“She went to hell, you mean.”
“Yes, or I should say she was given to hell through the rite. She was given, in body and spirit, to the demon. To Baalzephon.”
“And Baalzephon is the same demon that is being worshiped by the murderers of Shanna Barrington and Rebecca Black?”
“It seems so,” Faye said. “The methodology of the ritual is the same, and the impresa is the same. Then there’s the Latin on the wall. Pater Terrