank, Mr. Nightingale, I see no reason to assist you, there may well be persons of power involved in this whom I would not wish to displease. Some of them might manifest their displeasure in strong ways. What you tell me disturbs me greatly.”

“What is it, Mr. Dukas? What’s happening?”

“I sincerely hope not,” said Dukas. “The idea is too terrible. Yet, as I say, our world is not a large one, and one hears things. Rumors, stories.” He frowned. “Surely they cannot be true,” he whispered to himself. “Not again.”

“Can I have it in plain English, Mr. Dukas? You’ve evidently heard something...spit it out.”

“I may be seeing a connection where none exists, I sincerely hope so. Yet one hears rumors.”

“You’re talking in riddles. Just tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I can not.”

Nightingale nodded slowly. “Perhaps I can sweeten the pot for you. What is the book you would most like to buy. The one book you would really want in your collection?’

“Are you serious?”

Nightingale nodded. “I am.”

“Then it would be Les Oeuvres d’ Agrippa. Attributed to Pierre d’Aban, though of course the real author is unknown. The 1744 edition. It is the stuff of dreams, sir.”

Nightingale took out his phone. “Give me a minute,” he said. He tapped out Wainwright’s number. The man answered on the third ring and Nightingale quickly explained what he wanted. “It’s the only way?” asked Wainwright.

“I think so.”

“I went to a lot of trouble to get that book, Jack. I had to call in a lot of favors.”

Nightingale took the phone away from his face. “If I get you the book, you’ll help?”

The man’s eyes sparkled and he nodded enthusiastically.

“It’s the only way, Joshua. He knows something.”

Wainwright sighed. “I’m not happy about this. But fine, he can pay me what I paid for it. Three hundred thousand. But his information had better be worth it.”

The line went dead and Nightingale put his phone away. “Mr. Wainwright will sell you his copy for three hundred thousand dollars,” he said.

Dukas beamed.

“Now spill the beans,” said Nightingale. “Tell me what you know.”

“Forgive me if I don’t tell you everything until the volume is in my hands,” said Dukas. “But I shall tell you a little. There is an old ritual, one I have never studied though it had a connection with my family over a century ago. It is horribly dangerous. A while ago I heard rumors that a group intended to enact it, but I dismissed it as idle talk. Lately I have felt vibrations, as if a very strong Magik were imminent. One senses these things from time to time, but I never dreamed of...this.”

Yet again Dukas failed to get to the point. Nightingale sighed but tried to remain patient.

“Of what? Please, I need to know.”

“So you keep saying, sir,” said Dukas. “What is your interest in this? You are walking a dangerous path, which is likely to end in your death, or worse. What brings you into this?”

Nightingale ignored the question. “At least tell me about the group you mentioned.”

“Again, I hesitate to do so. These are powerful people who would not wish to be spoken about.”

“There are two children’s lives at stake here.”

“Hah! What of it?” said Dukas. “The world has no shortage of children. Most of them of no value whatsoever. Do you know how many of them are slaughtered in the womb every day in America?”

Nightingale had no idea, and it wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss. Changing the subject when faced with a difficult question was a favorite tactic of his, but he didn’t appreciate it in others.

“The group? Please?”

“Very well. A year or so ago, some tentative overtures were made to me, a vague offer to join a group of like-minded Adepts working to a common purpose. It was not a purpose that appealed to me, it appeared fraught with danger, involved almost unspeakable evil, and I wished to hear no more of it. My interests in the Occult tend towards the Right-hand Path, and I am too old and wise to change direction. I rebuffed the offer, as diplomatically as I could, since these are not people one rejects with impunity. Fortunately for me, the whole business was vague enough not to involve any rancor on their part. As witnessed by my continued survival.”

“I need to know who this group is,” said Nightingale.

Dukas shifted in his chair and closed his eyes. He remained completely motionless for three minutes. Nightingale said nothing. Finally Dukas opened his eyes, and appeared to come to a decision.

“They call themselves The Apostles. Twelve of them who take the names of Christ’s Disciples in a blasphemous parody of his followers. Their leader is a very powerful Adept, at least a Magister Templum, more likely an Ipsissimus. A Satanist of immense power.”

Nightingale’s heart raced. “I need a name,” he said.

“I have no name to give you, I have never heard the real name spoken. I suspect I would be dead now if I knew it. I do know the name he uses, the one by which his followers call him.”

Nightingale said nothing.

“Abaddon, Mr. Nightingale, Abaddon. The ancient name of the Angel Of Death.”

So far Nightingale had stuck to the most basic of the interrogator’s skills, asking only questions to which he knew the answers, encouraging Dukas to talk. Now it was time for him to give out a little information, perhaps gain the man’s confidence.

“I know a little about the Apostles. I spoke to a young man a few days ago who had been a member. He told me about two sacrifices he’d been at. He wanted to help, but was very frightened.”

“I assume he is dead now?” said Dukas. “These are not people who would tolerate treachery.”

“He’s dead,” said Nightingale. “I was talking to an Abbott, and when I mentioned the word 'Apostles’ he started talking about the early Christian martyrs. Apparently Thomas was killed with a spear, and Peter was crucified upside down. Young Mitchell described similar murders, by group members who used those names.”

“Mitchell? Lee Mitchell?”

“You knew him?” asked Nightingale.

“Slightly. He had bought books from me, and occasionally asked advice, but he made no mention of this. So...so...each initiate sacrifices the victim in the way the original Apostle bearing that name was killed? That’s what he told you.”

“He only saw two killings, but it seems too much of a coincidence to ignore.”

“It fits.” said Dukas. “Many Satanic rituals involve a perversion of traditional Christian ritual, the inverted crucifixes, black candles, feasting before a ritual instead of fasting, sexual release afterward, defiling communion wafers and now this. A mockery of the original Apostles’ deaths.”

“And I think it’s all leading up to those kids being slaughtered on the thirtieth. A white cock and a black hen.”

“Walpurgisnacht. The most important night of the year for Occultists. And it’s a Wednesday and a Blue Moon. All those things are important by themselves, but taken together with the kidnappings and the virgin sacrifices, it all points to something huge. And awful. And I fear it is something that has happened before, with tragic consequences.”

“Before?” asked Nightingale.

“I believe so. Over a hundred years ago in fact, April 18 1906.”

“That’s very precise,” said Nightingale.

“The date means nothing to you?”

“Should it?”

“Every resident of this city would recognize it,” said Dukas. “The day of the great San Francisco earthquake. A natural disaster. Followed by a fire. It caused three thousand deaths. Or five thousand if you include Chinamen. The city authorities didn’t at the time.”

“Caused by a ritual? That’s not possible.”

“Who are we to say what is possible and what is not? It was a rumor, nothing more. If I am to provide you with the information you wish, I must break a promise I made to my father. On his deathbed he told me of a book in the library which described this ritual, and made me promise never to open or read it unless extreme danger threatened, and never to let anyone else read it under any circumstances. He had made the same promise to his father, and kept it until his death. The book remained unopened for three generations. It seems I must now open it, and read what lies within.”

“What is this book?” asked Nightingale.

“It is called The Grimoire of Hippolyta, written by a Greek witch in the fifteenth century. I am told I own the only copy in existence.”

“Hippolyta,” echoed Nightingale. “I’m sure I’ve heard that name.”

“Possibly, said Dukas. “The original bearer of that name was a Queen of the Amazons, and a famed sorceress, though that aspect of her is not generally known. The Greek witch would have taken her name when she was rebaptised into the Old Faith.”

“Could I read this book?” asked Nightingale.

“Hardly,” said Dukas. “I assume you don’t read Greek and it is not the type of book to be read by the uninitiated.”

“What is a Grimoire? I’ve not heard that word before. Is it a how-to guide?”

“Mr. Nightingale, you’re coming at this from the wrong direction. Grimoires aren’t recipe books. They’re not the result of experimentation, they’re revelations.”

“From who? How?”

“From the entities that Black Magicians aspire to communicate with.”

“So the demons tell people how to summon them?” asked Nightingale.

“Of course,” he said. “Demons, abhumans, elementals, servants of Lucifer, call them what you want, it all comes from them. Did you ever hear of Dr John Dee?”

“Yes,” said Nightingale. “He came up in some research I did. A sixteenth century English Satanist?”

“Welsh actually, and 'Satanist’ might be a little harsh. 'Occultist’ sounds better. He used an Irish medium called Edward Kelley to look into a scrying glass and to write down what he saw there. It’s said that Dee and Kelley wrote books in a language called Enochian, which gave instructions in how to raise Choronzon, the Guardian of the Abyss. Aleister Crowley is said to have tried that ritual, and sent two of his followers insane when it failed. There are lots of different ways to contact the servants of Satan, and they’re always happy to help people bring about their own damnation. I’m sure that Hippolyta never once attempted the Ritual that’s described in her Grimoire, it was revealed to her and she wrote it down.”

Dukas placed his tiny hands on the desk in front of him. “I have said enough, Mr. Nightingale. I will tell you more once I have the book.”

“I’ll get it to you, hopefully by tomorrow.”

“Then return tomorrow,” said Dukas. “You can give me the book, I will give you the three hundred thousand dollars, and I will finish my story.” As Nightingale stood up and headed for the door, Dukas chuckled. “Look at the second shelf from the top on your left-hand side. The small bird next to the badger. You might find it of interest.”

Nightingale examined the bird, but couldn’t see much to interest him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“A type of mockingbird,” said Dukas.

“I thought it was a sin to kill a mockingbird?” he said.

“Possibly it is,” said Dukas. “Though, I suspect, not a mortal one. This specimen is called the Northern Mockingbird, Mimicus Polyglottis. It has the most beautiful song, so much so that it is often referred to as 'The American Nightingale’. It is the nearest we have, since European Nightingales never normally visit the United States. Possibly it would be better if you had followed their example, sir. Better for you and for me.”

CHAPTER 55

Gabriel Starr was in the back room of Written In The Stars, packing some of his more precious charts and apparatus into a wooden chest when he heard the bells over his shop door chime. He frowned. Sundays were usually very quiet. The shop was open but customers tended to be thin on the ground and he generally used the day to catch up on his bookkeeping and stocktaking. He walked out into the main store.

His new customer was a short woman. She was probably in her mid-fifties, a little chubby, dressed in a green tweed suit and sensible brown shoes. Her brown hair was flecked with gray and cut in a style that hadn’t been fashionable since the days of Ladybird Johnson. The large bag she was carrying might have suited a younger, more fashionable woman better, but maybe it held her knitting as well as the normal female necessities. She looked like a history teacher in a private school.  “Good afternoon, Mr. Starr. What a lovely day it is for sure. I wondered if you might have time for a private consultation.”

Starr smiled at her and walked round the counter into the main area of the store.

“Certainly,” he said. “Just pop into the back room for a while, and I’ll see that we’re not disturbed.”

Starr showed her into the back room, then walked to the door, turned the sign to CLOSED, flicked the snib on the door and shot the bolt.

CHAPTER 56

Nightingale walked over to Chen’s Mustang and climbed in. “How did it go?” asked Chen.

“It was all a bit strange,” said Nightingale. “It looks as if he was approached to join the Apostles when they first started off.”

“By who?”

“He wasn’t specific. He’s a dwarf.”

“A dwarf?”

“Yeah, as in Snow White and the seven.”

“I don’t think you can call them dwarfs these days,” said Chen. “They’re referred to as little people.”

“Yeah? Well he’s definitely a little person. How much do you know about the 1906 earthquake?”

“Only what I learned at school,” said Chen.

“Dukas said there was a connection between what happened then and what’s happening now.”

“What?”

“I know, I know. It sounds crazy. But we can use your computer when we get back.”

“Mi casa es su casa,” said Chen. “But you’re right, it sounds crazy.”  She started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

She drove confidently and without a SatNav and twenty minutes later they arrived in

Pacific Heights, one of the city’s most upmarket areas. Lucille Carr’s mansion was at the top of Pacific Avenue, one of the many sloping streets that gave the city its distinctive feel and breath-taking views. There were the usual high walls, security gates and CCTV systems that kept the common folk away from the mega-rich, but after a few words into the intercom and a flash of Chen’s SFPD badge, the gates swung open. Kent Speckman’s mansion had been impressive, but Carr’s home was in a different level, a true movie star mansion, with fairytale turrets, wraparound terraces, buttercream walls and huge windows to take advantage of the spectacular views of the bay. The house was surrounded by large bushes that had been carefully sculpted into the shape of animals. There was an elephant, a leaping tiger, an ostrich, and several dogs. To the right of the house was a helicopter pad and beyond it was a tennis court. “I’m frightened to ask how much a place like this would cost,” said Nightingale.

“They don’t come up for sale that often,” said Chen. “But I read that she paid more than twenty-five million for it.”

“How the other half lives,” said Nightingale.

Chen shook her head. “Could you live here?” she asked. “You’d lie awake at night, wondering who else was in the house. You’d need cleaners, maids, gardeners, a cook, you’d need an army of people just to keep the place clean. And you’d spend all your time moving from room to room. I’m happy with a place where I can get from the kitchen to the bedroom in under five seconds.” She pulled up in front of a garage. “Mind you, that is one hell of a view,” she said, looking out over the bay.

“It’s the same bay you look at from your window,” said Nightingale. “I like your apartment.’

“Yeah, so do I.” She turned off the Mustang’s engine. “This time, let’s stick to that plan we had where you don’t say anything,” she said. “I don’t want to go explaining why you have an English accent.”

Nightingale threw her a mock salute. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“I’m serious, Jack. Lucille Carr has a lot of fans and if she gets wind that this isn’t official, she could make life very difficult for me.”

“I hear you, Amy. I’m just being flippant. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Just remember I’ve got a gun on my hip.”

They climbed out of the car and a black man in a suit with a transceiver in his hand walked over. He was big and broad shouldered and when he smiled he showed a gold tooth at the front of his mouth. Chen pulled out her shield again. “We’re here to see Miss Carr,” she said.

“She’s in the solarium,” said the man. “I’m to take you through.” He turned and headed towards the main entrance. Nightingale was just about to ask him what a solarium was when Chen flashed him a warning look.

There was a flight of pristine white steps leading to a double-height front door that in turn led to a huge hallway the size a ballroom, around which were dotted life-size marble statues of naked men in various poses all of which involved showing how well-muscled they were. There was a fountain with dolphins and mermaids in the middle of the hall and beyond it a huge marble staircase.

“Wow,” said Chen.

The man with the transceiver took them down a long corridor. To their right was a huge room overlooking the bay, with a grand piano, massive sofas and huge modern art canvases where the artist appeared to have just thrown his paint from a bucket.

From the end of the corridor came the sound of running water. The man stepped aside to allow them inside. “The police, Miss Carr,” he said, and then went to stand in the corridor.

The solarium was about the size of Chen’s apartment and filled with enough vegetation to give it the feel of secondary jungle. Three of the walls were glass, the top half shielded from the morning sun by bamboo blinds. The other wall was made of rough granite and water trickled down it, helping to cool the air but also making a relaxing gurgling sound that added to the jungle feel.

Lucille Carr was sprawled across a white sofa, and gave the impression of having arranged herself for a photo shoot. On the white marble table in front of her was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and a pitcher of orange juice, and she was holding a crystal champagne flute filled with what the British called a Buck’s Fizz and the Americans referred to as a Mimosa. Her long red hair was loose around her shoulders, casual but the sort of casualness that took hours to achieve. Her make up was flawless and clearly professionally-applied, and her fingernails were the same subdued red as her lipstick. Nightingale found himself staring at her green eyes that were almost feline, and the longer he stared the harder he found it to look away.

“Officers,” she said, raising her glass. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from SFPD’s finest?”

“It’s about your car, Miss Carr,” said Chen. She smiled as she realized how that sounded. “No pun intended.”

“They send out detectives on a Sunday to chase up parking tickets? What’s the world coming too?” She smiled at Nightingale and his heart lurched. He had a sudden urge to kneel down in front of her and beg her to marry him. He smiled back and felt his lips slide awkwardly across his teeth. He realized he was still staring into her eyes and her smile widened

“It isn’t about parking tickets,” said Chen. “I work for Missing Persons.”

“Do you, now?” said the actress. She turned her attention to Chen and waved a languid hand in the air. “How does that involve me?”

“Can you tell me what car you usually drive? When you are out alone?”

“A Lexus,” said Carr.

Chen took out her notebook and made a show of flicking through it. “And what color would it be?” she asked.

Carr frowned. “White. Why?”

“We’re looking into the disappearance of a young boy and shortly before he disappeared neighbors report seeing a woman in a white Lexus in the area. It had a broken tail light so we are just checking the tail lights of every white Lexus.”

“Where was the child?”

“We’re keeping that information to ourselves at the moment, until we have checked all the vehicles.”

“Well I can assure you my car doesn’t have a broken light.”

“That’s fine, Miss Carr. We just need to check for ourselves. The we can get out of your hair.”

“Do you have a card, Inspector?”

“Of course,” said Chen. She took out a small wallet and handed over a business card. Carr studied it for several seconds, then nodded thoughtfully and waved it at Nightingale. “He doesn’t say much, does he?”

“He’s the strong silent type,” said Chen.

“The best sort of man,’ said Carr. She called for the security guard and told him to take them to the garage. There was no “please” or “thank you”, just a curt command.

“Yes Miss Carr,” he said. He waved at the door. “If you would come with me, officers, I’ll show you the way.”

The actress sipped her orange juice and champagne as Chen and Nightingale followed the man down the corridor.

“What was that about, Jack?” whispered Chen.

“What?”

“You were staring at her like a love-sick teenager. Practically drooling.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

“She’s your type is she? The glossy man-eater.”

“Amy, I don’t know what it was. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, even though I wanted to.”

“She has an aura, that’s for sure.”

He gestured at the man in front of them. “Let’s talk about it later,” he said.

They went outside and around to the garage. The door opened to reveal a curving driveway that led to a subterranean parking area large enough for half a dozen vehicles. There was a powder blue Rolls Royce, a silver Mercedes sports car and a white Lexus.

“Do you have the keys?” asked Chen.

“Keys are inside,” said the man. “Do you have a warrant?”

“No,” said Chen.

“Then you shouldn’t be looking inside the vehicles. You can look through the windows, obviously.”

“Or you could open the doors for me so that I can look inside.”

The man shook his head. “Not without Miss Carr’s permission, and I didn’t hear you get that.”

“Are you a lawyer?” asked Chen.

“No, ma’am, I’m not. I’m in charge of Miss Carr’s security. And I wouldn’t be doing my job if I allowed you to search her vehicles without a warrant or without her permission.”

Chen looked as if she was about to snap at the man, but then she relaxed. “Were you on the job?” she asked.

The man nodded. “LAPD, five years,” he said.

Chen nodded. “I guess guarding a movie star is less stressful than patrolling the streets of LA.”

“This has its moments,” said the man, dryly.

“You’re right, of course. Without a warrant or express permission of the owner I can’t go looking inside the vehicles. It’s not a problem, all we need to do at this stage is to confirm if there has been damage to the tail light.’  She moved to her left and the man’s eyes followed her, giving Nightingale the opportunity to slip a tracking unit under the offside wheel arch of the Lexus. Chen walked around to the rear of the car and bent down. “Looks fine to me,” she said. She straightened up, and just to confirm, this is the vehicle that Miss Carr usually drives when she’s alone.”

“She sometimes takes the Mercedes out. But yes, the Lexus is her first choice.”

Chen looked over at Nightingale and narrowed her eyes, ever so slightly. He got the unspoken message. She wanted a tracker on the Mercedes, too, just to be on the safe side.

Nightingale walked nonchalantly around the Lexus and over to the Mercedes. Chen moved as well, putting herself between Nightingale and the security guard. Nightingale put his hand in his raincoat pocket, switched on the second tracker unit and deftly slipped it under the rear offside wheel arch.

“Does anyone else ever drive the Lexus?” asked Chen.

“No. Just Miss Carr.”

“Okay,” said Chen. “The tail light is fine, and there was never any real question that Miss Carr would be involved with an abduction. We had to check.”

“Sure,” said the man, his face impassive.

Chen looked over at Nightingale. “All good?”

Nightingale nodded.

Chen smiled at the security guard. “We’ll leave you to it,” she said.

“I’ll show you out.”

He escorted them out of the garage and over to the Mustang without saying a word, then watched them drive out. Chen saw him in the rear view mirror, staring at them until the gates had closed.

CHAPTER 57

Chen had picked up a large pepperoni pizza on the way home and she tossed it onto the coffee table and headed to the kitchen area while Nightingale took off his raincoat. She returned with two bottles of beer and gave one to him. “So what did you think?”

“About what?”

“About the movie star.”

Nightingale shrugged. “She’s got a presence, all right. Star quality.” He sat down on one of the sofas.

“It’s strange, she’s not traditionally beautiful. Her face isn’t completely symmetrical, did you notice? One eye is a slightly different shape.”

“I didn’t see that.”

“Clearly. You were too busy salivating over her.” She dropped down onto the sofa next to him.

“I was not.”

Chen shrugged. “Suit yourself. But your tongue was practically hanging out.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re right about her presence. She does have that whole movie star thing down pat, doesn’t she? As if she’s the center of the known universe. And the camera loves her.” She sipped her beer. “You seriously think that her success is down to devil-worship?”

“That’s how it works,” said Nightingale. “Those that follow the Left Path get certain benefits. Charisma is one of them. What most people call luck can also be the result of demonic interference.”

Chen’s eyes narrowed. “You really believe Lucille Carr has done a deal with the devil?”

“With a devil, possibly. But she hasn’t sold her soul. That would bar her from becoming an Apostle.”

“How the hell do you know all this?”

Nightingale shrugged. “A misspent youth,” he said. “Can we use that to do Google searches and stuff?” he asked, nodding at the big-screen TV. “I want to see if Dukas was right about there being a connection between Satanism and the 1906 earthquake.”

“Sure,” she said. “Let me get the keyboard.” She retrieved it from the desk and this time flopped down on the sofa opposite Nightingale, who had already helped himself to a slice of pizza. “What do you need?”

“Try San Francisco, 1906 and earthquake.”

She did and shook her head. “A million and a half hits,” she said.

“Try using Satanism instead of earthquake.”

She followed his instructions. “More than 16 million hits,” she said. “That’s because there are a lots of references to Satanism on the internet. Let’s see what happens if I put a plus sign before each word.”

“How does that help?”

“That means all the terms have to be in any hit, not just one.” She hit the enter button. “There you go, no hits at all, There is nothing that contains San Francisco, 1906 and Satanism.”

“So Dukas is wrong? Or lying to me?”

“You sound surprised. You used to be a cop, you know that people rarely tell the truth.”

“He seemed to be sure.”

“Not everything got into the papers back then,” said Chen. “And if it didn’t get published, it wouldn’t be on the internet now.”

Nightingale picked up the iPad and tapped the tracker app. He looked at the screen. “They’re both back at home,” he said.

She came over and sat down next to him. He held the screen so that they could both see it. “Lucille hasn’t left her house,” said Chen.

“Speckman was down at Fisherman’s Wharf for a while. And what’s this place?”

“TV studio,” said Chen. “KPIX, Channel 5. It’s part of CBS. Probably an interview.”

Chen picked up her beer. “I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Not a problem, I can take care of myself. Do you want me to look for a hotel?”

“I’m in two minds about that,” she said. “I’m not thrilled about having you on my sofa, but at least this way I can keep an eye on you.”

“It’s not for much longer, it’ll all be over by Wednesday, one way or another.”

Chen bit down on her lower lip.

“We’ll find them,” said Nightingale.

“God, I hope so.”

CHAPTER 58

The eleven Apostles were there, and so was Simon. The new Simon would be the twelfth and last. The room had been thoroughly cleansed. Thaddeus and John had done the cleaning and it had taken them three hours. When they had finished the temple had smelled of bleach, but they had sprinkled fresh herbs on the ground and incense had been burning in brass bowls for more than an hour. Tall black candles spluttered as they cast flickering shadows against the temple walls.

The Apostles filed into the temple and formed a circle around the altar. They had all bathed before donning their black robes. They were carrying musical instruments. Bells, tambourines, whistles, even a lute. Noise was important. The Devil and his minions abhorred silence. Abaddon was holding a large bell in her left hand. The bell was more than a hundred years old, its oak handle blackened from years of use. She raised the bell and rang it hard. The Apostles joined in and soon the temple was echoing to a cacophony of random sounds. It went on for a full five minutes and then they stopped as one.

“It is time!” shouted Abaddon.

John and Thaddeus left the temple. They returned a few minutes later with Martha Hyde, stripped, bound and gagged and ready to be sacrificed. It had been easy to take Martha Hyde. She lived by herself in a rambling old house in an older part of town. Philip had been watching her for some time and had discovered that she’d been born in the house, and had lived there all her life, in later years sharing it with her sister, who had died the year before. She rarely left the house, except to shop and to toddle to the neighborhood church for Mass every Sunday. Promising, but The Apostles needed to be sure, so Simon had performed the Spell of Singularity to make sure she had never been with a man. He had sacrificed a virgin chick, smeared the blood on the woman’s photo and then set it on fire with a black candle while chanting a Greek sentence. The photo had burnt with white smoke, not black. Martha Hyde was a virgin.

Taking her had been simplicity itself, Simon had bumped against her in the street and spilled her shopping. As he apologized profusely and helped her pick it up, he had pushed the hypodermic into her and she had collapsed against him almost at once. By then John had parked the car next to him and the two men helped her inside. The limousine’s blacked-out rear windows meant nobody could see her, and the whole operation took less than a minute. John had driven her to his mansion home, where she still slept. There would be no need to wake her until just before the sacrifice. She had probably been missed at the previous day’s mass but that was of no importance.

Her eyes were wide and fearful as they carried her into the temple and strapped to the altar. Once the straps were in place, her arms and legs were untied, and she was left to writhe impotently against the strong leather that held her.

Bartholomew walked in an anticlockwise direction, sprinkling herbs on the candles. The flames hissed like angry snakes.

The apostles filed in, black candles were lit and herbs sprinkled into the burners. Abaddon rang the bell, then invoked the four crowned princes of Hell and rang the bell again. Then she spoke one word. “Simon.”

Simon stepped forward, picked up the equipment from the small table near the altar and walked slowly toward the sacrifice. He had thought of a chain saw at first, but rejected it as too noisy and impersonal.  He had settled on a bone saw, which he’d bought from a medical supplies company, along with the leather tourniquets. He slipped the first one over Martha Hyde’s left arm, just above the elbow and tightened it viciously. The old woman strained against the straps and screamed silently into the gag, but Simon was merciless.

He placed the saw just below her elbow, pressed down and began to cut.

The saw was of excellent quality, and the amputation was surprisingly quick. The severed arm fell to the floor, the tourniquet did its work of limiting the blood loss. Simon didn’t want the sacrifice to bleed out before he was ready. The old woman appeared to have fainted with the pain, at least she gave no reaction when Matthew placed a tourniquet just above her right elbow. The feet came next, but the tourniquets were less effective there, and blood loss was now a serious problem. Simon put down the saw and picked up the short copper knife and brass bowl. In one savage movement, he severed the old woman’s throat and filled the bowl with her blood. The rest of the dismemberment could take place later.

Abaddon spoke again.

“Simon, you are now fully initiated amongst us. Disrobe, and present yourself to us...”

When the presentation was over, Abaddon addressed them again.

“My followers, the first part of our ritual is now complete, after so many months. You have all sacrificed a virgin and drunk their blood. Our circle is complete, the power is complete within it, and you can now celebrate its completion. In the main dining room, as usual, you’ll find the banquet set out, and all you need to celebrate our final initiation. Enjoy yourselves and each other. I won’t be able to join you on this occasion, as I need to remain untouched until after the final ceremony, to preserve my power. The next time we meet, in just forty-eight hours, will see the culmination of everything we have worked for.  The final sacrifices of the white cock and the black hen will be enacted and then Bimoleth will join with us, bringing undreamed power, and bringing you your reward for such faithful service. Finally the work of my great-grandmother will be completed, and Bimoleth will be set free to claim his vengeance. When we next meet, it will be for the final time.”

The ritual answer came from twelve mouths at once.

“Thy Will be my Will, O Abaddon.”

“May Satan be with you all,” said Abaddon.  She rang the bell again and they began to file out of the temple.

CHAPTER 59

Nightingale was startled from his sleep by the buzzing of the intercom. He padded over and pressed the button. “Yeah?” he said sleepily.

“It’s Dragan. I’ve got something for you.”

“A book?”

“No flies on you, Nightingale. Buzz me in.”

Nightingale pressed the button to open the door downstairs. Chen’s bedroom door opened and she ran a hand through her hair as she squinted at him. “Who is it?”

“Dragan. He has the book for me.”

“What time is it?”

“Seven.”

“How does a book get delivered at seven in the morning?”

“I’m guessing that Wainwright had it flown in.”

Chen rubbed her face. “I’ve got to be in the office at nine.”

“No problem, I can look after myself today.”

“I’m going to need the car.”

“I’ll use taxis.”

Chen nodded. “Cool. Make me coffee, will you, while I shower.” She closed the door. Nightingale pulled on his shirt and jeans before there was a knock on the door. He opened it and Dragan handed him a leather briefcase. “With Mr. Wainwright’s compliments,” he said. “You’re to call me and give me the money when you have it.”

Nightingale took the briefcase and thanked him.

“You planning on being busy today?” asked Dragan.

“Here and there, I’ll be using cabs. I’ll be up at Nob Hill later this morning.”

“Same places as yesterday? Steiner Street?’

“You were there?”

Dragan grinned. “Of course we were there. And up to the Carr place, too. That’s what surveillance means, Jack. We watch you, Like hawks.”

Nightingale nodded, impressed. “I didn’t see you.”

“We wouldn’t be doing our jobs if you did,” said Dragan. “Be lucky.” He waved and headed down the corridor.

Nightingale closed the door and made two coffees. He decided to have a go at breakfast and had managed to scramble half a dozen eggs by the time Chen reappeared, wearing a black pant suit and a dark blue shirt, her gun on her hip. “What are your plans for today?” she asked.

“I’ll take the book to Dukas and see what he gives me in exchange. I’ll probably pop over to see Gabriel Starr. And I’ll keep an eye on the tracking units.”

She nodded. “I’ll take one of the iPhones. But call me if anything happens, I’m not going to be able to sit glued to the screen.” She nodded at the eggs. “Are those all for you?”

Toast popped out of the toaster. “I wanted to make you breakfast. To show my appreciation and all that.”

He put the toast on a plate, divided the eggs in half and sat down at the breakfast bar with her. “You’ll make someone a wonderful wife,” she said.

“Chance’ll be a fine thing.”

“Only two more days to go before the blue moon,” she said.

“I know.”

“You’re sure about this? You’re sure that this is all real, the whole human sacrifice thing?”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

She shrugged. “It’s just so fantastic,” she said.

Nightingale reached over for the iPad, switched it on and tapped on the tracker app. He cursed as he stared at the screen.

“What’s wrong?” asked Chen, a forkful of eggs frozen in the air.

He showed her the screen. The lines of the two cars had intersected. She put down her fork and took the iPad from her. “Two o’clock in the morning,” she said. “Stationary for two hours. Leaving at four. She was in the Mercedes.”

“The witching hour,” said Nightingale.

“I thought the witching hour was midnight?’ She used her fingers to home in on the place where the two vehicles had intersected.

“Three o’clock in the morning. They say that Jesus died at three o’clock in the afternoon so Satanists use three a.m. as their most potent time.”

“Oh my God,” said Chen, her eyes widening as she stared at the screen. “Take a wild guess where they went last night?”

“The Elms Mansion,” said Nightingale. “Home of Jerry King and Suzi Brook.”

“You got it in one.” She put down the iPad. “Does that mean the children are dead? Did it happen last night while we were asleep.”

“I’ll check with the crystal as soon as you go,” he said. “I’ll call you. There could have been another ceremony, Starr was sure that the day was the blue moon on Wednesday.”

Chen looked at her watch. “Damn, I’ve got to go. I’ve a case meeting at nine.” She bolted down the last of her eggs, drank her coffee and hurried out.

CHAPTER 60

Nightingale showered and put on the robe and used the crystal over the hairbrush and baseball cap. Ten minutes later he was satisfied that Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker were still alive. He phoned Chen and told her.

“There’s no doubt?”

“The crystal behaved exactly the same way as last time.”

“So what happened last night? What were Speckman and Carr doing?”

“Maybe another ritual,” said Nightingale. “A rehearsal. Who knows? Amy, we need to get inside The Elms.”

“That’s not going to happen without a warrant. And I doubt any judge will give us a warrant based on a crystal and illegally-planted trackers.”

“We got inside the homes of Speckman and Carr.”

“We got to see their cars. There’s a big difference between that and looking for a Satanic temple at The Elms. They’re not going to let us wander around opening doors, are they.”

“But what if the kids are being held there?”

“The only evidence we have for that is the crystal ball,” said Chen. “Do you think any judge is going to take that seriously? Look, that meeting is about to start. Let’s talk later.”

“Can we at least take a run up there after you’ve finished work?”

“Maybe,” she said. The line went dead.

Nightingale dressed and an hour later he stepped out of a taxi in front of Dukas’s house. He was carrying the  briefcase that Dragan had given him. He looked around but couldn’t see any sign of Dragan or his team. His mobile buzzed in his pocket, letting him know he’d received a text message. He fished out the phone. It was from Dragan. “DON’T WORRY, WE’RE HERE”. Nightingale smiled as he put the phone away. Damn, Dragan was good.

The maid showed him into Dukas’s study again. Still the pretty young Latina didn’t speak, and Nightingale really was beginning to wonder whether she was dumb. Dukas greeted him and rubbed his hands together as Nightingale put the briefcase on the desk and opened it. The little man was again immaculately dressed, this time in a blue blazer and black slacks, a white shirt and a blue and red striped tie. He picked up the book reverently, sniffed it and then gently opened it as if he feared he might damage the spine. “You have no idea how long I have craved this volume, Mr. Nightingale,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough for bringing it to me.”

“Just so long as Mr. Wainwright gets his money and I get the information I need,” said Nightingale.

Dukas opened a drawer and took out a cashier’s check. “I’m assuming that Mr. Wainwright does not insist on cash,” he said.

“I’m sure he’ll be happy with a check,” said Nightingale. He took it from Dukas, put it in his raincoat pocket, and sat back on the sofa. Dukas reached forward and pressed an electric bell on his desk. Conchita opened the door almost at once. “Conchita, a hookah, if you please.” He looked over at Nightingale. “Will you take one sir?”

“I prefer cigarettes if that’s OK,” said Nightingale.

“As you please the smell does not offend me, and some brandy, Conchita.”

“Not for me,” said Nightingale. “It’s a little early.”

“Bring two glasses anyway, Conchita, you may well be needing one, sir when you have heard what I have to tell you.”

Neither of them spoke until Conchita had placed the hookah in front of Dukas, and a silver tray with a bottle and two glasses between them. Dukas filled both glasses, then took a long suck on the hookah. Nightingale lit a cigarette but ignored the brandy in front of him. Dukas took a drink, and puffed at his hookah again. Finally he broke the silence.

“Now, sir. Ordinarily I would never speak of this to anyone, but the circumstances are alarming, and I also wish to earn my prize. The Grimoire Of Hippolyta gives a description of just such a ritual and such sacrifices as you mention. It is a brutal and Godless process, yet it is just a beginning. A system for storing up power in a circle before the Adepts use that power to perform the final abomination. A ritual performed at least once before, in 1906. By my great great-aunt. The book also contained a letter, written by my great-grandfather, detailing the circumstances of her treachery. I mentioned to you yesterday that my great-grandfather’s book had been copied It was his sister who copied it, drew immense strength from it and dared to attempt the ritual.”

“Causing the earthquake?” asked Nightingale,

“Pure conjecture,” said Dukas. “The story told in the letter was that she tried to perform a forbidden ritual, though until I read the book last night I had no idea of the full extent of it. She and all her circle died in the earthquake, or subsequent fire, and her house was destroyed. Apparently her name was never to be mentioned in the family again. Her husband had killed himself a year before this, and only her daughter survived, and inherited enough to make her a rich woman at just two years old. Extremely rich by the time her trustees handed over her fortune on her twenty-first birthday. By my father’s time he had lost touch with that branch of the family. I have never bothered to try to find them, and I consider them lost. Unsurprisingly, no woman has ever wished to breed with me, and, in any event, I would not wish to risk passing on my deformity to a future generation. As far as I am concerned the Dukas line dies with me, and I wished to have no dealings with the descendants of the witch Agatha.”

“Tell me more about the ritual.”

“You know the first part, sir,” said Dukas. “The slaughter of twelve virgins within the circle in a hideous parody of the deaths of the apostles.”

“But why?” asked Nightingale.

“To draw down power for the final act.”

Nightingale looked at the man’s small hands which were shaking as he lifted his glass again. He was terrified, reluctant to give out any information, possibly regretting ever reading the Grimoire. Nightingale spoke softly, trying to persuade the man to take the final step and confide fully in him. “I need to know, Mr. Dukas, if I’m going to prevent it.”

“I doubt you, or anyone else could. It is the Rite of... Bimoleth.”

Dukas pronounced the name slowly and dramatically, as if expecting a reaction. Nightingale didn’t oblige.

“What’s a Bimoleth?” he asked eventually.

Dukas dropped his voice, until it was barely a whisper. He kept glancing around the room, as if he expected to be overheard by someone. “Be thankful you have never heard of it before,” he said. “Soon you will wish you never had. It is an ancient story, known to a few, and rarely spoken of. I had heard of it from my father, and he from his father. It is a story which came from the East, reached Europe, Greece and then traveled to the New World.”

Nightingale was beginning to lose patience, but kept quiet. Dukas seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice, but there was nothing to be gained by trying to hurry him. Let the man tell it at his own pace.

“In ancient times, or so the story runs, Bimoleth was a demon. A Prince among demons. It sat at Satan’s right hand with the other Princes and ruled armies of minor demons elementals and abhumans. A trusted aide to the Lord Of This World, but an immensely powerful and ruthless creature. Equal in power to Astaroth, Beelzebub, Choronzon.”

“I’ve heard of the others, but not Bimoleth,” said Nightingale.

Dukas frowned in annoyance at the interruption, took another puff at his hookah, but continued.

“Quite. The legend says that Bimoleth was a creature of unbounded ambition and intense hatred. It rebelled against Satan himself, tried to lead a demon army against the Fallen Angel in an attempt to seize control of this world from him. A foolish endeavor, since Satan and his Princes were too strong, and its rebellion was crushed. Then there came a difficulty. Satan would have slain it, but none but God himself can destroy a Prince, so he was unable since he would not seek God’s help. Yet, he could not permit such a dangerous creature to continue to live. So, Bimoleth was placed in Limbo, for all eternity, only to be released at the End Of Days, when all will be judged. Its name was never to be spoken, and it should be as if it never existed.”

Nightingale took a long sip of the brandy, and lit another cigarette. Dukas went on with his story.

“For immeasurable time, Bimoleth has waited in Limbo, its hatred growing ever stronger, but it has been decreed that it shall never be released. Its name is all but forgotten, and I had thought never to hear it pronounced again in my lifetime.”

“You keep saying it,” said Nightingale. “Most of the demons I’ve heard spoken about were male or female.”

“I am not sure the concept applies, I have never met a demon and have no wish to. It is true, some have a gender ascribed to them, but never Bimoleth. Always 'it’ for that creature.”

“OK, so it’s a nasty piece of work, but what’s it got to do with the Apostles sacrificing virgins and abducting kids?”

“It seems that the Apostles are trying to re-enact the ritual which Agatha Dukas failed to perform correctly all those years ago.”

“And caused the Earthquake?” said Nightingale. “I checked, there’s no proof of that.”

“That probably is just a rumor, though a credible one, great power would have been released. The location of the ritual is critical, as well as the timing, it must be performed where there is a fault in the earth, where power and energy can easily cross over.”

“The San Andreas Fault?” said Nightingale.

“Exactly,” said Dukas. “The very thing which renders the ritual possible also vastly increases the danger. So much energy in one place.”

“So what is this Ritual?” Nightingale needed an answer now. “Spit it out. What are they trying to achieve?”

“Quite simply, it is a ritual by which Bimoleth may be freed to walk the Earth once again, and take control of it. Or destroy it.”

“But why? Why would anyone want to free this thing, if it would lead to so much destruction?”

“The usual reason,” said Dukas. “The lust for power urged on by overweening, stupidity. Perhaps they imagine that if they could control Bimoleth, then they would rule the world. The arrogance. Impossible of course, no humans could control a demon, I doubt they would survive long enough to appreciate what they had done. And then, of course, there is the fact that Lucifer himself is the Lord Of Misrule, so creating chaos is an end in itself, and it is hard to imagine greater chaos than Bimoleth walking the Earth.”

“But if Bimoleth is an enemy of Satan, how can setting him free to wreak havoc serve Satan’s purpose?” asked Nightingale.

Dukas thought for a moment.

“It appears illogical,” he said. “Yet chaos is, as I said, an end in itself, and perhaps there can be no rules to it.”

“What has your family got to do with it all?” asked Nightingale.

“We are of Greek origin, said to be descendants of Hippolyta herself, and the book has been in the family for generations. It came with us when my ancestors came to America, and we have guarded it well. Always we were warned against its power. It was passed from father to son, though it came with a solemn warning against allowing the women of the family to study it, but those were less enlightened times. I heard rumors in my youth that an acquaintance of my great-grandfather took a copy of some parts of the book around the turn of the last century and attempted a ritual from it. Neither they nor the coven survived the attempt.”

Dukas drained his brandy glass, pushed away the hookah and rang the bell.

“What about stopping it? How can the ritual be stopped?’

“The Grimoire does not contain that information. But I shall look elsewhere in my collection. There may be a clue there. Can you come back tomorrow?”

“We’re running out of time,” said Nightingale. “The blue moon is just forty-eight hours away.”

“I am aware of that, Mr. Nightingale. Please come back tomorrow at the same hour, and I hope to have more information for you then. And I suggest you take great care, these are not people who will care to have their plans thwarted.”

Nightingale nodded. “I’d already reached that conclusion myself,” he said.

CHAPTER 61

Nightingale stood outside Dukas’s house, a Marlboro between his fingers to settle his shaken nerves. The story of Bimoleth would have struck him as ludicrous a few years before; now it chilled him to his soul. He knew what even minor demons were capable of, but the concept of a Prince of Hell let loose on the earth was unimaginable. A black SUV drove by, slowly. Nightingale tensed then he saw that the driver was a young blonde woman and there were two young children in car seats sitting in the back and he forced himself to relax.  He called Wainwright. “Jack? You getting anywhere?”

“Maybe, this guy Dukas is well informed. A member of his family was involved in something similar a hundred years ago. The killings have all been part of a greater plan, Joshua. It’s about a Coven storing power, by human sacrifice. Murdering virgins in the manner of the deaths of the original Disciples. Then there’s apparently a final ritual which involves the sacrificing of two kids. That’ll be the two kids who’ve gone missing here.”

“But why? There’s no power to be gained from all that blood.”

“It’s not about power, it’s about freeing a demon. Bimoleth.”

There was a short pause. “He said that? He said Bimoleth.” Wainwright’s voice had gone down an octave.

“Yes, and it’s all going to happen on Wednesday, the night of the blue moon.”

“Can you stop it?”

“Maybe. I’m pretty sure I know where it’s going to happen. At the very least I can call the cops and get them to stop it.”

“I’d be happier if the cops were kept out of it, Jack.”

“Yeah, and I’d be happier if I was a couple of inches taller and a few million richer.”

“I’m just saying, the cops will ask questions.”

“If they get the two kids back alive, that’s all they’ll care about. They’ll put the Apostles down as serial-killing nutters and move on. Now what can you tell me about this Bimoleth?”

“I can tell you that a Prince of Hell loose on Earth is bad news for everybody, Jack.”

“I would have thought you’d have been in favor of it,” said Nightingale. “Don’t you serve the Lord Of Misrule? Wouldn’t chaos be right up your street?”

“You’re trying to simplify things you have no understanding of,” said Wainwright. “Those who serve The Lord Of This World would never want to bring about the End Of Days by themselves. It’s too much, too huge a catastrophe. It has to be stopped.”

“Look, Joshua, I’m just an ex-cop,” said Nightingale. “How about some help here, you know a lot more about this world than I ever will. What should I do?”

“Jack, I have no idea,” said Wainwright. “This is so far beyond anything I’ve even heard about, much less experienced. My best guess is that you need to stop this on the Earthly plane. Stop the Ritual before it’s complete, don’t try to deal with a demon once it’s been let loose. I’m going to ask a few questions, look at some books, but I’m not hopeful I’ll come up with much. This is something from the Old World, not the new.”

“So it looks like I’m on my own,” said Nightingale. “Surprise, surprise.”

Wainwright ended the call and Nightingale put his phone away. He walked down Nob Hill while he finished his cigarette and then flagged down a passing taxi and asked the driver to drop him at Haight Street. The Written In The Stars shop was shut. There was a sign in the window saying CLOSED. Nightingale peered through the window but there was no one inside. He pulled out his phone and called Starr’s number but it went straight through to voicemail. He put his phone away and lit a cigarette. He had a bad feeling about the shop being shut on a Monday afternoon.

The shop next door sold framed prints and maps. Nightingale pushed open the door and a bald middle-aged man with a spreading beard frowned at him over the top of pince-nez spectacles. “No smoking,” he snapped. “Absolutely no smoking.”

Nightingale stuttered an apology, threw his cigarette into the gutter and went back into the shop, holding his empty hands aloft. “Sorry,” he said.

“Disgusting habit,” said the man.

“Absolutely.”

“My mother died of lung cancer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“And she wasn’t even a smoker,” said the man, pushing his spectacles higher up his nose.

“Right,” said Nightingale. “Sorry.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Can I help you?”

“The shop next door is closed. Written In The Stars.”

“Is it? That’s unusual.”

“He’s normally open on a Monday?”

The man nodded. “Regular as clockwork.”

“I saw Gabriel on Friday,” said Nightingale. “Is there any reason why he wouldn’t be here today?”

“It’s unusual,” said the man again. “Very unusual.”

“Has he been open at all today? Was he there when you opened up, for instance?”

The man put a hand up to his chin, then shook his head. “Now you mention it, no. He wasn’t. And usually he pops out for a coffee at least once each morning and asks me to keep an eye on his shop. He didn’t today.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a key have you?”

The man shook his head. “Do you think we should call the cops?”

The last thing Nightingale needed was a run-in with SFPD’s finest, especially if Starr was lying dead in his shop. He feigned indifference. “He’ll turn up, I’m sure,” he said. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Nightingale left the shop and phoned Chen. “I’ve just been around to see the astrology guy, Gabriel Starr, and he’s vanished.”

“Vanished?”

“Closed up his shop and he’d not answering his phone. I think something bad has happened to him.”

“Why were you going to speak to him?” asked Chen.

“I need help,” said Nightingale.

“With what?’

“With the Apostles, what else?”

CHAPTER 62

“Wake now, Sharonda.” John had brought food and drink on a tray, and Sharonda woke in response to his command. She opened her brown eyes wide, looked at the food, then at him.

“I want to go home,” she said, close to tears.

“You won’t be here much longer.”

She sat up. “It’s wrong to keep somebody locked up when they want to go home. I don’t think you’re a nice man at all. I want to go home.” She folded her arms, the way she’d seen her mother do  when she didn’t get what she wanted.

“Eat.”

He turned and left, locking and bolting the door behind him.

Sharonda was hungry and thirsty and her back was still very sore, though she couldn’t see or feel what was causing the pain. Still, she couldn’t manage more than a little pizza and half of the Coke. She picked up the remote, pressed Power then Play. SpongeBob. She liked SpongeBob, especially Patrick, but it wasn’t as funny here as it was at home with Timmy on her lap. The thought of her little brother brought more tears to her eyes, but she blinked them back. She wasn’t going to cry anymore, she promised herself. Her mom would want her to be strong, she always talked about how important it was to stay strong.

Her Grandma would want her to be a big girl too. Grandma took her to church every Sunday and she stayed for Sunday School afterward She liked to hear the Bible stories that Mrs. Jackson read to them. The big flood, Jonah and the whale, Moses parting the Red Sea to lead his people to freedom. She liked to hear about Jesus too. Born in a stable, died on a cross. Jesus loved the little children, that’s what Mrs. Jackson always said. Sharonda was a good girl, and always said her prayers, but she’d forgotten since she’d been taken. Maybe Jesus could help her.

She knelt down by the side of the bed. Hands together, eyes closed.

“Jesus, this is Sharonda. Sharonda Parker. I guess...I guess I need some big help. I don’t even know where I am, but they won’t let me go home. I miss my mom, and Jonas, and Timmy and Grandma. Please Jesus, help me get back home, please...real soon. Amen.”

Nothing happened. Sharonda lay back down on the bed to wait for Jesus to answer her prayer.

CHAPTER 63

Nightingale saw the Mustang come around the corner and he tossed what was left of his cigarette into the gutter. She pulled up next to him and he climbed in. Her hair was loose around her face and it looked as if she had just applied more lipstick, though he seriously doubted that was for his benefit. “A couple of hours at most, that’s all I can spare,” she said. “I’ve an interview for a case that I have to do at five, and there’s a another case meeting I have to attend at six.”

“Got it,” said Nightingale. “We need to go to a Rite Aid on Hillsdale Boulevard first.”

“If you need a pharmacy, there are plenty closer.”

“We need to drive from the Rite Aid to The Elms, to check that it’s twenty minutes away.”

She pulled away from the kerb. “Because of the guy you spoke to. The one with your credit card?”

“That’s right.”

“What did you say his name was again?”

Nightingale hadn’t told her Mitchell’s name or what had happened to him. But he figured that everything they had been through, she deserved the truth. “Amy, I’ll tell you about him and I’ll tell you what happened, but I don’t want you to get angry.”

Her eyes narrowed and she flashed him a look that suggested she was already angry. “What haven’t you told me, Jack?”

“It’s…” He was about to say “complicated” but her lips practically disappeared into a thin tight line so he threw up his hands in surrender. “Amy, please, keep your eyes on the road.’

She braked to avoid a pick-up truck that had slowed down in front of her to make a turn.

“I’ll ask you again, Jack, what haven’t you told me?”

“This was very early on, when I first started on this,” said Nightingale. “I couldn’t have told you then. For one thing you wouldn’t have believed me.”

“You told me that they had taken a guy from this Rite Aid to the mansion.”

“That’s right.”

She nodded. “My fault for not following up at the time,” she said. “Who is he?”

“A banker by the name of Lee Mitchell. He was lined up to join the Apostles but he was having second thoughts.”

“How did he get in touch with you?”

“He’d talked to Wainwright, the guy I work for.”

“And why am I only hearing this now?”

“Because it would have been too much to process before.”

“Because you had been lying to me.”

“More like just not telling the whole truth.”

She shook her head. “No, Jack, you were lying to me, plain and simple. First you told me you were a journalist writing an article about missing persons.  Then you told me you were looking into the disappearance of that priest because the family were after his money. That’s what you said, remember?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it. You weren’t bending the truth, Jack. You lied to me.”

“I’m sorry, Amy. What do you want me to do? Open a vein?”

“What I want is honesty. Why is that so hard?”

“It’s not hard. It’s….” He stopped with the word “complicated” on the tip of his tongue. “Amy, I won’t lie to you again. I swear.”

“I’m not sure how much weight to give a promise from you,” she said.

“If I’d been honest with you up front, you’d have run a mile,” said Nightingale. “Child sacrifice, devil worship, demons from Hell, football players and movie stars attending Satanic masses.” He shrugged. “Even saying it now it sounds…”

“Unbelievable?”

“Yeah,” said Nightingale.

“But having seen what I’ve seen, I do believe you. But can I trust you?”

“I won’t lie to you again,” he said.

“You’d better not,” she said. “Seriously.” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “I printed off a Google map of The Elms.”

Nightingale unfolded it and stared at the aerial view of a massive mansion in landscaped gardens. There was a swimming pool, two tennis courts, and a gazebo by a small lake. Part of the grounds backed onto a cliff overlooking the bay. It was much bigger than the mansions owned by Kent Speckman and Lucille Carr.

“Here we are, Rite Aid,” said Chen, driving into a car park next to a squat, featureless building. The only windows were at the front.

“Okay, so now we drive to The Elms and see how long it takes.”

“You could have just Googled it,” said Chen. “There are plenty of programs that will do the calculation for you.”

“I prefer the evidence of my own eyes,” said Nightingale, settling back in the seat.

“It’s not rocket science, Jack,” said Chen, putting the car in gear and entering the afternoon traffic.

Chen made good time driving to The Elms. According to Nightingale’s watch it took just under seventeen minutes until she pulled up in front of the massive wrought-iron gates set into a ten-foot high wall studded with spikes. There was a guardhouse just to the left of the gate, with at least two uniformed men inside. Video cameras were mounted on both gateposts.

“Best we don’t dally,” said Chen.

“Dally,” said Nightingale with a grin. “I like that. Dally.”

“Fine. Linger, if you prefer. Either way, we need to go.” She drove slowly away from the gates.

“We need to get inside, Amy,” said Nightingale as they headed down the road.

“No problem.  Hire yourself a truck, drive it through the gates, I’ll shoot the guards as we pass, Then straight up the drive, smash down the front door and go in shooting. Works fine, just as long as they have no security inside, no guns and no phones to call the cops on us. Tomorrow at dawn works for me.”

“I read somewhere that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” said Nightingale.

“Well, if you have a better plan, I’m all ears,” she said.

“How about you get a warrant?”

“On the basis of what? You think I can walk in and tell a judge that a crystal ball told me that two missing kids are being held captive behind those walls and that tomorrow night a group of devil worshipers are going to kill them? My feet wouldn’t touch the ground, Jack.”

“You could lie. Say you think there are drugs in there.”

“And lying to judges works in merry old England does it?”

Nightingale sighed. “Maybe not. Is there any way we can find out more about the layout inside?”

“There’ll be architect’s plans lodged at City Hall going back to when the place was built. All in the public domain.  The estate used to belong to a shipping family, old San Francisco money. I know King and Brook had a few run-ins with the neighbors when they filed their building plans because they wanted a helicopter pad and stuff.”

Nightingale sighed again. “I really need to know if there’s a crypt in there,” he said. “You can’t hold these rituals just anywhere, they need to be near a large body of water, a river, lake or ocean. And on ground that was once consecrated. I need to know if that applies to this ceremony. We need to go back and see Dukas. He said he’d check his library and two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

She shook her head. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll be finished by seven, eight at the latest. Why don’t I drop you there and meet you later?”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Nightingale.

CHAPTER 64

Chen dropped Nightingale in Steiner Street and headed back to her office, telling him that she’d call when she was done. Nightingale watched her drive away to reassure himself that she wasn’t being followed. He lit a cigarette and blew a couple of smoke rings before walking up to the front door. He rang the bell, but this time there was no answering clip of Conchita’s stilettos across the tiled floor. He tried again, with the same result. He took out his cellphone and called Dukas’s number. He could hear it ringing inside the house, but after a minute there was still no answer. He cursed under his breath. It wasn’t turning out to be his day.

There was an alley that ran behind the back yards of Dukas’s street. Nightingale counted carefully until he was sure he had the right house. He’d hoped to find a dumpster to stand on and climb the wall, but in the event it wasn’t necessary, the wall was studded with wooden doors, and Dukas’s wasn’t locked. It looked as if the lock had been broken and Dukas hadn’t got round to having it repaired. Or maybe it had been broken more recently.

The backyard was small, a square of neatly-trimmed lawn and a path leading to the back door. His housebreaking expertise was strictly limited, but he was expecting the place to be empty. He bent down and examined the lock. It had been forced open and the jamb had splintered. Nightingale cursed under his breath. The broken lock meant that getting into the house had suddenly gotten a lot easier, the downside was that something bad had happened. He stepped inside. The door opened into the kitchen. There was a wooden block full of knives by the sink and he pulled out the biggest. The silver penknife was still in his pocket but from what he knew about Elementals they didn’t need to break locks and force doors. If there was anyone still in the house they were probably human. He held the knife in front of him as he moved through the kitchen.

Conchita lay face down, halfway along the entrance hall. Nightingale didn’t need to check her pulse, the angle of her head to her body told him all he needed to know. Nightingale stepped past her and moved on to Dukas’s study. The door was open and he walked in.

The place was a shambles. Books and animals from the shelves lay all over the floor, glass cases had been smashed and trophies pulled from the walls and slashed open. Dukas’s carefully assembled collection lay in ruins. Then Nightingale saw what was on the desk and almost threw up. He’d seen death in many forms, and it was rarely pleasant, but he’d never seen anything as bad as what had been done to Basil Dukas.

The tiny man lay naked on his desk, covered in his own blood. Nightingale forced himself to look at what remained of him. His ears had both been removed with a sharp blade, as had his nose. All the fingers of both hands were missing, and, worst of all, his genitals. The missing body parts lay in an unidentifiable pile next to the corpse. Dukas hadn’t simply been murdered, he had been tortured to death. Whoever had done it had gagged him at some point, with a strip of sodden cloth that now lay on the floor by the window. Something else had been shoved in his mouth, probably after he’d died. Something small and brown. A bird. Mimicus Polyglottis. The Northern Mockingbird. The American Nightingale.

CHAPTER 65

Further down the road, the Apostle who used the name of Andrew walked past the front door of Dukas’s house, continued for a hundred yards, crossed the street, opened the passenger door of a dark-blue Honda SUV and slid behind the wheel. The older man in the passenger seat turned to look at him.

“He in?” asked the older man.

“Yes,” said Andrew. “Walked straight through the back door.’ He looked at his watch. “He’s been inside for six minutes now.”

“Do you think he’ll call the cops?”

Andrew shook his head. “He’ll want the Grimoire. He’ll check the library so we’ll wait until he’s settled before we blow it.”

The older man was holding a small metal box. It was black and around the size of a TV remote control with two lights, one red and one green, and a small white button. “Do you want to do the honors?”

Andrew smiled and shook his head. “You knock yourself out,” he said. He looked at his watch again. “Not long now.”

CHAPTER 66

Nightingale lit a cigarette and stared down at the mutilated body. The fact that Dukas had been tortured suggested that they had wanted information from him? But what? The book, maybe? Had they also been after the Grimoire? The big question was, had Dukas given it to them? Or was it still in the house? There was one book on the desk, Les Oeuvres d’ Agrippa. Nightingale slipped it into his pocket. He figured that Wainwright would prefer the book to the cashier’s check.

He went back into the kitchen and found a pair of yellow Marigold gloves by the sink and put them on. He used a piece of kitchen roll to wipe clean the back door where he’d touched it, then went back to the study. He tried the desk drawers first, with no success. The drawers were full of everything from pencils and scissors to brandy and family photos, but no sign of the book he was looking for. He stayed with the obvious and tried the shelves next. No joy.

He went upstairs slowly but the only sound was the squeak of creaking wood. The first two doors he tried were bedrooms, the third was lined with book-filled shelves and smelled of old paper and leather. The library. He stepped inside and closed the door. The shelves didn’t seem to have been interfered with, never mind ransacked. But then the easiest way to search through the titles would have been to examine the spines and that was best done with the books in place.  Nightingale took a last thoughtful drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the sole of his shoe and put it in his raincoat pocket.

He sighed and began checking the titles, staring at the top left hand corner and working his way left to right. Most of the book had their titles clearly visible on their spines. When he reached one that didn’t, he pulled it out and examined the cover. He knew that whoever had killed Dukas had almost certainly done the same, but he had to make sure.

He was ten minutes into his search when he heard a dull whooshing sound downstairs. He frowned and walked towards the library door. He pressed his ear against it. He could hear a faint crackle but that was all. His frown deepened and he slowly opened the door. The bitter smell of smoke assailed his nostrils and the crackling sound was much louder. Fire. The hallway outside the door was already filling with smoke and Nightingale knew enough about fire to realize that it was the smoke that usually killed, not the flames.

He bent down to keep his head low as he moved along the hallway. The staircase was already alight and the hallway was a mass of flames. The fire had taken hold too quickly for it to have been an accident. He headed back the way he had come and opened the door to one of the bedrooms. It didn’t appear to have been used so he figured it was for guests. A door led to an ensuite shower-room and he grabbed a yellow bath sheet and stepped into the shower, pulling the lever to douse himself with cold water. He let the water play over his head and then held the towel under the stream until it was sopping wet.

When he opened the bedroom door again the flames had reached the top of the staircase and the air was filled with gray, choking smoke. He closed the door, flung the wet towel over his head and clasped it over his mouth after taking a deep breath, then opened the door again and dashed down the hallway, bent double.

He reached the top of the stairs and even through the rubber gloves he felt the searing heat of the fire. He kept the towel clasped to his face with his right hand and shoved his left into his raincoat pocket, then headed down the stairs, keeping close to the wall. The heat was intense and he couldn’t see where he was going but he could pretty much remember the layout of the hallway downstairs. The shortest way out would be through the front door so he turned left. His memory failed him and he stumbled over Conchita’s body. He banged into the wall and spun around before hitting the ground hard. The towel slipped from his grasp as he fell but as he lay on his back gasping for breath he realized that the air was clearer down low. He could still smell the smoke but the air he dragged into his aching lungs wasn’t burning him. He rolled over onto his stomach and turned his head to the side. The seat of the fire seemed to have been the sitting room but the whole building was now alight. He pushed himself to his knees and crawled the last few yards to the front door. As he staggered to his feet he remembered the gloves. He tore them off, tossed them towards the flames, then pulled open the front door and staggered down the steps towards the street.

There were two uniformed SFPD officers standing there. One of them was holding his gun with both hands, aiming it at Nightingale’s chest.

“Hands in the air, now!” shouted the officer with the gun.

Nightingale’s raincoat was smoldering and he took it off and dropped it on the sidewalk before stamping on it.

“Hands in the air!” repeated the officer, gesturing with his weapon.

“Mate, can’t you see I’m on fire here?” said Nightingale. The smoke had stopped rising from his coat and he bent down to pick it up.

The second officer pulled his gun from its holster and leveled it at Nightingale’s stomach. “Let go of the coat and put your hands in the air or I will shoot you!” he shouted.

Nightingale let the coat fall to the sidewalk. He straightened up and raised his hands. “Can we at least move away from the house?” he asked. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s on fire.”

CHAPTER 67

Andrew phoned Abaddon as soon as Nightingale had been loaded into a SFPD cruiser and driven away. By that time Dukas’s fire-damaged house was a fully operational crime scene, sealed off by police tape and taken over by the full complement of arson investigators, firemen, a CSI team, a medical team and investigating detectives.

“That is very disappointing,” said Abaddon after she had been told that Nightingale was alive, well and in custody.

“I don’t know how he managed to get out,” said Andrew. “The whole ground floor was ablaze.”

“The man seems to have more lives than a cat,” said Abaddon. “Had he found the book?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That isn’t good enough,” said Abaddon tersely. “We need to know for sure. If he has the Grimoire then he might learn something that could cause us problems.”

“We didn’t find it, I don’t see how he could have,” said Andrew.

“Again, guesswork isn’t good enough. We must know for sure.”

“He had a coat with him. I suppose it could have been in his coat. But I’m not sure that Dukas had the book in the first place. If he had, surely he would have told Judas?”

“Judas is very persuasive, but Dukas was an Adept and as such he was capable of withstanding torture.”

“We looked everywhere,” said Andrew.

“You looked everywhere that you thought of looking. Maybe Nightingale knew somewhere else to look. We must know for sure.”

“The police have him now. I doubt he will be going anywhere for a while.”

“What about the Chinese detective? The one who went to see Peter and Thomas? Amy Chen? Was she there?”

“I didn’t see her,” said Andrew.

“Good. We shall be dealing with her later tonight.”

“What about Nightingale? What do we do?”

“You do nothing,” said Abaddon. “We have contacts within the SFPD. I shall get him released and then Judas can question him. Nightingale is not an Adept, he will not do well under torture. Where are you now?”

“Steiner Street.”

“You can leave now. You need to prepare yourself for tomorrow.”

“Satan be praised,” said Andrew.

“Satan be praised,” repeated Abaddon.

CHAPTER 68

Nightingale was in a holding cell at the SFPD’s Southern station in Bryant Street. He paced up and down, clenching and unclenching his fists. He’d been arrested before, but this was his first time in America and he wasn’t enjoying the experience. He’d been there two hours and they’d not allowed him to smoke and they hadn’t offered him coffee, which he figured was the least they could have done after pointing their guns at him. He was just about to bang on the door and demand refreshment of some sort when a gray-haired uniformed officer opened it and took him along a drab gray corridor to an equally drab interview room. There was a table screwed to the floor and four plastic chairs, which weren’t. The officer waved for Nightingale to sit down and closed the door.

They had taken his raincoat and with it his phone. They had examined the penknife and one of the uniformed officers at the scene had asked him why he was carrying it.

“It’s a fruit knife,” Nightingale had said. “I eat a lot of fruit.”

“Fruit?” the officer had repeated as if hearing the word for the first time.

“Apples. Oranges. The occasional tomato.”

The officer had frowned. “Tomatoes are vegetables.”

“Nope. They’re a fruit. Trust me.”

Fruit or vegetable, they had taken the knife and put it in an evidence bag and taken it away with the coat, the phone and his wallet.

The door opened and two world-weary detectives walked in, the looks on their faces leaving him in no doubt that they felt they had better things to do with their time. They sat down opposite and stared at him without speaking for the best part of a minute. The silent treatment. Nightingale folded his arms, sat back in his chair, and waited them out. It was the older man who spoke first. “I’m Inspector Gil Rizzitello.” He looked at his younger companion.

“Inspector Randy Sullivan.”

Rizzitello looked about five years older than Nightingale, wore a gray suit and a blue shirt and tie. He had short white-blonde hair, and a neatly-trimmed gray mustache. He looked back at Nightingale and spoke again. “Can you give us your name and address for the record, please?”

Nightingale smiled as his mind raced. They had his wallet which mean that they had his Jack Keeley ID. “Jack Edward Keeley, I’m staying at the XZSDR Hotel.” Two lies and they had only just started.  Sullivan had taken out a notebook and he scribbled in it.

“You have no permanent address in California?” asked Sullivan. He was a black man, probably around thirty, wearing black slacks and a dark blue jacket with white shirt and red tie.

“No, I live in Austin, Texas,” said Nightingale.

“Your address down there?”

Nightingale gave them the address of an apartment in Austin where he’d never been.

“So, what brings you to San Francisco?” It was Rizzitello’s turn again.

“I’m a reporter, I’m up here trying to work up a story on missing persons.”

“And why were you at the home of Mr. Dukas?”

That was a good question. And only another lie could answer it. “A relative of Mr. Dukas went missing a few years ago. I was using his case as background for my piece.” It was checkable, but not easily.

“What were you doing inside the house?”

Another good question. And another lie required.

“I had arranged to see Mr. Dukas at four o’clock. No one answered the door but the front door was open.”

“You went in through the front door?” asked Sullivan.

Nightingale looked him in the eye. “Sure.” He had no choice other than to lie. There was a risk that he had been seen going in the back way, but there would be no reasonable explanation for that so he had to stick with the front door story.

“And was he there?”

“I never got the chance to find out. The place was on fire. It was an inferno. I ran out and into the arms of your uniforms. And I have to say, they were pretty aggressive considering what I’d been through.”

“They didn’t see you go into the house,” said Sullivan.

Nightingale shrugged but didn’t say anything.

“Which is strange, don’t you think. They saw you come out but they didn’t see you go in.”

Nightingale smiled thinly but didn’t say anything.

“How long were you inside?” asked Sullivan.

That was a good question. Why would anyone stay inside a burning house. “Not long.”

“It must have been some time or the officers would have seen you go in,” said Sullivan.

“A few minutes. Maybe.”

“You stayed for a few minutes in a burning house?” said Sullivan. “Why would you do that? Me, I would have turned and ran.”

“It wasn’t so much on fire as smoky,” said Nightingale.

“Smoky?”

“There was a lot of smoke. At first I thought maybe there was a problem in the kitchen. So I walked in the hallway.”

“Did you see anyone else there?” asked Sullivan.

“Like who?”

“There was a maid in the house. And Mr. Dukas was there.”

Nightingale shook his head. “I didn’t see anyone. I shouted but no one answered.”

“And you didn’t see the maid? In the hall?”

“Like I said, it was smoky. I went to the kitchen. But then I saw flames in one of the rooms.”

“Did you go into the study?”

Nightingale shook his head. “I stayed in the hall. As soon as I saw the fire I rushed out. That’s when your men saw me.”

Rizzitello leaned towards him. Nightingale could smell cigarettes on his breath. A fellow smoker. “And you didn’t see anything out of the ordinary? In the hall?”

“To be honest at that stage my eyes were watering so much I could barely see my hand in front of my face.”

“Did you go upstairs?”

“Upstairs?”

“In the house,” said Rizzitello patiently. “Did you go upstairs?”

Nightingale shook his head. “I went in, I went down the hallway, I got to the kitchen, I saw the flames, I ran out. A minute or two at most.”

“The flames were where?”

“In one of the downstairs rooms. I forget which.”

“So you walked past the room that was on fire to get to the kitchen?”

A very good question. Nightingale faked a confused frown as best he could. “I suppose I must have.”

“You see, that’s strange too. You went in to a burning house and you wandered right by a room that was in flames.” Rizzitello moved even further towards Nightingale. “You see, if it was me, I’d have been straight out of there as soon as I smelled the smoke. I’d have called the Fire Department, let the professionals do their job.”

“First I thought it was just a kitchen fire. A smoking pan, maybe. Then when I saw it was more than that, I thought there might be people trapped.”

“You’re not a trained firefighter, are you?” Rizzitello sat back and tapped the table as he stared at Nightingale.

“Of course not.”

“What was your plan? To rescue anyone inside?”

Nightingale shrugged. “I guess I hadn’t thought it through. I saw smoke, I though it might be a small thing, as soon as I realized it was a fire I left.”

“And you didn’t go upstairs?”

“I already said. No.”

“There is a library upstairs. It was pretty much destroyed by the fire.”

Nightingale shrugged. “So?”

“We found a book in your pocket. A French book.”

“Les Oeuvres d’ Agrippa,” said Nightingale. “It belongs to a friend of mine.”

“Do you speak French?” asked Rizzitello.

“Un peu.”

“What?”

“A little.”

“See now, we wondered perhaps if you had taken that book from the house,” said Rizzitello.

“Stolen it, you mean? No. I didn’t steal it.”

“Why did you try the door?” asked Sullivan.

“The door?”

“You had an appointment, you said? So did you ring the bell?”

“Yes.”

“And..?”

“There was no answer so I tried the door. It was open.”

“That’s…unusual.” Said Sullivan.

“Why do you say that?”

“Most people would try the bell. Then if there was no answer they would try again. If there was still no answer, well then I suppose most people would phone to see if there was a problem with the appointment.”

“I did that,” said Nightingale. “But Mr. Dukas didn’t answer.”

“So you tried the door?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I find strange. Well, that’s one of several things I find strange.”

“Do you know what started the fire?” asked Nightingale.

“That investigation is ongoing,” said Sullivan.

“Was it deliberately started?”

Sullivan frowned. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because it took hold very quickly. I suppose it could have been a gas explosion, but I didn’t hear any bangs or anything.”

“Well as I said, that investigation is ongoing,” said Sullivan.

The door opened and a uniformed officer appeared. From the way the two inspectors jumped to their feet, Nightingale gathered he was a more senior officer.  “You’re to let Mr. Keeley on his way,” said the officer gruffly.

“Sir, we’ve only just started questioning him.”

The officer silenced him by holding up his hand. “I’d like a word with you both outside. Now.”

He turned and went out. The two inspectors looked at each other, confused, then followed him out. After a few minutes, Sullivan returned. He left the door open and gestured at the corridor. “You can go.”

“Go where?”

“Anywhere. Seems like you’ve got friends in high places and unless we’ve got evidence linking you to a crime, you’re free to go.”

CHAPTER 69

There were five of them in the temple, the minimum for a Sabbat, one for each point of the pentagram. They stood at the five points, facing inwards as the black candles illuminating the temple spluttered and flickered. In the center of the pentagram herbs were burning on hot coals in a large brass bowl. Peter was there with him, along with Thomas, Bartholomew and John.

John was holding the ceremonial bell and he rang it, six times.

Abaddon invoking the four crowned princes of Hell: Satan to the east, Beelzebub to the north, Astaroth to the west and Azazel to the south, before raising her hands above her head and saying the words that would result in the creation of the Elemental.

When she had finished she nodded at Peter. Peter produced the business card of Inspector Amy Chen of the San Francisco Police Department. She held it in the air while Abaddon said the final words of the ritual. As soon as she had finished, Peter stepped forward and dropped the business card onto the burning coals. It burned quickly with a greenish hue. Abaddon raised both arms above her head. “It is done,” she said. “Satan be praised.”

“Satan be praised!” chorused the four Apostles, their hands above their heads. “Death to our enemy!”

CHAPTER 70

Nightingale walked out of the station, lit a cigarette and blew smoke up at the evening sky. They had given him back his belongings and he took out his phone, figuring he should call Chen and tell her what had happened. A figure burst through the doors and hurried down the steps after him. It was Karl Woods, the journalist.

“Jack, hey, hold on!” he called.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Nightingale, putting his phone away. He offered his pack to Woods and the journalist took one. Nightingale lit it for him.

“I hear you’ve been winning friends and influencing people,” said Woods.

“Wrong place, wrong time.”

“A dead dwarf. Sounds like an episode of CSI.”

“I was just an innocent bystander.”

“You were inside the house?”

“For a very short while, yes.”

“See anything?”

“The place was full of smoke. Why do you ask?”

“Because the cops are being cagey about who was in there and what state the bodies were in. I asked if it was the fire that killed them and they clammed up.”

Nightingale nodded but didn’t say anything.

Woods narrowed his eyes. “Come on, Jack. I’ve got a reporter’s nose for a story. There’s something you’re not telling me. Spill the beans. I helped you with the info on the missing kids, the least you can do is to return the favor.”

“You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours?” Nightingale blew smoke. “The story I’m working on is … well, it’s complicated.”

“I’ve got all the time you need to explain it,” said Woods.

“Off the record?”

“Sure. I’ve no problem keeping your name out of it.”

Nightingale took another long drag on his cigarette. “Okay, you didn’t get this from me, you’ll need to check with someone in the medical examiner’s office. But Dukas, the dwarf, was tortured before he died. And his maid’s neck was broken.”

“So there was an intruder in the house?”

“Probably several,” said Nightingale. “Dukas was a collector of books on the occult. Satanism, devil worship, witchcraft, stuff like that.”

“So why torture him?”

“I’m not sure.”

“And what was your connection with Dukas?”

“I’m working an angle about Satanism and missing kids. Human sacrifice. I thought with his collection he might be able to help.”

Woods frowned. “You think devil worshipers have grabbed those missing kids?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Is that why you were asking about devil worshipers before?”

“It’s one hell of a story, Karl. The problem is, I’m not sure that anyone is going to believe it. But maybe you should take a good look at Dukas. See what you can dig up.”

“I’ll do that. Give me your number and I’ll call you if I come up with anything. If this devil worship stuff pans out, we can work the story together.”

Nightingale gave him the number of his latest Sim card.

“This does sound crazy, you know that?” said the journalist, putting away his notebook.

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

CHAPTER 71

Amy Chen frowned as she stared at the iPad.  The two tracking devices were at The Elms again and had been there for the best part of an hour. She picked up her cellphone and called Nightingale but it went straight through to voicemail. It was the third time she called so she didn’t bother leaving a message. “Where the hell are you, Nightingale?” she muttered to herself. Nightingale had been specific that the children would be killed on the night of the blue moon and that was still one day away. But what if he had been wrong, what if the Apostles were doing it tonight?

She walked over to the kitchen area and poured herself a glass of wine, then curled up on the sofa and tried Nightingale’s phone again. Still no answer. She felt sweat bead on her brow and she realized it was getting warm.  She went over to the thermostat but it read the same as always. Her shirt was damp with sweat and she undid a couple of buttons. She went over to one of the windows and cracked it open, then flopped down onto the sofa again.

She picked up her glass and sipped her wine, then her frown deepened as she saw the wisps of fog drifting under her door. She stared at the thickening fog, unable to believe her eyes. Fog didn’t happen indoors. Ever. Her face was now wet with sweat and her shirt was soaking. The fog began to swirl and coalesce. Something formed in the middle of the mist, something with a pointed nose and sharp ears. It was rat-like but it wasn’t a rat, it had double rows of teeth like a shark and gold eyes that were staring straight at her. It rippled and then morphed into the face of an old Chinese lady that for a second reminded Chen of her late grandmother, then it changed again, this time into a featureless face with rows of sharpened teeth.

Chen cursed and put down her glass. Beads of sweat trickled down her back. Her gun was in its holster on the coffee table in front of her and she reached for it. She grabbed it with trembling hands and took aim, then realised there was good chance it would have no effect. What had Nightingale said? Lead was good against only one of the four types of Elementals. She picked up a cushion to muffle the sound and fired a single shot into the centre of the fog. It had no effect and the bullet smacked into the plaster above the door.

She backed away from the swirling mist. Another face appeared. A young man, snarling with contempt. Then a baby, crying. The mist began to move in two parts as if trying to get around her. She took a step back, her mind racing. Silver. She had to try silver. She put the gun down, stood up and moved to the side, shuffling along the sofa.

She got to the end of the sofa and looked over at the bedroom door. She could get to it easily enough, but what then? She didn’t know if a locked door would keep the thing out but somehow she doubted it.  Her only way out was through the front door and the Elemental was blocking her way. But even if she got out, what then? The Elemental had materialized from thin air, it could presumably appear anywhere. Nightingale wasn’t around so the Elemental could only have been sent for her.

She was panting now, the air was so hot it was burning her lungs and her stomach was churning. She fought the urge to throw up as she looked over at the kitchen area. There were knives there, lots of knives, but none of them was made of silver. The fog passed by a side table and there was a crash as a lamp hit the floorboards. She backed towards the kitchen, her mind racing. The fog seemed to sense her panic and emitted a terrifying roar that shook the entire apartment. The windows rattled so hard that she was sure that the glass would shatter. One of the framed photographs fell off the window sill and crashed onto the floor, smashing the glass. She rushed towards the window. The mist moved with her, slowly, keeping between her and the door, but Chen wasn’t thinking about escaping. She grabbed the silver-framed wedding photograph and turned to face the fog. She slashed the frame back and forth, slicing it through the fog. “Die you bastard!” she screamed, but after the second slash she knew that the frame was having no effect. The mist continued to ooze towards her. She threw it at the dark centre of the fog but it went right through and hit the sofa before crashing to the floor.

She backed away, frantically trying to remember what Nightingale had said. Base metals. Silver. What else? Fire? And water.

She turned and ran to the kitchen area. The handle of the fridge was hot to the touch as she pulled open the door. There were two bottles of Fiji water at the back and she grabbed one and twisted the top off as she turned.

The fog was almost upon her. A face appeared, a teenage girl with blank eyes. The mouth opened showing three rows of teeth and then it screamed, an ear-shattering whine that made Chen’s teeth vibrate.  Chen splashed water at the fog and scream changed tone, from anger to pain. She flicked the bottle again and more water splashed out. The mist was retreating and Chen took a step forward, splashed more water and then threw the whole bottle. There were more screams now and she grabbed the second bottle of water from the fridge and uncapped it. The mist had shrunk to half its size and was moving back towards the door. Chen hurried after it, throwing as much water as she could. There was a loud crack that made her flinch, a flash of blue light, and it was gone. She stood stock still, her heart pounding. Condensation had formed on the windows and she was soaking wet. She drank what was left of the ice cold water in the bottle and sat down on the floor, exhausted.

CHAPTER 72

Nightingale wasn’t sure exactly where he was, but it clearly wasn’t one of the more salubrious parts of San Francisco. The area had more than its fair share of homeless people, and April was still chilly enough for the homeless to be huddled round braziers, dressed in heavy coats and gloves. Nightingale kept looking around for a taxi but there were few cars around and the only taxis he saw had passengers in the back.

“Got any spare change, mister?”

Nightingale flinched as if he’d been stung. He looked around for the girl who had spoken. She was sitting in a shop doorway, her black spiked fringe hanging down over her eyes. She was wearing a calf-length leather coat over a short black dress, and long studded black boots. Inverted crucifixes hung from her ears and a there was a spiked dog collar fastened around her neck. Next to her sat a black and white collie sheepdog, licking her hand.

There was a cardboard sign on the sidewalk in front of her. On it, written in capital letters in what might have been dried blood, were the words - YOUR SOUL IS MINE JACK NIGHTINGALE.

She gazed up at him for a moment with black featureless eyes, the irises so dark that they merged seamlessly into the pupils. She gave him a mocking smile. “How’s it going, Nightingale?”

“Proserpine.” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not for me,” she said. “No time has passed since we last met. Or maybe our last meeting hasn’t happened yet. Or perhaps this is our first meeting. You never did understand time, did you?”

“Not really,” said Nightingale. “It just flows one way for me.”

“Must be terrible,” she said. “Got a cigarette?”

Nightingale said nothing, just took out his pack and tossed her a cigarette. It would probably have been safe to hand it to her since he hadn’t actually summoned her, but who knew the rules with Hell-spawned demons? Better safe than sorry. She caught it in her left hand, gazed at it and watched it light by itself. She took a long drag then smiled at him through the smoke as she blew it slowly through her nostrils.

“Keeping well, Nightingale?” she asked. “How’s life on the run?”

“It has its moments,” he said. “So, just a social call? Or did you miss me?”

She smiled. “Same old Nightingale,” she said. “Always think you’re the center of everyone’s world. I’ve told you before, you don’t occupy my thoughts at all. I just like to check on my investments occasionally. Sticking your neck out a little at the moment, aren’t you?”

“There are two kids’ lives at stake,” he said.

“Heartbreaking,” she said. “Do you know how many children die every day in this city? Quite a few are down to me.”

Nightingale shuddered. “The Apostles aren’t working for you then?” he said.

Proserpine’s eyes narrowed but she didn’t reply, just blew a tight plume of some into the night sky.

“This Bimoleth not a friend of yours?”

This time it was Proserpine who shuddered.  “Not a name I ever care to hear mentioned,” she said.

“I thought you told me once that nothing scared you?” said Nightingale.

“I said that very little scared me, Nightingale. Bimoleth is in a whole different category. Maybe you’ll find out, though chances are it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

“Doesn’t sound like a good plan,” he said. “Stopping him works for me.”

She laughed again.

“Hah. And you think you know how? You’re always so easy for people to play, Nightingale, because you never learn. You persist in trusting people. Long after anyone with any intelligence would have seen through them. Take Wainwright. You know what he is, you know how he’s used you, but you’re still here running around for him, as if he always had your best interests at heart. He’s dropped you into this, and won’t care if you don’t get out. Cared more about that bloody book than you, didn’t he?”

“I know what I have to do now. I’m playing for the right team here.”

She threw her heard back and laughed. “Oh I love that. You don’t play much chess, do you Nightingale?”

“I’ve played,” he said

“Chess players don’t always take the white or the black pieces,” she said. “Some days you play one, some days the other, but all you care about is winning. From either side. And you never, never care about what happens to your pawns after the game.”

“I’m nobody’s pawn,” said Nightingale. “If that’s what you’re trying to tell me.”

“You’re everybody’s pawn. You only know what people tell you and you never think to question it. Believe me, Nightingale, it’ll cost you.” She stubbed out her cigarette, bent down and patted the dog on the head.  It growled softly. Its eyes were as black and featureless as hers, like polished coal. “Shall we help him, boy?” she said. “Shall we let him in where he needs to be? Might be fun for you. But then he’d never believe it of us, he only trusts angels. Little does he know, huh?” The dog licked her hand, then growled again.

She looked up at him and smiled, showing perfect white teeth. “Bear in mind everything I’ve said, Nightingale. I’ll be interested to see how it plays out...or played out...or is playing out. It’s all the same, you see. Always comes out the way it’s written. Question is, which edition are we reading? The one where you live, the one where you die, the one where you were dragged screaming down to Hell on your thirty-third birthday or the one where you were never born at all? They’re all out there somewhere.”

“What are you talking about, alternative realities?”

She laughed again, and shook her head. “You’d never be able to understand. You’ll always just try to play the knight in shining armor, that’s your thing.  Just remember, Nightingale, he who lives by the sword can die by the sword anytime he sticks his stupid neck out. Now off you go. And watch out for that truck.” She gestured behind him.

Nightingale turned his head to look, but the road was empty. He turned back and started to speak but she had gone. The sign now read HOMELESS AND HUNGRY SPARE SOME CHANGE, and there was just a bundle of rags behind it in the shop doorway.

CHAPTER 73

Nightingale eventually managed to find a taxi and it dropped him outside Amy Chen’s apartment block. He pressed the button for her apartment and she buzzed him in. As he pushed open the door to the reception area he realized that he hadn’t seen Dragan during his late-night walk. He took out his phone and called Dragan’s number. “What’s wrong, Jack?” asked Dragan almost immediately.

“Just checking in,” said Nightingale.

“All good,” said Dragan.

“You’re still watching me?”

Dragan chuckled. “Yes, we are. Saw you get picked up by the cops and taken to Bryant Street. How did that work out for you?”

“It could have been better,” said Nightingale. “You didn’t think to offer me a ride home?”

Dragan chuckled again. “Mr. Wainwright said we were to watch over you, not act as a taxi service.”

“True,” said Nightingale. “Quick question for you, about ten minutes after I left the station, did you see me talking to someone? In a shop doorway? “

“You stopped at a doorway, sure, but there was no one there.”

“No girl with a dog?”

“No. Are you okay, Jack?”

“I guess so. All right, mate, I’m home for the night. You sleep well.”

“We won’t be sleeping,” said Dragan. “But you have a good night.”

Nightingale put his phone away and took the stairs up to Chen’s floor. He knocked on her door and when she opened it he could see from the look on her face that something was wrong. “What is it?” he said.

She gulped some red wine from the glass she was holding, turned without answering, went back to her sofa. Nightingale closed the door, took off his raincoat and tossed it over a chair before going over to sit down next to her.  “Amy, what’s wrong?”

“One of those things was here. It tried to kill me.”

“When?”

“An hour or so ago.”

“Are you okay?”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Well obviously I’m okay or I wouldn’t be here. But it was a close thing.” She shuddered.

“How did you kill it?”

“Water. I threw water at it and it just… vanished. Like the one in the alley.”

“Did you call anyone?”

“Who? The cops? You know what happens, you kill them and they vanish, like they were never here.”

“I’m sorry,” said Nightingale.

“Sorry for what? It’s not your fault.”

“For dragging you into this. For putting you at risk.”

She waved her free hand at him. “This isn’t your fault, it’s those fucking Apostles.” Her words were slurred. The bottle was half empty, Nightingale realized. She wrinkled her nose and moved closer to him, sniffing. “You smell of smoke,” she said.

“That’ll be the Marlboro.”

“More than usual. What happened?”

Nightingale explained about finding Dukas and the house being torched while he was inside. And about being hauled in by the cops.

“Who were the detectives?” she asked.

“Gil Rizzitello and Randy Sullivan.”

“Rizzitello is a good cop,” she said. “Old school. I’ve met him a few times. They thought you started the fire?”

“Or killed Dukas and his maid. They weren’t specific.”

“I’m surprised they let you out so quickly.”

“You and me both,” said Nightingale. “It was all a bit weird. They were giving me the third degree but then a senior officer turned up and told me they had to let me go. Sullivan took it personally and said that I had friends in high places.”

“Your friend Wainwright?”

“Maybe, I’ll call him later. Are you okay, Amy?”

She flashed him a tight smile. “Of course I’m not okay. But I’m alive and I’m grateful for that.” She caught him looking at the wine bottle. “Half a bottle. I earned it.”

“It’s more than half, but yeah, you’ve earned it.”

She waved at the kitchen area. “Get yourself a glass.”

Nightingale stood up and fetched himself a glass. “Speckman and Carr were both at The Elms, an hour before the thing attacked me,” she said as he poured himself some wine.

“Are you sure?”

Her face tightened. “Of course I’m sure. You think I’m making this up?”

“I’m sorry, yeah, that was stupid.”

She pointed at the iPad on the sofa between them. “Just in case you don’t believe me. You’re the one who always wants to see for himself, right.”

“Amy, that came out wrong. I was surprised, that’s all.” He picked up the iPad and looked at the screen. “Yeah, there they are. Bastards. So they took part in the ritual to summon the Elemental.” He cursed. “Your card, remember? You gave Lucille Carr your business card. That’s all they needed to send the Elemental after you.”

“Gee, do you think?” she said, her voice loaded with sarcasm.

Nightingale put down the iPad. “But that’s all the evidence we need, don’t you get it? That proves that Speckman and Carr are in the Apostles and that the Sabbats take place at The Elms.”

“It proves it to you and me but I don’t see a judge is going to grant us a warrant on the basis of two illegally-planted tracking devices,” said Chen.

“The kids are in that house, Amy. I’m sure of it.”

“You’re probably right. But that doesn’t get us inside. And if we go inside without a warrant, nothing found there is admissible.”

Nightingale shook his head. “Not if we find the kids. If we get the kids back safe and sound no one will care where the information came from.”

“I suppose we could call it in anonymously.”

“No, they’ll have them well hidden. You saw how well guarded it was, it’ll take the cops time to get in, there’s no way they can catch them unawares. And we don’t know how good their contacts are within the police.” His phone rang and he went over to his raincoat to retrieve it. It was Wainwright.

“Dragan tells me that you had a run with the cops?” said Wainwright.

“Dukas is dead. Whoever killed him set fire to the house. They hauled me in but they let me go pretty quickly. Did you have a hand in that?”

“Nothing to do with me,” said Wainwright. “First I heard of it was five minutes ago when Dragan called me. So no sign of the Grimoire?”

“I couldn’t find it so either whoever killed Dukas took it or it went up in the fire. Either way I’m screwed. It was the only thing that might have told us how to stop the ritual. But the good news is that I managed to get that copy of Les Oeuvres d’ Agrippa back for you.”

“That’s something,” said Wainwright. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m with my cop friend, I’ll talk it through with her.”

“Keep me posted.” The line went dead.

“So that’s what I am,” said Chen. “Your cop friend?”

Nightingale grinned. “I couldn’t think of any other way of describing you. Sorry.”

“I’ve been called worse,” she said. She held up her near-empty glass and he refilled it for her. “What the hell are we going to do, Jack?”

“I honestly don’t know,” he said. “But we’ve got forty-eight hours to figure something out.”

CHAPTER 74

Nightingale opened his eyes to find Chen standing over him. “Wakey wakey, rise and shine,” she said. She was wearing a gray suit, had her hair tied back with a black clip and was holding a mug of coffee. “I’m off to work.”

“Can’t you take the day off?”

“I’ve got back-to-back case meetings all morning,” she said.

“I need your help, Amy.” He sat up and took the mug from her. “The blue moon is tomorrow.”

“I know, but today is frantic.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go.”

“Can I use your car?”

She looked as if she was going to say no but then she nodded. “Okay, but be careful with my baby. The keys are by the door. There’s a set of door keys, too. And get your coat cleaned. It stinks of smoke.”

She left the apartment and Nightingale shaved and showered and changed into clean clothes. She was right about the coat so he dropped it off at a laundry on the way to Haight Street. It took him almost an hour to get there and he realized how much he’d been relying on the SatNav. He saw that two police cruisers had stopped outside the Written In The Stars store, their blue lights flashing. Nightingale pulled in to the side of the road. Two unformed officers were running police tape across the sidewalk, blocking off the shop.

There was a dark blue Ford parked behind the cruisers. The sort of car that detectives would ride around in. Anonymous and economical. Nightingale took out his phone and called Chen. “Amy. Any idea what’s going on at a shop called Written In The Stars? Haight Street.”

“What do you think’s going on?”

“There are cruisers here and I’m guessing Homicide are here.”

“And you’re there because?”

“I wanted to talk to the owner. Gabriel Starr, the astrology guy. I was hoping he could tell me something. Last time I was here the shop was shut up.”

“Give me a minute.”

He heard a thud as she put the phone down and he lit a cigarette as he waited. An ambulance drove up from the other end of the street and parked behind the Ford.

“Jack?”

Chen was back on the line. “I’m here,” said Nightingale.

‘Well I suggest you get the hell out of there,” said Chen. “Starr’s dead. Pretty much butchered, the back room of his shop is awash with blood.”

“I’m driving away as we speak,” said Nightingale. He drove by the shop, taking a quick look as he went by, and parked close to Pagan World.  Margaret Romanos was in the back room amongst the books when he walked in, but came out into the main shop when she heard the bells. She gave him a friendly smile this time, it appeared he was more popular for some reason.

“Hello again,” she said. “How can I help you today?”

“Some fairly unusual items, I’m afraid,” he said. “I’ve made a list.”

He handed her a sheet of paper on which he’d written down everything he would need to purify himself.

Ms Romanos scanned the list. “This is all straight forward,” she said. “Though you’ll need a priest to bless the water and wafers. A sympathetic priest, of course.”

“Would you know one?” asked Nightingale.

“It so happens I do. Father Kevin often helps me with these things. I assume a hundred dollars for his fee would be no problem?”

Nightingale nodded.

“Money’s not an issue,” he said. Just so long as you can give me what I need. And I need it now, if that’s at all possible.”

“I’ll call him now and he can probably come around in ten minutes. He doesn’t live far away.”

“I can wait,” said Nightingale.

“Do you mind me asking what you’re planning to do with all this?”

“Just a purification spell, nothing major,” he said.

“Are you expecting trouble?”

Nightingale shrugged carelessly. “Just being careful,” he said. Nightingale’s phone rang.  He didn’t recognize the number but he took the call. “Jack? It’s Karl Woods.”

“How’s it going, Karl?”

“I’ve been doing lots of research, Going way back. Been to City Hall and the Public Records Office and spent hours online. Found some very strange stuff.”

“I’m all ears, Karl.”

“I’m happy to give you what I’ve got so far. Are you around this afternoon.”

“Sure. Where and when?”

“I’m a bit rushed, my editor has just hit me with a travel feature that’s got to be done by tonight. I’ll be at a place called The Cellar. It’s an underground tourist attraction. Can you meet me there? Three o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.” He ended the call and turned to see Margaret watching him carefully.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Everything is just hunky dory,” he said.

CHAPTER 75

The Cellar was San Francisco’s newest tourist attraction: an underground recreation of Gold-rush era bars, camps and settings, complete with animatronic figures and a boat ride down a river with prospectors and waterfalls. Nightingale paid his twenty dollars and walked in. He was met by a grizzled old prospector dressed for the 1880s. “He he he, good to see you son, and welcome along to The Cellar. This here’s The Descent, a gen-you-whine 1860s elevator, get you down to where it all happens. Don’t you worry none about the bumping, it’s got a nice thick rope that hardly ever snaps, and we get it checked every year or so. Not had anyone killed in weeks, he he he.”

Nightingale wasn’t amused.

“You have stairs?” he asked. “I’m not a big fan of elevators.”

“No siree, the Elevator’s the only way down and it’s a whole heap of fun.”

Nightingale was a hundred percent sure that there’d have to be safety stairs, but causing an argument with the management probably wasn’t the best way to start a secret meeting. The elevator would have to meet modern standards, so the spiel about the fraying rope was strictly bull. He shoved his white knuckles into his pockets and clenched all the way to the bottom. As advertised, there were plenty of bumps and jerks on the way down that did nothing to improve his temper.

He had to admit that The Cellar was well done. The animatronic figures and dioramas were far more realistic than his memories of Madame Tussaud’s in London on the only occasion he’d ever visited. He supposed that Disney had similar displays, but Nightingale had never been inside a theme park. Something else he’d missed from being childless. It was in the Gold-rush room that he finally saw Woods. The journalist was scribbling in a notebook and he waved his pen in the air when he saw Nightingale. “Sorry about this, Jack,” he said. “The girl who was supposed to be writing this got sick so it got dropped in my lap. Tag along, will you. I’m on a tight deadline.”

The river ride was the next along, and Woods got into the third boat from the front. Nightingale climbed in after him, and the boats set off, Nightingale assumed they ran on a track under the water. The boats in front and behind were empty, there were few visitors this early in the morning. There was a middle-aged woman in the front boat, but far enough away to be out of earshot.

Woods waited until the boat had rounded the first bend and was out of sight of the jetty before he reached inside his bag and pulled out small black thumb drive and handed it to Nightingale. “That Dukas, his family goes back a long way,” said Woods. “I went to the Library of Congress database and went through their newspaper archives. Looks like one of his distant relatives was a witch.”

“A witch?”

“That’s what she was accused of, anyway. It’s all in that file. Hard to spot because the original story was under her married name, but before she married she was a Dukas, the daughter of Greek immigrants. I found her death certificate – she died in the 1906 earthquake. Or more specifically, the fire. She was burned to death.”

“I suppose that’s decent background for any story you write.”

“There’s more,” said Woods, nodding at the thumb drive. “What you said about Satanism and the missing kids got me thinking. So I started digging. And guess what?”

He looked across at Nightingale, clearly wanting him to speak. “What?’ said Nightingale, playing his part.

“A week before the earthquake, a week before the so-called witch died, two children went missing. They didn’t call them abductions back then. But two kids were taken and never seen again.” He paused for effect and Nightingale had to fight the urge to throttle the journalist. “And here’s the kicker, Jack. The missing kids were a ten-year-old white boy and a ten-year-old black girl. What are the odds?”

Astronomical, thought Nightingale. Unless history was about to repeat itself.

CHAPTER 76

Pagan World usually stayed open until 6pm but customers seemed few and far between and Margaret Romanos had things to do at home so she locked up her shop up early and headed down the road towards the bus stop. Five minutes later she boarded the bus for Union Square and sat down near the front. She always went to and from work on public transport –the bus and the cable-car. She owned a car but daytime parking wasn’t easy on Haight Street and what parking there was cost a lot. Besides, she enjoyed the bus and the cable-car, it gave her time to people-watch which was one of her favourite past-times.

At Union Square she got off the bus, just behind a middle-aged woman in dark-brown tweeds who also walked over to the cable-car stop. A few minutes later the bell announced the arrival of the cable-car. The driver pulled the lever to unclamp the car from the giant. perpetually-moving cable which ran along the street and the car came to a halt. Margaret climbed up and sat towards the back, since she was only going a few stops. The driver reclamped the car to the cable and the vehicle started its ascent. The little woman in brown sat down next to Margaret. The conductor took their fares and moved down the car.

The little woman smiled at Margaret. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Margaret nodded. “It has been so far,” she said.

“Well let’s hope it stays that way,” said the woman.

CHAPTER 77

Chris Caldwell was ten and thought that The Cellar was pretty much the coolest place in San Francisco. His mother had brought him and his sister Sally down for a treat, and he’d loved every minute of it. The rats in the Chinatown Black Death room were just awesome. He’d been through every room, gone round on the boat ride twice, and now that it was time to go he was dragging his feet, trying to make it all last as long as possible. His mother and Sally had walked on ahead, but Chris was determined to miss nothing.

“Chris, come on,” said his mother. “They’ll be closing soon. We can go and have pizza.”

“I’m coming. This place is just so cool, look at all these smugglers.”

“We’ve seen them once,” said his mother, secretly pleased that he was having such a good time.

“Hey, look, there’s one fallen over here. Maybe the smugglers killed him. He’s dressed kinda different though.”

“Hey, Chris,” said his sister, “you’re not supposed to touch any of them.”

“I know, I didn’t hurt it,” he said.

“Come on Chris, “ said his mother, taking his hand.  “Now what have you got all over your hands? Is that blood?”

“Wow, that must have come off the dead guy. So cool.”

His mother pulled back her hand and stared at it in horror. “That’s blood. Real blood.”

“Awesome!” shouted the boy.

CHAPTER 78

Nightingale was sitting on the sofa, reading the contents of the thumb drive on the big screen television. He heard the front door open and looked over to see Chen, carrying a pizza box. “It took you more than thirty minutes so I guess I get it for free, right?” said Nightingale.

“It’s not for you,” said Chen, closing and locking the door. “You can go out and buy your own pizza.”

“I was joking,” said Nightingale.

Chen put the box down on the coffee table. “So was I.” She took off her gun and holster as she walked over to the fridge. “White okay?”

“I’m easy,” said Nightingale.

“White it is, then,” said Chen, taking a bottle out of the fridge and picking up two glasses.  “That astrologer. Starr. He was tortured, Jack. Probably by the same person that killed Dukas.”

“Do the detectives know that?”

“Dukas was burnt up in the fire so they’ve not put it together yet. But I think they will eventually. You know what this means?”

“That someone is killing everyone who helps me? Yeah, I’d worked that out.”

“Not just killing, Jack. Torturing. Which means they’re trying to get information from them.”

Nightingale nodded.

“What’s that?” she said, gesturing with the bottle at the TV screen as she sat down.

“My journalist contact found it for me. Karl Woods, he works for the Chronicle and has been covering the missing kids story. He found an article from The San Francisco Call, dated January 1905.”  Chen took a bite of pizza as she read the words on the large screen. There were two headlines. SAYS HIS WIFE IS A SORCERESS and SAN FRANCISCO MAN CONTENDS SHE IS A WITCH.

She gestured for Nightingale to open the wine bottle as she read what was on the screen. A 21-year-old man called Felix Rybiski had appeared before Justice Caverly at the Harrison street police station in answer to a charge of abandonment, and begged the court to protect him from his wife. He claimed she was a witch while Mrs. Rybiski had in turn charged him with inhuman cruelty, abandonment of herself and their baby and finally alleged that she believed him to be insane.

Chen started reading the story out loud in between bites of pizza. “Rybiski is the inventor of a patent shingle, and it was while working on the roof of her home in the fall of 1905 that he claims he first came under her influence. In telling the story at the station, he seemed half crazed with fear and from time to time glanced furtively at his wife as if he expected to be again cast under a spell.

“He stated that the woman simply looked at him, and that thereafter he was powerless save to obey her commands. He took up a residence in her home. Then, after a week or so, after a walk which he remembered only in a hazy way, he was informed that they were married, and that the woman he dreaded was his lawfully wedded wife.”

Nightingale looked over at Chen. “A big part of Satanic power involves having influence over others,” he said.

“Are you talking about hypnotism?”

“More like mind control.” He poured wine into the glasses, then passed one to her as she continued reading what was on the screen. “From this time on, until he finally regained possession of his will power and returned to his family, he declares he was forced to lead the existence of a dog. According to his statement, he was engaged to marry Mary Runklowicz, a girl of his own age, but that when he was with his wife he forgot even her name. Whenever he grew assertive, his wife would glare at him and he would feel his faculties slipping away. His sister-in law, Mrs. Ella Hofft bore out his testimony that Mrs. Rybiski was a witch.”

Chen looked over at Nightingale. “I suppose journalistic standards weren’t as high back then.”

“Papers didn’t do much in the way of fact-checking,” agreed Nightingale.

Chen picked up another slice of pizza but it stayed in her hand as she frowned at the final two paragraphs.

“Seen at her home, 2995 Lyman Street, last evening, Mrs. Rybiski, a short, sweet-faced, motherly looking woman, about 45 years old, denied each of the charges as the workings of a diseased brain. She is a wealthy and educated woman. Before her marriage, she was Miss Agatha Dukas and a wealthy heiress, though she is now reduced to working as a telephone operator.”

“That’s Dukas’s great-great-aunt,” said Nightingale. “She died in the fire after the 1906 earthquake. There’s a copy of her death certificate on the thumb drive somewhere.”

Chen continued to read out loud. “The talk of my being a witch is absurd, Did I possess any unnatural powers? I would exert them only to such an extent that it would be unnecessary for me to work ten or more hours daily in order to support myself and my baby, towards whose keep its father has never given one penny.” She shrugged. “Okay, that’s interesting, but it doesn’t help us, does it? Dukas’s great great aunt was an alleged witch. So what? That doesn’t mean for sure that she was involved in any rituals back in 1906.”

“Woods found something else out,” said Nightingale, scrolling through the thumb drive’s menu. “Two children went missing just a week before the earthquake. There was quite a search at the time, but obviously the earthquake put paid to that.” He found the newspaper article and it filled the screen. There were no photographs, just words. Chen read the article quickly, her wine glass in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other. Her jaw dropped and she turned to look at Nightingale. “A white boy and a black girl.”

“Coincidence?”

She looked back at the screen and read the story again. The two children had been snatched on the same day. There had been witnesses on both occasions. Each time witnesses reported seeing two men push the child into a horse-drawn delivery van. There was a description of the horse and the van in both articles but at the time there were thousands of horse-drawn vehicles in the city. There were motorcars, too, but horses were still the main form of transport. And with no registration plates and only a sketchy description of the men, it was hardly surprising that the children hadn’t been found. There were several other articles from various papers on the thumb drive, basically all saying the same thing, that the children were missing and the police had nothing to go on.

Chen finished reading the articles and sat back, sipping her wine.

“You know what this means?” said Nightingale.

“I think you’d better tell me.”

“It’s going to sound crazy.”

“Like I said before, that ship has sailed, Jack.”

He took a deep breath before speaking. “Back in 1906, Agatha Dukas was involved in the occult. Devil worship. She discovered the book that Basil Dukas, her great great nephew, had in his library. Maybe it had always been in her family, maybe she came across it in a shop. She realized what it was and set about carrying out the ritual. She was involved in setting up a group of Apostles. Just like has been happening here. Then…” He shrugged. “Then it’s just conjecture, right? Guesswork. We can’t know for sure.”

“The earthquake stopped them? She died in the fire?”

“It could be more than that, Amy,” said Nightingale quietly. “It could be a lot more. Maybe the ritual caused the earthquake. Maybe what Agatha Dukas and her Apostles did resulted in a wave of destruction and mayhem that…” He threw up his hands. “I don’t know. It makes my head hurt.”

She gestured at his glass. “Maybe wine will help.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He gulped down half the glass and refilled it. She held her glass out and he refilled hers too. “Here’s the thing. If there was a group of Apostles around in 1906, there must have been the twelve murders that go with them. The Christian virgins killed in the way that original the Apostles died. Can you check, tomorrow? There’d be records, right? Even that far back?”

Chen nodded. “Of course. But I’m not sure how many have been computerized. But I can find out.”

“If you can find missing nuns and priests in early 1906, that would pretty much nail it,” said Nightingale.

She nodded. “But then what, Jack? How does that help us stop what’s happening now?”

He forced a smile but he didn’t know what to say. She was right, of course. The problem wasn’t what might or might not have happened way back in 1906. The problem was what was going to happen on Wednesday night. Just one day away.

“We need to get inside The Elms, don’t we?” she said.

“I think so. Yes.”

“That’s not going to be easy.”

“I know. But I don’t see there’s any other way.”

CHAPTER 79

Abaddon was already sitting on a bench in Ghirardelli Square, a cluster of restaurants and shops in the Fisherman's Wharf area, when Judas walked up. “It’s turning into a very pleasant evening,” said Judas, sitting down next to her.

“The calm before the storm,” said Abaddon. “Andrew assures me that if the book was in Dukas’s house, it has been destroyed. But there is a chance, a small chance admittedly, that Nightingale has it.”

“What did the police say?”

“He had a book in his pocket when he came out of the house, but I am told it was French, not Greek.”

“Even if he has the Grimoire, the knowledge it contains will do him no good, surely?” said Judas.

“He is not an Adept, that’s true,” said Abaddon. “But Joshua Wainwright is. And Nightingale works for him.”

Judas nodded thoughtfully. “I shall pay Nightingale a visit tomorrow. If he has the book, he’ll tell me.”

Abaddon smiled. “I know how persuasive you can be. And has everything else been taken care of?”

Judas nodded. “The nosy journalist is no more, and the astrologer has also been dealt with.”

“Excellent,” said Abaddon, standing up. “Once you have finished questioning Nightingale, please deal with him too.”

“Of course.”

“And the policewoman who has been helping him. Amy Chen. Find out how she managed to evade the Elemental. Then kill her too.”

“It’ll be a pleasure,” said Judas, as Abaddon walked away.

CHAPTER 80

Nightingale woke to find Chen standing over him and he realised that she had just shaken him.  “I’ve got to go in to work,” she said. “For the morning at least.”

“Will you have time to check the historical records, to see if there were abductions that could be tied in to an Apostles group back in 1906?”

“I’ll do my best,” she said. “Why do you think it’ll help?”

“If the ritual was performed back then, maybe something stopped it.”

“Maybe the earthquake put paid to the ritual, have you thought about that?”

Nightingale nodded. “See what’s in the records,” he said. “And see if you can get plans of The Elms. There has to be some sort of chapel or crypt in there, we need to know where it is.”

“You’re planning on going in tonight?”

“I don’t see there’s any other way,” said Nightingale. “The cops won’t go in but I’m sure the kids are in there. There’s still time to work something out. More than twelve hours. And I’ll keep watching the iPad. Nothing’s going to happen until Speckman and Carr get there.”

“You hope.”

“They’ll need all the Apostles.”

“Again, you hope. You don’t know for sure, do you?”

Nightingale grimaced. She was right. Without the Grimoire he had no way of knowing what the ritual entailed. He was guessing that the twelve Apostles were vital to the ritual. He could be completely wrong. And he could also be wrong about the time. He was assuming midnight, it could just as easily be another time of the day or night.

Chen looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Can you leave the car? I don’t want to be chasing around for a taxi if I have to move quickly.”

“Okay. Keys are by the door.”

Nightingale shaved, showered and dressed before driving Chen’s Mustang to the laundry where he’d left his raincoat.  “It smelled really bad,” said the Korean lady who gave it to him.

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“You smoke too much.”

“Sadly that’s probably true.”

“Do you want a bag?”

“No, I’ll wear it here.” He paid her then stripped off the polythene covering and pulled it on. She had done a good job of cleaning it though there were a couple of scorch marks.

“It’s very old,” said the lady. “You should buy a new one.”

Nightingale shook his head. “This is my lucky coat,” he said. “I couldn’t be without it.”

He went back to the car and decided to drive to Haight Street, figuring that he would ask Margaret Romanos if she knew anything at all about the Bimoleth ritual. As a Pagan she probably wouldn’t know much, but there was a chance she might have a book that would help. The police tape was still outside Starr’s shop. He drove to Pagan World and parked the Mustang close by. There was a CLOSED sign in the window and he cursed under his breath. He lit a cigarette and peered through the window but the shop was empty. He hoped that the closed shop didn’t mean that something bad had happened to her, but he was expecting the worst. He cursed again and walked back to the car.

He drove to The Elms, deep in thought. He didn’t have too many options and all of them involved getting into the house and disrupting the ritual. The problem was that there didn’t seem to be any way of doing that on his own. The high wall, the CCTV and the security guards made it hard enough to get in, but assuming he did get in, then what? Twelve Apostles and Abaddon was more than he could handle on his own, even if he could get a weapon. The cops could go in mob-handed but what if they didn’t find the children? The Apostles could presumably wait and try again at some other time. His mind went around and around the problem but he was unable to come up with anything approaching a solution.

He drove on auto-pilot, barely aware of his surroundings, and almost went by the entrance to the mansion. He slowed and then parked at the side of the road. Part of him wanted to get out and look through the gates but he knew that to do so would only attract attention to himself. And he’d already seen the guardhouse and the guards. He looked at the wall. It wouldn’t be too much of an effort to get over it, but what then? There’d be dogs, maybe. And CCTV for sure. And that was before he even got to the house itself.

He started driving again, following the road down until it reached the coast. There was a turn to the left but it was little more than a dirt track and it was marked as a dead end. He drove for a couple of hundred yards and reached a small parking area. There were half a dozen cars there and most were empty. There were a couple in a Mercedes who looked as if they were in the middle of an argument and they both glanced over at him as he climbed out of the Mustang and buttoned up his coat. He locked the door and headed towards the beach. The sea was to his right and cliffs to his left. He walked slowly, the wind ruffling his hair, walking as close to the water as he could without getting wet. Even walking on the wet sand, he couldn’t see the tops of the cliffs. He figured The Elms was about three-quarters of a mile from where he parked the car, though he had never been great at judging distances. He lit a cigarette as he walked. The cliffs weren’t sheer but they were steep. In a few places there were steps leading up, with handrails in the steepest places. He craned his neck but he couldn’t see where the steps led.

“They’ll kill you, those things,” said a voice behind him.

He turned to see Proserpine watching him. She was wearing a long black coat that was so shiny that it could only have been plastic, high-heeled black boots that appeared to be making absolutely no impression on the sand she was standing on, and a black collar around her neck with a silver ankh hanging from it. She was wearing her hair long but despite the wind blowing in from the sea, it remained motionless, unlike Nightingale’s which was constantly blowing across his face.

“Cigarettes or cliffs?” he said.

Her dog was standing by her side, its head up, sniffing the air, its fur totally unaffected by the breeze.

“Both,” she said. “Either. Are you planning to gatecrash the party tonight?”

“I don’t see that I have a choice.”

She smiled but her eyes were hard. ‘There’s always a choice, Nightingale.”

He took a long pull on his cigarette and blew a plume of smoke which was immediately whipped away by the wind. “Why are you here, Proserpine? These Apostles are nothing to do with you, are they?”

“No, but you are. I’ve always felt that I had first claim on your soul.”

“So what are you saying? That if I go in to the house, you won’t get my soul? I’ll die, is that it?”

She smiled slyly. “Now that would be telling. Wouldn’t it?”

“What about this Bimoleth? Can they summon him?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“But they can, right? The ritual will work.”

“They seem to know what they’re doing.”

“And what happens to the world if Bimoleth is here.”

“That’s a good question.”

“So why won’t you answer it?”

“That’s not why I’m here, Nightingale.”

“So why are you here?”

“I thought you might want to make a deal. Why else?”

Nightingale frowned. “A deal?”

“Your soul, for the kids.”

“How would that work?”

She laughed, but it was harsh sound, almost mechanical. “It’s not rocket science,” she said. “You give me your soul. I make sure the children are returned to their parents.”

“Are you behind this?” he asked. “Is that what all this is about?”

She shook her head. “I’m just trying to turn a difficult situation to my own advantage,” she said. “If the children are returned to their parents then the ritual will fail and Bimoleth will remain where he is. All’s well that ends well.”

“So you don’t want Bimoleth here?”

She tilted her head on one side. “That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what you implied.”

“I’m just giving you a way out. I didn’t expect you to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Nightingale narrowed his eyes as he took another drag on his cigarette. It was always difficult to get a read on her because none of the human tics and mannerisms applied. She was a demon from hell when all was said and done. “Bimoleth will upset the balance if he comes, won’t he?”

Proserpine didn’t reply.

“So why don’t you stop it? Why bring me into it?”

“You’re already in it, Nightingale.”

“So can I stop it on my own?”

“Do you think you can? Because I’m not sensing confidence.”

Nightingale inhaled smoke deeply into his lungs, held it, then exhaled slowly as he considered what she had said. “You’re offering to stop him for me, aren’t you. I give you my soul, you save the kids, that stops Bimoleth’s ritual.”

“A quid pro quo, as they say.”

He nodded slowly. “I think I can do this myself.”

“You think?”

“Call it a hunch. I think this is going to work out okay.”

Her face hardened. “If that proves not to be true, it’ll be too late to come back to me. The offer comes off the table.”

“I’ll take that risk,” said Nightingale. He flicked the last of his cigarette into the sea and watched it disappear under the waves. When he looked back, Proserpine and her dog had vanished. The sand where they had been standing was perfectly smooth.

CHAPTER 81

Nightingale had been back in Chen’s apartment for twenty minutes and had just made himself a coffee when she burst in through the door, her eyes blazing. “Karl Woods is dead,” she said, throwing her jacket across a chair. “He was stabbed with some needle thing, straight into his heart. It happened yesterday. The body is in the morgue and the story is just breaking.”

Nightingale stood holding his coffee mug, his mouth open.

Chen folded her arms, then unfolded them and began pacing up and down, her high heels clicking on the wooden floor. “Dukas, Starr, and now Woods. Plus that banker guy you spoke to, the one they found on Alcatraz.”

“Lee Mitchell.”

She stopped and folded her arms again. “Yeah, I’m surprised you can remember all their names the way these bodies are piling up.”

“What do you think, Amy? You think I killed them?”

“No, of course not.” She ran her hands through her hair. “I don’t know, actually. Maybe.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“They found his body in The Cellar.”

“That’s where I saw him. He was fine when I left him. Someone must have killed him after I left.”

“Do you think so?” she said, her voice loaded with sarcasm. “I’m guessing they’ve got CCTV footage in there which means you might have a problem.”

“Or you could take the view that the CCTV will show who the killer really was, because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

“Or it might show that you were the last person to speak to him. In which case they’ll be looking for you.” She put her hand up to her head again. “I’m caught in the middle here, you can see that, can’t you? I’ve got information on these  killings and I’m storing up a whole world of hurt by not saying anything.”

“I need a drink,” she said. She took a bottle of red wine out of a cupboard, pulled open a drawer to look for a corkscrew and then realized that the bottle had a screw-top.

“Do you want wine?”

“Err, I guess so, Yes.” She sloshed wine into a glass and then poured some for Nightingale. “This is getting ridiculous,” she said, handing him his glass and dropping down onto the sofa opposite him.

“You make it sound as if it’s my fault,” he said. He looked at the coffee mug and then the wine and decided to drink from the glass.

“Let’s be honest, Jack, all this started happening when you arrived in town.”

“Because I came here to investigate the Apostles,” he said. “They’ve already killed twelve people and they’re going to kill two children. These other deaths – they’re collateral damage.”

“Collateral damage, how does that work?”

“They’re killing off the people I’ve been talking to. They killed Mitchell because he wanted to leave. They killed Karl because he was giving me information, same with Dukas and Starr.”

“That means they’re following you.”

“Maybe. But if they are, Dragan will see them, Unless…”

“Unless what?”

Nightingale pulled a face. “There are Satanic ways of tracking people.”

“Like the crystal?”

“The crystal is pretty straightforward. Almost anyone can use a crystal if you know what to do. But the Adepts, they can use all sorts of tricks. Mind control, communication on the astral plane, remote following.”

Chen sipped her wine, but then her sip turned into a gulp. “This whole business is just….”

“Unbelievable?”

“If I hadn’t seen those Elementals with my own eyes, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation and you sure as heck wouldn’t be in my apartment.”

“Are you worried about your own safety, is that it? I can move out?”

“I don’t think it’s you staying here that’s the problem, Jack. It’s not as if you moved in with Karl Woods, is it? He was just helping you and they killed him. That astrology guy was just doing charts for you.”

There was a loud banging on the door and they both flinched.

“Police, open up!” shouted a voice.

Nightingale glared at Chen. “Did you bring them here?”

“Of course not.”

The banging was repeated. “Open up, we have a warrant!”

“How the hell did they get in?” asked Nightingale.

Chen stood up. “I don’t know,’ she said. “Why don’t I ask them?”

She went over to the door and checked the spyhole. “Two uniforms,” she said. She put on the security chain and opened the door. A uniformed officer peered through the gap.

“We’re here to see Jack Nightingale,” he growled.

“What’s the problem, officer,” said Chen. She flashed her shield. “Inspector Amy Chen.”

“If Nightingale is in there, you’d be advised to open this door now,” said the officer.

“What’s he done?”

“He was last seen with a journalist called Karl Woods. He’s wanted in connection with the murder of Mr. Woods.”

“Mr. Nightingale had nothing to do with the murder of Karl Woods,” said Chen. “I can vouch for him.”

“That’s all well and good, Inspector, but we need to talk to him. Please open the door.” Chen looked over her shoulder at Nightingale. “I’m sorry,” she said. She took off the security chain and stepped back as the two officers pushed their way in.  The first officer was holding something in his right hand and as he held it up, Nightingale realized what it was. A Taser. As the officer stepped into the apartment, he pushed the prongs of the Taser against her throat and pressed the trigger. There was a loud cracking sound and Chen fell to the floor.

“There’s no need for that!” shouted Nightingale, springing up off the sofa. Chen was lying on the floor, her back arched her face contorted with pain. The first officer stepped to the side revealing that the second officer was holding another Taser, this one bright yellow and in the form of a handgun. Nightingale raised his hands in the air to show that he wasn’t a threat. “This is all a mistake,” he said. “I’m not…”

The uniformed officer pulled the trigger and two small prongs attached to hair-thin wires snaked across the room and embedded themselves in his shirt. Almost immediately fifty thousand volts surged through Nightingale’s body and he went into spasm before falling to the ground. Just before he passed out he saw a small middle-aged lady in a brown coat walk through the door and smile benignly at the officers.

CHAPTER 82

Nightingale came around, his eyes finding it hard to focus. His chest felt as if it was on fire and he was having trouble breathing. He tried to wipe his mouth but realized he couldn’t move. There was a gag in his mouth. He looked down and saw thick strips of duct tape binding his wrists to the arms of the chair. The woman in the brown coat was standing at the door with the two uniformed officers. “Thank you so much for your help, I’ll take it from here,” she said.

One of the officers saluted her and they both left. She closed the door and smiled when she saw that Nightingale was awake. “Excellent, I was worried I might have to do something theatrical like throwing water in your face,” she said. She put down her handbag, took off her wool coat and placed it carefully over the back of her sofa. She was wearing a green tweed skirt and a purplish cardigan with what appeared to be pearl buttons.

Nightingale struggled to free his arms but the duct tape held firm. His ankles were also taped, to the legs of the chair. He looked across to the left. Chen was bound and gagged on another of the dining chairs, her head slumped on her chest, her face obscured by a wall of jet-black hair.

“There is really only one thing I need to know,” she said, picking up her handbag and carrying it over to the dining table where there was a roll of duct tape. Chen’s gun was next to the tape, still in its holster. “I need you to tell me where the Grimoire is. We’d rather it wasn’t in your possession, obviously.” She opened her handbag and took out a small pair of shears and clicked them menacingly. “Specially made for me, and ever so sharp,” she said. “They can cut through almost all the important small parts of your body.”

Nightingale tried to speak but the gag muffled all sound except a low grunt.

“Now, we know you went to see the dwarf Dukas. And we know you left with a book. I want you to give me that book, Mr. Nightingale. If you do that, you will save yourself a great deal of pain.” She nodded over at Chen, who was still unconscious. “And the lovely Inspector Chen, too. Perhaps it would make more sense to start on her. You do seem to be the chivalrous type, Mr. Nightingale. Anything to help a lady, am I right?”

Nightingale struggled to free himself but the duct tape held firm. All he managed to do was rock the chair back and forth.

The woman clicked the shears again, then walked over to Chen. She pulled her  hair back and slapped her face. “Come on my dear. It’s time to wake up.”  She slapped Chen again and this time Chen groaned. The woman let go of Chen’s hair and smiled encouragingly. “That’s it, wakey wakey, rise and shine.”

Chen shook her head, then opened her eyes. She began to struggle. Nightingale could see the fear in her eyes as she fought in vain to free herself. The woman stepped back, a sly smile on her face. Struggle all you want, my dear. Duct tape is a wonderful thing. Almost impossible to break.”

She walked back to Nightingale, clicking the shears. “In a moment I’m going to take your gag out, Mr. Nightingale. The only thing I want to hear from you is the location of the Grimoire. I don’t want threats, I don’t want insults, I don’t want to hear you beg for your sad little life. Just tell me where the book is and we won’t go any further. That’s all I want. The book. Do you understand, Mr. Nightingale?”

Nightingale nodded slowly. His cellphone rang in his raincoat, but eventually went silent.

The woman went over to the TV and switched it on. She scrolled through the menu and found a channel playing a rock concert. “Perfect,” she said. She turned the volume up and put the remote on the coffee table and then went over to Nightingale. She used the shears to cut the gag away from his mouth. It fell to the floor and Nightingale took a deep breath. “Right then, Mr. Nightingale. Where is the Grimoire?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Nightingale. You left the house of Mr. Dukas with a book. Where is it?”

“That wasn’t the Grimoire,” said Nightingale. “It was a book I’d sold to Dukas. I took it back when I saw he was dead. You killed him, didn’t you?”

“Mr. Dukas said he didn’t have the book either. So one of you has to be lying. And he went through a great deal of pain so I’m tempted to believe him. Unless you can go through an equivalent amount of pain. Then I suppose I won’t know who to believe.”

“I swear to you, I absolutely swear to you, I don’t have the book. I didn’t find it at Dukas’s house. I assumed that whoever had killed him had taken it. If you haven’t got it then he’d hidden it in the house and it was probably destroyed in the fire.”

The woman smiled like a kindly aunt. “Well let’s see, shall we?” She held the shears close to his head, slipping the blades either side of his ear lobe. She tightened the blades, just enough to make him wince. Then she laughed and pulled the shears away. “Mr. Dukas had a very high tolerance for pain and I rather think you’ll be the same.”

“Look, I don’t have the book. I never did. Dukas had it and he gave me some information, but when I went back to see him you’d already killed him. He had the book then, either that or he was lying to us both. But you have to believe me, I don’t have it. If I did, I’d give it to you, surely you realize that?”

She smiled sympathetically. “You say that, but you also say that Dukas allowed me to torture and kill him rather than give it up.”

“Did he say I had the Grimoire?”

“No. He said very little, in fact.”

“Don’t you think if he knew I had it, he’d tell you?”

“Perhaps. But then it’s equally possible that he had hidden the book and that you found it.”

“But I didn’t!” said Nightingale. “And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t be keeping it from you now.”

“You say that, Mr. Nightingale. But I have to know for sure.” She walked over to Chen. “And there’s only one way I can do that. If you allow me to kill this lovely lady, then I’ll believe you.”

“That makes no sense!” shouted Nightingale. “It’s like when they used to duck witches. If she drowned, she wasn’t a witch.”

“But surely you can see the logic in that, if nothing else?” said the woman. She looked down at Chen. “Toes or fingers, my dear? Which do you think?” Chen struggled, her eyes wide and fearful, but there was no escape. She looked over at Nightingale but there was nothing he could do to help.

“I don’t have the bloody book!” he said. “Torture me, you’ll see.”

“No you know it doesn’t work like that,” she said. “You’re like Dukas, you can take pain. But it’s clear you care for Ms Chen, so if you know where the book is you’ll tell me in order to stop her pain.”

“But I keep telling you, I don’t have it!”

“Yes, you do, Mr. Nightingale. “But let’s see how you feel after she’s lost a few fingers.” She smiled down at Chen and clicked her shears. “Fingers it is, my dear.” She walked to stand at Chen’s side and bent down. Chen’s wrists were bound to the arms of the chairs and she bunched her hands into fists. The woman chuckled at her attempt to keep her fingers away from the blades. “Struggle or don’t struggle, my dear, it makes no difference in the end.” She locked the blades of the shears either side of the little finger on Chen’s left hand, then looked sideways at Nightingale, a sly smile on her face. “Last chance, Mr. Nightingale.”

Nightingale slumped in his chair. “Please don’t do this,” he said. “I don’t have it.”

“Very well,” said the woman.

Chen began to thrash from side to side but the duct tape kept her glued to the chair.

There was a loud crashing sound and the door splintered around the lock. It was followed by a second crash and the door flew open. Dragan burst into the room, holding a gun. Behind him was an equally massive heavy. Both wore dark glasses and both were moving at speed.

The woman straightened up, her mouth open in shock. Dragan pointed his gun at her chest.

“Don’t shoot the bitch!” shouted Nightingale, “we need her alive!”

Dragan nodded and strode across the room towards the woman. She snarled like a trapped animal and charged towards him, the shears held high. Dragan didn’t break his step, he reached out with his right hand and grabbed the woman’s wrist, and simultaneously his left closed around her throat. With apparently no effort at all he lifted her off the ground. Her eyes bulged and her face went red and the shears fell from her hand and clattered on the floorboards. He slowly lowered her to the ground and then his companion grabbed her arms and dragged her towards the dining table.

Dragan went over to Nightingale and grinned down at him. “You okay?”

“Do I look okay?” said Nightingale.

CHAPTER 83

Nightingale held the door open for Dragan. “You’re sure about this?” asked Dragan. The woman was now sitting in the chair that he’d been tied to, and this time it her turn to be duct-taped and gagged. “I can take her away, dump her somewhere.”

“I need her to answer some questions,” said Nightingale. “Best you’re not here for that.”

Dragan’s colleague went into the corridor and headed for the elevator.

“Thanks, by the way,’ said Nightingale. “You saved my bacon.”

“It’s all part of the service,” said Dragan. “The cops being with her seemed strange, then they all came up to this floor together. A few minutes later the cops left. I called your cellphone but there was no answer. I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that something was going on.”

“I owe you, that’s for sure.”

“No problem. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

Dragan followed his colleague to the elevator and Nightingale closed the door. Chen went through the woman’s handbag. She found a purse and inside it a California driving license. “Claudia Wolfe,” said Chen. “Fifty-five years old. Address in Alameda.”

Nightingale took the license from her and looked at it. “That’s your real name, Claudia?” he asked her. He removed her gag and repeated the question.

She didn’t answer.

“I’m guessing you’re not Abaddon,” said Nightingale, handing the license back to Chen. “But you’re an Apostle, right?”

“Let’s just call this in, Jack,” said Chen.

Wolfe smiled sweetly up at her. “And tell them what, dear? That a nice sweet lady like me is going around the city killing and torturing people. On the basis of what?”

Nightingale picked up the shears and waved them in front of the woman’s face. “Do you know what tool marks are, Claudia? They’re the marks that tools leave behind. On bone and flesh. They can be as identifying as fingerprints. And you left one hell of a lot of marks on Mitchell and Dukas, didn’t you? I think the cops won’t have any problems linking them to these. And to you.”

“You’re out of your depth, Nightingale,” she said, and smiled. “So far out of your depth but you don’t know it.”

“So you know me?”

“I know of you. Of course.”

“Where are the children, Claudia?  Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” she said.

“The Elms, right?”

Her face tightened but she said nothing.

“Yeah. The Elms. That’s where they’re going to be killed, isn’t it. Tonight. The night of the blue moon.”

“Sounds like you know all there is to know, Mr. Nightingale. So why don’t you untie me and I’ll be on my way?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” said Nightingale. “My money is you being one of the Apostles and that means that without you the ritual tonight can’t go ahead.”

She laughed, showing yellowed teeth and inflamed gums. “You understand nothing,” she said. “Yes, I’m an Apostle. And I have made my sacrifice. All twelve of us have. My power is already stored within the circle. There is no need for all of us to be present at the final ritual. In fact only Abaddon needs to be there. The more the merrier, of course. But you can keep me here as long as you want. It will change nothing.”

“And what happens when the ritual is complete?” asked Nightingale.

“Then I get my reward. We all do. We will reign.”

“Your reward? From Bimoleth.”

Her face hardened. She continued to glare at him with undisguised hatred but her mouth stayed firmly closed.

“If Bimoleth is summoned and allowed to walk the earth, do you think he’ll care about you? You expect a demon to show gratitude?”

The woman said nothing.

“You’re playing with fire. All of you.”

The woman looked away.

“She’s not going to help us, Jack,” said Chen. “We have to call in Homicide.”

“She won’t say anything. And the clock’s ticking.”

“We can show them the shears, like you said. They can tie her in with the other killings.”

“We need the cops to go into The Elms, remember? Is she enough to get us a search warrant?”

She sighed and shook her head.

“There you go then. We have to make her cooperate.”

“What’s the plan? Torture her? Because I’ll tell you now, Jack, that’s not going to happen.”

Nightingale picked up his phone and called Wainwright. He explained what had happened and that he needed help. “I thought of trying to force her to talk, but I’ve got the feeling it won’t do any good.”

“You’re probably right. Adepts can resist pain to an amazing degree.”

“You should teach me that some time.”

“Maybe I will,” said Wainwright. “Okay, give her the phone.”

“Her hands are tied and I’m reluctant to untie her. She’s a nasty piece of work.” The woman glared up at him and he flashed her a sarcastic smile.

“Put the phone to her ear,” said Wainwright.

“Okay.” Nightingale did as he was told.

The woman scowled. “You’re wasting your time,” she said. “Just do whatever you have to do and get on with it. Kill me or call the police or let me go, it’s all the same to me.” She listened and the scowl slowly left her face. “You’re wasting your time,” she said into the phone, but her voice was softer this time, less threatening. Chen looked over at Nightingale wondering what was happening, but he just shrugged. “You’re wasting your time,” said the woman, her voice barely a whisper. The frown had gone and now she was staring vacantly into space. She listened in silence for a full minute and then slowly lifted her face to look at Nightingale. “He wants to speak to you now,” she said softly.

Nightingale put the phone to his ear. “Right, she’ll do whatever you tell her to from now on,” said Wainwright. “You can ask her to do anything, just about. And she’ll answer any questions you put to her. Keep your voice low and don’t make any sudden sounds near her.”

“What have you done, Joshua?”

“One of many tricks in my arsenal,” said Wainwright.

“Hypnosis?”

“Mind control would be a better description, but it’s tied in with the black arts. I’ll show you some time when we’re less pressed, maybe. The one problem is, I don’t know how long it’ll last with me not being there. A couple of hours, maybe.”

“Hopefully that’ll be long enough,” said Nightingale, ending the call. He looked over at Chen. “She’ll do anything we say, apparently.”

“Seriously?”

“Give it a go.”

Chen looked down at the woman. “Where are the children?

“The Elms,” said the woman, her face blank.

“Where exactly?”

“I don’t know. Hidden.”

“What about the ceremony tonight? Where will that be?” asked Nightingale.

“In the temple,” she said. “Where we carry out all the Sabbats.”

“What time?”

“Midnight.”

“And what time are you supposed to be there?”

“Eleven o’clock. I have to help ready the temple.”

“Are you one of the Apostles?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“They call me Judas.”

Nightingale went over to Chen and stood with his back to Wolfe. “We can use her to get inside the mansion, you realize that?”

“How can you be sure she isn’t faking it?”

“You saw the way she changed after speaking to Wainwright. She’ll do exactly as we say. We can tell her to take us there in her car.” He turned to face Wolfe. “Where is your car?”

“Down the road, a short walk away,” she said.

“What is it? What type?”

“A white Lexus.”

Nightingale turned back to Chen. “She’s not faking it, Amy. The one snag is that Wainwright isn’t sure how long it lasts for. But I can call him every couple of hours and get him to top up whatever it is he does.”

He went over Wolfe’s handbag and took out her cellphone. He took it over to her. “Claudia, who sent you here?” he asked.

“Abaddon,” she said.

“What’s Abaddon’s real name? Who is she?”

Wolfe frowned. Her mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.

“What’s her name, Claudia?”

Wolfe began to tremble.

“What’s happening?” asked Chen.

“I think something’s blocking her,” said Nightingale. “She’s trying to tell us but she can’t. I’m guessing that Abaddon has done some mind control thing to stop Wolfe talking about her.” Nightingale scrolled through her contacts list.  There was no listing for an Abaddon. “Claudia, where’s Abaddon’s number?” asked Nightingale.

“It’s listed as ICE. In Case of Emergency.”

Nightingale found ICE. “Now listen to me, Claudia. You are going to talk to Abaddon and say that you have killed me and Inspector Chen. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“It was Abaddon who wanted to know if I had the Grimoire?”

“Yes.”

“Then you say that I didn’t have the book. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure about this?” Chen asked Nightingale. “She could warn them.”

“I think she’s well under,” said Nightingale. “I don’t know how long it’ll stay this way, but I don’t think she has any free will at the moment.” He picked up the shears and pressed the point against the woman’s neck. She didn’t flinch, and there was no reaction as Nightingale pressed harder.

“Jack!” said Chen.

Nightingale took away the shears. Wolfe sat placidly, staring straight ahead. “I think we’re okay,” he said. He put the shears on the table and pressed the button to call the ICE number. “Say it’s done. Say we are both dead.  Say you’ll be at The Elms tonight. At ten. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

Nightingale put the call on the speaker and held the phone close to her mouth. “It’s done,” she said, once Abaddon answered. “They are dead.”

“Did he have the book?”

“No. I will see you at eleven o’clock.”

Nightingale ended the call before Abaddon could ask her any questions. He straightened up and looked at Chen. “What do you think?”

“Short and sweet.”

“I couldn’t risk her asking any questions. If there’s a problem, she’ll call back.”

They waited for more than a minute before Nightingale put the phone down on the table. “Looks like we’re in the clear,” he said.

“But now what, Jack? She gets us inside the mansion? What do we do then?”

“We wing it,” said Nightingale. “But first I’ve got to purify myself. You should probably do the same.”

“I don’t like the sound of this.”

“It’ll be fine,” said Nightingale. “Trust me.”

CHAPTER 84

At 8pm, Nightingale decided it was time to carry out the Ritual of Purification. He collected the bag of items he had purchased from the Pagan World store and asked Chen if he could use her bathroom.

“What’s wrong with the guest bathroom?” she asked.

“I need a bath.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she said. “I’m actually quite impressed by your standard of hygiene.”

Nightingale showed her the bag. “I need to lie down in a bath,” he said. “A shower won’t cut it.”

“What is that?”

“Come with me and I’ll show you,” he said.

Claudia Wolfe was still tied to the chair. She sat passively, her face a blank mask. Wainwright had spoken to her at seven o’clock and Nightingale was planning one last phone call at nine, just before they left.

Chen followed Nightingale into her bedroom and watched as he removed the items he had purchased and laid them out on the bed.

“So it’s like a spa treatment?” she said, picking up a bag of herbs and sniffing it.

“Sort of, but there’s a bit more to it.”

She picked up a twig and frowned. “And this?”

“A laurel branch. It’s good for protection. Grand Prix winners get wreaths made of it.”

“Seriously? You believe in this?”

He took the branch from her and put it on the bed. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe or not,” he said. “What matters is whether it works or not.”  He took four lemons from the bag.

“If life gives you lemons, make lemonade?”

“It’s for cleaning your hair,” he said. “Most shampoos have chemical impurities that can leave you vulnerable. So we’ll be using lemons.”

“We?”

“You need to do this as well, Amy.”

“I’m starting to think this is just a con so that you get to see me naked.”

Nightingale laughed. “We’ll be doing it separately,” he said. “The Ritual of Purification is never a group activity.” He picked up a small pack of blessed wafers and showed them to her, along with a bottle of Holy Water. “I’ll talk you through it, don’t worry. It takes about half an hour. After you’re done you have to put on totally clean clothes, ideally ones that you haven’t worn before.”

“I’ve got some stuff I bought in the January sales that I haven’t worn yet.”

“Perfect,” he said. “I’ll get started while you babysit Claudia.”

Chen closed the door and Nightingale stripped off his clothes. He showered first, then cleaned under his finger and toenails with a new nailbrush. He washed his hair in pure lemon juice. He dried himself with a clean towel, then placed a church candle at each corner of the room and lit them, then sprinkled half the large bag of herbs into the empty bath.

He got into the bath on top of the herbs and lay down. He said six sentences in Latin, then turned on the hot tap. He added just enough cold water to make it bearable, and lay flat as the water covered him up to his shoulders, his chest, his chin and finally over his face. As soon as the water covered his nose and mouth, he folded his arms in the sign of Osiris slain, then opened them and held up his hands in the sign of Osiris risen.

He sat bolt upright in the bath and made the obeisance of Set, a series of complex hand gestures. He pulled out the plug and let the water drain away completely, before getting out of the bath and letting himself drip dry over the next fifteen minutes. Finally he rubbed a laurel branch over his entire body, then sealed the nine orifices of his body with holy water, placed a blessed communion wafer on his tongue, and spoke two more sentences in Latin. He examined himself in the mirror then dressed in new Levis and a brand new polo shirt. The Ritual of Purification was complete.

He went back into the main room to tell Chen what she needed to do.

CHAPTER 85

At just before nine, Nightingale phoned Dragan. “I need a gun,” he said. “Can I borrow yours?”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Dragan. “Mine is registered and all its details are on file. You shoot anyone with my weapon and I’m in a shitload of trouble.”

“Can you get me a weapon?”

“I suppose so. But at short notice your options might be limited.”

“Something concealable that goes bang will do me, Dragan.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

“Quickly, yeah?”

“I hear you.”

The line went dead and Nightingale pocketed his phone. “Did I just hear you right?” asked Chen. “He’s getting you a gun?”

“I figured you wouldn’t have one to lend me,” said Nightingale.

“I can’t have you wandering around San Francisco with a gun,” she said. “You’re a civilian.” He started to speak but she silenced him with a wave of her hand. “I get that you were a cop once, and I get that you were a Special Firearms Whatever.”

“Specialist,” he said. “Specialist Firearms Officer.”

“But that was then and this is now,” she said. “You’ve got no jurisdiction here.”

“Amy, what choice do we have? We have to get into that house to save the kids. You’re right, we won’t get a warrant. And frankly, even if we did, it probably won’t do any good.”

“What do you mean?”

Nightingale gestured at Wolfe, who was sitting meekly, her eyes half closed. “What Wainwright did to her, it’s one of the powers that the Adepts have. They can exert control over people. Wainwright is an expert at it, obviously. And I’m guessing this Abaddon is, too. If a search team goes in, there’s every chance the Apostles would use their powers to make them miss stuff.  They could spend a week ripping the place apart and still not find those kids.”

“So you’re planning to shoot them, is that it?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” said Nightingale. “We get inside, and we find the kids. I’m assuming that once we find the kids, you can call the cops.”

“And how do I explain the fact that I’m in there?”

“Fine. I’ll call the cops. I do it anonymously and then dump the Sim card. I stay around long enough for the cops to arrive and then I disappear.”

“Like the Phantom of the Opera? You really haven’t thought this through, have you?”

“Do you have a better idea? Or any idea at all?”

“How about we wait outside The Elms? We see who goes in. Once Speckman and Carr are there, we call the cops. Anonymously.”

“And say what?”

“That the kids are inside.”

“But the cops have to get through the gate. That’ll give the Apostles all the time they need to hide the kids. Or rush through the ritual. We don’t know how long that takes. They could go ahead while the cops are still knocking on the door. They could kill the kids and spirit the bodies away.”

Chen frowned. “Okay, suppose we do it your way. We get in there, we find the kids, we call it in. How do I explain the fact that I’m there?”

“You’re a cop. You’ve got your badge and your gun. It’s a missing persons case, sort of. There’ll be so many cops around you’ll just blend in. You can say you heard the call and you were in the area.” He could see that she wasn’t convinced. “Amy, if the kids are there, the cops are going to be so busy congratulating themselves they’re not going to be worrying who’s there or why.”

“I can see this blowing up in our faces,” she said.

Nightingale forced a smile. “Amy, if you want out, that’s fine. I can go in on my own. You can stay here. Watch Speckman and Carr on the iPad.”

“You’re serious?”

“I’ll get inside with her. Once I’ve found the kids I’ll call you. You call it in.”

“And how do I explain the fact that I’m suddenly psychic?”

“You could say that I’m an informant, that I was feeding you intel on the Apostles. The cellphone records will show that I called you, I doubt they’ll ask you too many questions assuming we get the kids back.”

“I’m coming with you, Jack,” she said. “I’m going to see this through to the end.”

CHAPTER 86

Dragan phoned Nightingale back within the hour. “You’re in luck. Friend of a friend owes me a favor and he came through.”

“We’re on our way out,” said Nightingale. “We’ll meet you in front of the building.” They took Wolfe down the stairs to the ground floor. Chen left the apartment building first. Claudia Wolfe followed and Nightingale brought up the rear. Chen was wearing a black jacket over black and white striped dress and had her gun in an underarm holster. Wolfe was wearing her coat and kept her head down as she walked. They fell into step on the sidewalk, with Wolfe in the middle.

“Where is your car, Claudia?” asked Nightingale.

“Down there, aways,” she said, her voice a dull monotone.

“Do you think she’ll be okay to drive?” Chen asked Nightingale.

It was a good point, Nightingale realized.  Wolfe was quiet and obedient, but her reactions did seem to be dulled. “Maybe you could take the wheel until we’re close to the house?” he suggested. He gave her the keys.

The Lexus was parked in front of a delicatessen that had shut for the night. Chen opened the doors and climbed into the driver’s seat. Nightingale helped Wolfe into the front passenger seat and leaned over to fasten her seat belt. Wolfe sat meekly with her hands in her lap.

Dragan was parked on the other side of the road in a black SUV. “Give me a minute,” said Nightingale. He went over to Dragan’s car. The window wound down and Dragan passed him a gun that was so small it looked like a toy, especially in Dragan’s massive gloved hand. “It’s a Beretta Storm,” said Dragan.

“A subcompact, nice,” said Nightingale. He ejected the clip and examined the rounds. “Nine mill. Any extra rounds?”

“Just what you have there,” said Dragan.

The gun was a little over six inches long and weighted about twenty-six ounces. Nightingale doubted that it would be accurate beyond twelve feet or so but it was easy to carry and would do the job. “Thanks,” said Nightingale, applying the safety and slipping the weapon into his coat pocket.

“It’s been on the streets for a year or so and the guy who gave it to me doesn’t know if or when or how it was used,” said Dragan. “For all we know that gun could have killed half a dozen people anywhere in the country. You need to know that, Jack. You get caught with that, there’s no saying what’ll happen.”

“I didn’t get it from you,” said Nightingale.

“Damn right. Just be aware, it could mean a whole shit-load of trouble for you.”

“Have you spoken to Wainwright?”

“He pays my wages.”

“No problem. But he was okay?”

“He said to give you whatever you want.”

“You haven’t asked me what’s going on.”

Dragan shrugged. “Like I said, he pays my wages.”

“You really are the strong silent type.”

Dragan smiled despite himself. “I do my best.”

“How much has Wainwright told you?”

“Just that I’m to protect you and offer you any support you need.”

Nightingale looked across at the Lexus, where Chen was watching him anxiously. “You know The Elms, the mansion I’ve been to?”

Dragan nodded. “Sure. Those kids own it, the singers.”

“You a fan, Dragan?”

“My kids are.”

“That woman over there, the one that was about to cut off Amy’s finger when you burst in, she’s our key to getting inside. They’re going to kill a couple of kids tonight. Inspector Chen and I plan to stop them.”

“Well good luck with that.”

“I’m serious, Dragan.”

“So am I.”

“How much help can you give me?”

“How much do you need?”

That was a good question, Nightingale realized, and one that he hadn’t really thought through. Wainwright had made it clear that Dragan wasn’t aware of the Satanic aspect of what was going on, which made asking for help difficult. “I could do with you watching my back.”

“You need me to go inside with you?”

“I don’t think that’s an option. But if you could stay by the phone, I’d appreciate it. There’s a chance you might be able to get up the cliff face, get in the back way.”

“It’d be a hell of a climb,’ said Dragan.

“There’s a path. Steep, but it’s there.”

“You’ve had a look?”

Nightingale nodded. “From the beach. But I’ve no idea what’s at the top. For all I know there could be a fence or guards or both. And probably CCTV, they’ve got cameras everywhere.” He shrugged. “To be honest, the more I think about it, the more unlikely it is. I can’t see them leaving a back way in, not with all the security at the front.”

“Stranger things have happened,” said Dragan. “I’ll send a guy to check. These kids. That’d be Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker?”

Nightingale nodded. “Yeah.”

“And you can’t just call the cops?’ He gestured over at Chen. “They’d take her seriously. Her being a detective and all.”

“It’s complicated,” said Nightingale.

CHAPTER 87

Chen drove the Lexus to The Elms but stopped about half a mile away. She got out and helped Wolfe around the car and into the driving seat. “You need to get into the back with me,” said Nightingale. “We need to be hidden when we get to the gate.”

“Jack, this could all go badly wrong,” she said. “She could crash the car, anything could happen.”

“We’ve no choice, Amy. If they see anyone else in the car they won’t let us in.”

Chen climbed into the back with him and pulled the door closed. “Jack, this isn’t going to work. The guards in the guardhouse will see us. We’ll have to drive right past them.”

“We can get a blanket or something to cover ourselves.”

“That won’t work.”

Mrs. Wolfe sat patiently in the driver’s seat, her tiny hands on the steering wheel.

“We’re going to have to get into the trunk,” said Nightingale eventually.

“Excuse me?”

“They won’t search the car. But they will look in through the windows, you’re right. So we get into the trunk and she drives us in that way.”

“She’s a killer, Jack. And you want to have her lock us in the trunk?”

“We can keep it open. We can hold it down. And at the end of the day, we’ve got guns and she hasn’t.” He could see from the look on her face that she wasn’t convinced. “It’ll be a couple of minutes at most. And you can see the state she’s in, she’s done everything we’ve asked her from the moment Wainwright spoke to her.”

“I think you’re mad.”

“It’s the only way to get inside, Amy. And if we don’t get inside, those kids will die.”

CHAPTER 88

Nightingale felt the Lexus turn to the left. “Here we go,” he whispered to Chen. They were lying curled up in the trunk. Nightingale had his hand on the catch, keeping the trunk door closed but not locked. Chen’s head was at the other side of the trunk, facing the rear with her hand close to the butt of her gun. Nightingale hated confined spaces and he focused on breathing slowly and evenly. He had spoken to Wolfe for more than a minute before he was satisfied that she knew exactly what to do: drive through the gates, past the guardhouse, find somewhere to park where they couldn’t be seen, and switch off the engine. She seemed to understand.

“I’m hating this,” whispered Chen.

“You and me both,” said Nightingale.

The car slowed and stopped and they heard a grating sound as the main gates opened. The car moved ahead again but then stopped abruptly. The car shuddered and the trunk clicked shut. Nightingale cursed under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” whispered Chen.

“Nothing.”

“Did the trunk just lock?”

“It’ll be okay,” whispered Nightingale.

“How will it be okay?” whispered Chen. “We’re locked in.”

They heard muffled voices and the car began to move again. Nightingale’s heart was pounding. Chen was right; they were trapped.

The car drove for almost thirty seconds, then turned to the left, then shortly afterward turned to the right. Then they stopped. “It’s okay, she’s doing exactly what we told her to do,” said Nightingale. The engine cut out.

“Now what?” whispered Chen.

“Now she’ll just sit there,” said Nightingale. “Claudia can you hear me?” His voice echoed around the confines of the trunk. They strained to listen but didn’t hear a response.

“I suppose you could shoot out the lock,” said Nightingale.

“Oh, I can see that working,” said Chen.

“I was joking,” said Nightingale. “Trying to lighten the moment.”

“I’d be happier if you’d try shouting louder,” said Chen. “Because at the moment she’s our only way out of here.”

CHAPTER 89

Nightingale took a deep breath. “Claudia, open the trunk!” he shouted at the top of this voice. He listened, but heard nothing.

“Have you tried pushing it?” asked Chen.

“Yes,” he said tersely. He groped in his pocket and pulled out the silver penknife. He managed to get it open and was just about to insert the blade into the lock when the trunk sprang open. Claudia Wolfe was standing there, her face blank. Nightingale rolled out of the trunk and helped Chen up.

“Where do you go from here?” Nightingale asked Wolfe. “How do you get ready for the Sabbat?”

She pointed at a door. “The changing room is through there, down the corridor. Only one person is to go in at a time. There is a switch. When you are changing, you put the switch on and there’s a red light outside the door. If the red light is on, you mustn’t go in.”

Nightingale looked across at Chen. “We’re going to have to hurry, there’ll be others arriving shortly.”

“What’s your plan, Jack?”

“You’re not too different from her, size-wise. Under a robe and mask, no one will know.”

“And you?”

“I’m not sure. There’ll be twelve Apostles and Abaddon. Let’s hope no one does a head count.” He put his hand on Wolfe’s shoulder. “Claudia, I need you to climb in the trunk and lie down.”

Wolfe did as she was told. Nightingale helped her in and she meekly lay down and curled into a foetal ball.

“Now I need you to close your eyes and go to sleep, Claudia.”

The woman’s eyes closed.

“Are you serious? You’re going to lock in the trunk?” asked Chen.

“Can you think of a better idea to keep her out of the way?”

“She could suffocate.”

“Trunks aren’t airtight. And she’s tiny. She’ll be fine.” He looked down at the woman. “You’ll be fine, won’t you, Claudia?”

“Yes.”

“See?” He slammed the trunk shut. “Now come on before anyone else arrives.”

CHAPTER 90

Brett’s courage had run out. He knew he would never be going home, and he couldn’t be bothered going along with the woman’s lies when she came to take him upstairs. He knew she was lying but he didn’t care anymore. He just let her take him by the hand and lead him up the stairs.

She took him to a bathroom where water was already running into a big tub. “Get into the bath, Brett,” she said.

He shook his head. “You’re a stranger. Mummy says I shouldn’t take my clothes off in front of strangers.”

She bent down and slapped him hard across the face. “Do as you’re told!” she shouted at him.

Tears sprang from his eyes and he took off his shirt. There was a livid red mark on his left cheek, clearly showing the imprint of her hand.

“Bloody kids, why can’t you just do as you’re told,” she muttered as she picked up an earthenware jar containing a mixture of herbs. She poured the contents into the water and stirred it with her hand. The boy was staring at her, wide-eyed, holding his shirt up to his neck. “Get a move on, we don’t have all day,” she said.

He hesitated and she raised her hand again. “I swear I’ll knock the shit out of you,” she said.

“I know you,” he said. “You’re  Suzy Brook. I’ve seen your videos. You’re famous.”

“Yeah, I’m famous. Now get your trousers off and get into the bath or I’ll really lose my temper.”

Tears ran down the boy’s cheeks but he did as the woman said.

CHAPTER 91

Nightingale and Chen walked slowly down the paneled corridor towards a single oak door. Above it was a red light bulb, but it was off. Chen’s hand was hovering over the butt of her gun. Nightingale reached for the handle and pushed the door slowly. It opened, as Wolfe had said, into a changing room. It was paneled like the corridor, with a line of large black metal lockers to the left and to the right a run of hooks hanging from which were black Satanic robes and masks. At the far end was another door.

They slipped inside and closed the door behind them. The room was illuminated by a dozen large black candles. There was a light switch to the left of the door. Nightingale flicked it on, then opened the door to check that the red light had come on. It had. He closed the door again. Chen was examining the robes and masks. “One size fits all, by the look of it,” she said. “What’s the plan?”

“You put on a robe and mask and pass yourself off as Claudia Wolfe. You’re not far off her size.”

“And if they talk to me? What then? I sure as hell don’t sound like her.”

“The mask will muffle your voice.”

“And what about you? If you robe up then there’ll be one Apostle too many.”

Nightingale grimaced. She was right. “Okay, Plan B,” he said. “We wait for the next Apostle to arrive. We overpower whoever it is, shove him in one of the lockers and I take their place. We find the kids, we call the cops.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Amy, we’re in the house. That was the hard part.” He flicked the light switch off and motioned for her to stand behind the door.

CHAPTER 92

They stood in silence for almost ten minutes before the door opened silently. The candles flickered as a draft blew in from the corridor. Chen was standing behind Nightingale and he felt her stiffen. He was holding the barrel of his gun in his right hand and he held it high as the figure walked into the room. It was a man, medium build with dark hair. The man stepped into the room, his back to Nightingale. As he turned to close the door he spotted Nightingale and opened his mouth to shout but Nightingale slammed the gun against his temple and he went down without a sound. Nightingale caught him as he fell and lowered him to the ground as Chen closed the door and flicked the light switch to illuminate the red bulb.

“Cuffs,” said Nightingale, holding out his hands.

Chen gave him her handcuffs and he pulled the man’s arms behind his back and cuffed him.

“We need something to gag him with,” said Nightingale.

Chen looked around. “We could take a belt from one of the robes.”

“It might be noticed,” said Nightingale. “Are you wearing tights?”

“Tights?”

He pointed at her legs.

“You mean pantyhose? Yes.” She realized what he was getting at, kicked off her shoes and turned her back on him while she pulled them off. Nightingale used them to gag the man. “Help me get him into a locker,” said Nightingale. They dragged him over to the lockers and Nightingale held the man up as Chen opened one. The both forced the unconscious man inside and banged the door shut. There was a key attached to a small black rubber wristband. Chen locked the locker and slid the band onto her wrist. “I hope he can breathe in there,” she said.

“I don’t care either way,” said Nightingale.

They pulled on robes. Chen put her mask on. It was long and pointed with small holes for the eyes, hiding her head completely. On the back was an inverted pentagram, a match to the one on the front of her robe. “What do you think?’ she asked.

“No one will know it’s not her,” said Nightingale. “And the voice is muffled. You might try lowering it a bit, but the best option is to avoid speaking.”

“Says the man with the English accent,” she said.

“Trust me, I don’t plan on saying a word,” he said. “Look, I’ll go first. We don’t know what’s on the other side of that door so we can’t exit together. I’ll go, you give it five minutes and then switch off the red light and follow me.”

“Okay.” She sounded scared and Nightingale flashed her what he hoped was a confident smile.

“You’ve got your gun, Amy. They’re not expecting us. This is going to work out just fine.”

She nodded. “I hope so.” The uncertainty was still her voice. Nightingale pulled on a mask, adjusted it so that he could see through the eyeholes, and opened the door.

CHAPTER 93

The door opened into another corridor, also wood-paneled and lit by black candles. There were framed oil paintings on the wall, scenes of torture and dismemberment that seemed to come to life whenever Nightingale focused on them. It was the effects of the flickering candlelight he told himself and forced himself to stare straight ahead at the double doors ahead of him. There were two handles and he grabbed them with both hands. The doors opened towards him to reveal a large room that looked as if it had once been a private chapel. At the far end of the room was a stained glass window that at first glance could have been from a church but as he stared at it he realized that there main figure had horns and a tail and the only crucifix in the scene was upside down.

Nightingale pulled the doors shut. The walls were bare stone and the ceiling was timbered with black wood.  In the center of the room stood a huge black marble table, and at the far end was a stone altar with a giant inverted crucifix hanging over it. The table was in the center of a magik circle, with triangular points radiating from it at the eight cardinal points of the compass. Each point held a painted symbol and the circle itself had symbols every forty-five degrees. The table stood in the exact centre of the circle, running north-south. Four robed figures were busying themselves at the table, adjusting a set of thin chains that Nightingale figured would be used to hold down the children. There were small black candles burning in brass holders set into the wall, and bigger candles in the corners of the temple and at the four cardinal points of the circle there was a rough wooden table to his left and on it was a selection of musical instruments including tambourines, various rattles, drums and a lute. Another Apostle was standing at the altar using a black cloth to polish the various items that were displayed there – a knife, a sword, and two ornate brass bowls. There were upturned crucifixes at either end of the altar.

There were brass crucibles of smoldering herbs in between the candles and on the table next to the musical instruments was a large brass bowl containing herbs.  Nightingale picked it up and went from crucible to crucible sprinkling herbs from his fingers. He kept his back to the other two figures wherever possible as he worked his way slowly around the crucibles, keeping anti-clockwise.

A door opened in the wall to the left of the altar and another robed figure appeared. The figure went over to see what was happening at the table. “Good, good.” It was a woman. Nightingale took a quick look over his shoulder. The woman’s robe was different to the ones he and the Apostles were wearing. There was a pentagram on the chest but there was a line of other insignias below it. And her mask was shorter than the mask he was wearing and had two long horns curving upwards from the forehead. It could only be Abaddon. She turned and went back through the door.

Nightingale continued to walk around adding herbs to the crucibles.

The four Apostles finished whatever they were doing with the chains and walked past Nightingale to the wooden table by the door. One of them picked up a tambourine and began to shake it.  The other held the lute and started to strum it and the remaining two picked up drums. They walked back to the circle and began walking around the circumference making as much noise as they could.

The door from the corridor opened and Chen came in. At least Nightingale assumed it was Chen because in the robes and mask she looked exactly the same as the other Apostles. She closed the door behind her and looked around. Nightingale carried his bowl over to the table, put it down and handed her a rattle. He picked up a tambourine and motioned for her to join the others walking around the pentagram.

On their third circuit of the pentagram another robed figure entered. And five minutes later another. The Apostle who had been cleaning the altar picked up a small drum and joined the procession around the pentagram. There were seven Apostles in the room now, plus Nightingale and Chen. Nightingale had lost track of time. He was finding it hard to breath as the air was now thick with fumes from the burning herbs and his eyes were watering.

The door opened again and another robed figure entered the chapel. The figure picked up a lyre and began playing it, falling into step with the rest of the Apostles. This went on for another ten minutes or so, then the door by the altar opened and Abaddon appeared again. She walked over to the altar and raised her arms.

The Apostles stopped playing their instruments. Abaddon drew a pentagram in the air with her left hand. “Praise be to Satan!” she shouted.

“Praise be to Satan!” echoed the Apostles, who then began to chant “Satan, Satan, Satan” over and over.

Nightingale did a quick count. There were eight Apostles standing around the circle, plus him and Chen. That made ten which meant that two were missing.

The Apostles began to play their instruments as they chanted and Nightingale joined in, vigorously shaking his tambourine.

After two minutes of ear-shattering noise, Abaddon turned away from the altar and threw her hands in the air. The Apostles went silent and fell to their knees.

“My Apostles,” she said, with the reverential tone of a priest. “Finally the culmination of years of work, secrecy, dedication and faith. Tonight we will perform the Ritual of Bimoleth, free him from his exile and incarnate the demon himself in my body. Soon I shall be a creature of limitless power, and be assured, you will all be well rewarded for your efforts and loyalty.”

Nightingale frowned behind this mask. So that was how the ritual worked. Abaddon’s body would serve as a vessel for the demon.

“Concentrate, Apostles. this is a great work and we must make no mistakes.”

She invoked the four crowned princes of Hell, then turned around three times and praised Satan again. “In Nomine Dei Nostri Satanas, Luciferi Excelsi.
In the Name of Satan, Ruler of the Earth, The One True God, Almighty and Ineffable, Who hast created man to reflect in Thine own image and likeness, I beseech the Forces of Darkness to bestow their infernal power upon me,” she said. “I invite you to open the Gates of Hell so that Bimoleth can come forth to greet me as his sister and friend.”

“Praise be to Satan, and Bimoleth, our savior!’ shouted the Apostles.

“Peter, the scrying-glass,” said Abaddon.

One of the Apostles stood up and carried what looked like a large mirror from the side of the temple inside the magik circle, placing it next to the marble table. Nightingale recognized it as a dark mirror, the back would be unsilvered, but painted with human blood. Historically sorcerers would have used it to try to see the Unknown. Nightingale had once looked into one and nearly lost his soul. Peter adjusted the mirror so that it was facing the chain that lay across the table.

“James, the Powder Of Coranzon,” shouted Abaddon.

Another robed figure took a gold flask and sprinkled a dark power from it onto the flaming crucibles in the magik circle. Instantly the flames roared up, shedding a blue light on the room and giving off a fetid stench.

Abaddon walked into the circle and stood facing the mirror. “The ritual is prepared, Oh Bimoleth,” she said, raising her hands above her head. “We beseech you to accept this sacrifice, and to use the souls of the two innocents as your passage to this world. Praise be thy name!”

“Praise be thy name!” repeated the Apostles.

Something moved deep within the mirror. Something large and shapeless.”

“Praise be thy name!” shouted Abaddon again. “Thy domain is ready!”

The door by the altar opened and the remaining two Apostles appeared, robed and masked. They were leading the two children, Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker. The children were naked except for black collars around their necks that were similar to the one that Proserpine had been wearing when Nightingale saw her on the beach. The children were shaking with fear but any fight had long gone out of them and they shuffled forward meekly towards the magik circle.

“The sacrifices are prepared, Oh Bimoleth,” said Abaddon. “Thy will be done.”

The two children were led to the table. The Apostles who had led then into the chapel lifted them up and began to fasten the chains around their arms and legs.

“Judas, the dagger,” said Abaddon.

Nightingale stiffened. Judas? Claudia Wolfe was Judas and Chen had taken her place.

“Judas, the dagger!” repeated Abaddon.

The Apostles began to look around, muttering.

“Judas, make yourself known!” shouted Abaddon.

Everyone was looking around, clearly wondering what had happened to Judas.

Abaddon hurried out of the circle and picked up a sword off the altar. It had a hilt in the shape of a snake’s head and the long blade was twisted, almost like a corkscrew. She raised the sword above her head and surveyed the Apostles. “Step forward, Judas, and reveal yourself.”

Chen tossed away her mask and then pulled her gun out from under her robe. “Let the kids go!” shouted Chen. “Let them go now!”

There were gasps from the Apostles.

Abaddon turned to face Chen. “So we have a traitor in our midst!” she shouted.

“Put down the knife,” said Chen. “And put your hands in the air.”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me? Do you think bullets can hurt me, Amy? Can you not feel my power, do you think for one minute that your gun can hurt me?’

Abaddon took a step towards Chen. She still had the sword in her hands.

Chen was blinking as if she was having trouble focusing. “I’ll shoot you!” she shouted, but Nightingale could hear the lack of conviction in her voice.

So could Abaddon. She reached up with her left hand and slowly took off her mask as she kept the sword pointed at Chen’s face. Nightingale recognized her immediately – Margaret Romanos. The woman who ran Pagan World.

“Keep looking into my eyes, Amy,” said Romanos. “Don’t look away. And don’t be afraid, everything is going to be fine. You’re among friends here, Amy. No one wants to hurt you. We’re here to help you.” She slowly lowered the sword, keeping all of her attention focused on Chen.

“We’re your friends,” chanted the rest of the Apostles, shuffling slowly towards her.

Nightingale could see that Chen was having trouble focusing. She was blinking rapidly and the barrel of the gun had started to drop so that it was pointing at the floor.

“Give me the gun, Amy,” said Romanos. “You’re among friends. We’re here to help you.” She had both hands gripping the hilt of the sword.

Even though the woman’s words were aimed at Chen, Nightingale found himself being pulled in. He felt relaxed, at peace with himself and the world. His arms fell to his side and he felt his eyelids grow heavy. He just wanted to sleep.

“That’s a good girl, Amy,” said Romanos, holding out her hand. “Give me the gun.”

Nightingale shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. For a second the fog that was clogging his mind cleared and he cursed. He pulled off his mask with his left hand as he groped in his pocket for the Beretta with his right. The robe made pulling out the gun difficult but after struggling for a few seconds he managed it. Abaddon was staring at Chen and she began to raise the sword. “That’s a good girl. Amy, you keep on looking at me.”

Nightingale flicked off the safety and fired at Romanos. He fired one-handed and the shot went wide, taking a chunk out of one of the wood panels behind the altar.

The sound of the shot was deafening in the confined space and it jolted Chen out of her trance. She fired her gun twice and both shots smacked into Romanos’s chest. She stared at Chen, her eyes wide in surprise, then she staggered back and collapsed against the altar.

A robed figure picked up another knife off the altar and charged towards Chen. Chen turned and fired two more shots, both in the chest. The figure pitched forward and hit the ground, shuddered once and went still.

“They can’t shoot us all,” said one of the figures. A man. Nightingale took two steps towards him and shot him in the chest at point-blank range. The man collapsed without a word.

“Yes, I can,” said Nightingale. “Just in case anyone is wondering, I’m holding a Beretta Storm. It has a clip that holds thirteen rounds. So I have one bullet for each of you, which is convenient. But my very attractive colleague there has an SFPD police-issue Glock 22 which I believe holds 15 rounds in the magazine. So between us we have more than enough bullets. And knowing as I do what you were planning to do to those kids, I’m more than happy to shoot each and every one of you here and now.” He took a deep breath, then bellowed at them “Now all of you now, down on your knees!”

The robed figures stayed where they were. They were either too shocked or scared to move. Or maybe his speech hadn’t impressed them and they thought he was bluffing.

Nightingale pointed the gun at the left leg of the figure closest to him and pulled the trigger. The round smacked home just above the knee and the figure screamed. It was a woman. She collapsed on her back, blood spurting from the wound. The robe rode up around her waist revealing that she was naked underneath.

“More than happy to shoot anyone who doesn’t want to kneel!” shouted Nightingale. “Now, turn and face the wall there and kneel. I’ll count to three. One…”

The figures turned and knelt.

“Now put your hands behind your necks. Quickly.”

The eight figures obeyed.

Nightingale looked over at Chen. “Keep them covered, Amy.”  He hurried over to the table and undid the chains binding the two children. He helped them sit up and lifted them down. He took off his robe and slipped it around them. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he said. “Just sit down and wait, I’ve got some things I have to do, okay?”

The two children nodded solemnly and sat down with their backs to the marble table. Nightingale walked along the line of figures, pulling off their masks and throwing them on the floor. Speckman was there. And he recognized King and Brook. He went over to the figure he’d shot and pulled off her mask. It was Lucille Carr, her face contorted with pain.

Nightingale walked over to stand next to Chen. “Now, ladies and gentlemen. I want you to take your left foot and cross it over your right ankle. You’ll find it awkward but you can all do it.”

Nightingale watched as the Apostles did as they were told. “They’ll find it hard to catch you unawares in that position,” Nightingale told Chen. “If you see anyone move, shoot them.”

“Not a problem.”

“And you need to call the cavalry.”

Chen nodded and fished her cellphone out of her pocket with her left hand. She began to dial 911 but stopped on the third digit. “Then what?” she asked him.

“Then you’re the hero of the hour.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be long gone.”

“Gone where?”

“In the short term, over the cliff.  I’ll call Dragan and have him pick me up. Then Wainwright can get me the hell out of Dodge.”

“So that’s it? You’re going?”

“Amy, I don’t have any choice. You’re a cop, you have a reason for being here. I’m not and if I stay it’ll get…”

“Complicated?”

He grinned. “See, you do understand. You’ll be fine. Just keep them covered until the cops get here. Anyone messes around, just put a bullet in them. Every one of them is a killer and they would happily have murdered those kids.”

She looked at Lucille Carr, still writhing on the ground. Then at the body of Abaddon, slumped against the temple. “Jack, how the hell do I explain this?”

“Trust me, they’ll be so glad that you got the kids back safe and sound, no one’s going to be asking too many questions.”

She nodded at the gun in his hand. “Two guns?”

“Good point.” Nightingale went over to the man figure that Chen had shot and pulled off his mask. It was a middle-aged man in his fifties, gray haired and his cheeks flecked with broken veins.

“Oh my God,” gasped Chen.

“You know him?”

“He’s a Commander at the Golden Gate Division.”

“It explains the cops at your apartment,” said Nightingale. He checked for a pulse in the man’s neck, then when he was satisfied that he was dead he took the Beretta, wiped it clean on his raincoat and then pressed it into the dead man’s palm.

He looked over at the mirror. Something was there. Something big and covered and scales, something inhuman. As Nightingale stared at the mirror, whatever it was on the other side of the glass moved closer. A hideous maw opened and the glass rattled as it roared in anger and frustration. Nightingale took aim at the mirror and forced the corpse to pull the trigger. The gun exploded and the mirror shattered into a thousand shards.

He straightened up and pointed over at Romanos as he spoke to Chen. “You got in here just as they were bringing in the kids. You identified yourself as a police office and when they didn’t stop you shot her.” He pointed at the dead man on the floor. “This guy pulled the Berretta out and started firing. It’s not the most accurate of guns and in all the confusion his shots went wide. You shot him and he went down. You lined them all up and called it in.”

Chen nodded slowly. “You’re good at this,” she said.

“All they’ll care about is the kids,” said Nightingale. “Now make the call.”

As Chen finished dialing 911, Nightingale went over to the children and knelt down so that his head was level with theirs. They were hugging each other, obviously scared stiff. He smiled. “Kids, it’s going to be all right. The police will come and then you can go back to your parents. Can you wait right here until the police come?”

The two children nodded solemnly.

“There’s nothing to worry about, just stay right here. See that lady over there? The pretty lady with the gun?”

They both nodded, eyes wide.

“Well her name is Amy and she’s a policewoman. A detective. And she’s calling her friends and they’re going to rescue you.”

“Why did they want to hurt us?” asked Brett.

“They’re bad people, but they can’t hurt you any more, I promise.”

“Are you an angel?” asked Sharonda, her lower lip trembling. “I prayed for an angel to come and save us.”

Nightingale smiled. “No honey, I’m not an angel. But sometimes I help them out when they’re short-handed.” He stood up and ruffled her hair, then fist-bumped Brett. “It won’t be long, I promise. Then you’ll be back with your parents.”

He took a last look at Chen, decided there was nothing else he could say, so he gave her a small wave and headed through the door.

CHAPTER 94

The Gulfstream leapt off the runway, its engines roaring, the acceleration so powerful that it felt as if Nightingale had been kicked in the back. It was ten o’clock in the morning. Dragan had taken Nightingale to a cheap motel and delivered him to the airport just as Wainwright’s plane came into land. The plane hadn’t even waited to turn off its engines or refuel. The door had folded down, Nightingale had got into the plane, and within minutes they had been taking off. Nightingale looked through the large window to his left. He caught a glimpse of Dragan standing by the side of his SUV, his eyes hidden behind impenetrable sunglasses, his arms folded across his massive chest. “Dragan’s a good guy,” said Nightingale.

“One of the best,” said Wainwright. He was holding a crystal tumbler of malt whiskey. Nightingale was nursing a coffee.  They were both strapped into huge white leather seats. The San Francisco Chronicle was on the table between them. There were three names on the byline of the main story. Nightingale raised his mug and silently toasted Karl Woods. It should have been his story, but the Apostles had put paid to that.

There were two large photographs of Brett Michaels and Sharonda Parker, reunited with their families. “POLICE RESCUE KIDNAPPED KIDS” was the headline.

Below them was a photograph of The Elms mansion, taken from a helicopter by the look of it. that showed more than a dozen police and emergency vehicles parked by the main building.

“What are the cops saying?” asked Nightingale.

“They’re giving all the credit to Amy Chen.”

“She deserves it.”

“Single-handedly found the kids and apprehended the culprits. Shot four of them, but the details on the shootings are vague at best. She’s a hero.”

“Amen to that.” Nightingale sipped his coffee.  “It’s going to get messy, you know that?”

“In what way?”

“The whole keeping Satanism under wraps thing.” He gestured at the newspaper. “This can’t be good for business.”

“It could have been a lot worse,” said Wainwright. “If they had managed to open the door for Bimoleth, that would have been difficult to explain away. But you stopped them in time, they’ll come out of it as a bunch of deluded pedophiles who were using black magic as a way of embellishing their activities.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m going to be spending a ton of money making sure that happens,” said Wainwright. “A lot of victims are going to start coming out of closets. There’ll be girls claiming that Speckman raped them when they were under age. Kids who will remember Lucille Carr being in the room when they were being abused.  A lot of nasty stuff is going to be found on their hard drives. The public are going to be more interested in that and they’ll soon forget the black candles and masks. All the Apostles are murderers Jack, and they were all involved in the abductions of the kids. They’re going to prison for a long time and being a pedophile in prison is a rough ride. I doubt any of them will be alive in two years.” He shrugged. “So all’s well that ends well.”

“And what about Bimoleth?”

“He stays in limbo.”

“Presumably he’ll try again.”

Wainwright shrugged. “The Grimoire went up in smoke. Abaddon is dead. He’ll find it difficult.”

“One thing for sure, if he ever does make it, he’ll come gunning for us.”

“Let’s cross that bridge if and when we come to it,” said Wainwright. He smiled. “For the moment, just be proud of the fact that you pulled it off.” He raised his whiskey glass in salute. “You thwarted a devil and you got away unscathed. There’s not many can say that.”

The plane pulled a slow bank to the east and then began to climb.

“Where are we going, Joshua?” asked Nightingale. He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

###

About the Author

Stephen Leather is one of the UK’s most successful thriller writers, an eBook and Sunday Times bestseller and author of the critically acclaimed Dan “Spider” Shepherd series and the Jack Nightingale supernatural detective novels. Before becoming a novelist he was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers such as The Times, the Daily Mirror, the Glasgow Herald, the Daily Mail and the South China Morning Post in Hong Kong. His eBooks have topped the Amazon Kindle charts in the UK and the US and he was voted by The Bookseller magazine as one of the 100 most influential people in the UK publishing world. You can find out more from his website www.stephenleather.com and you can follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/stephenleather.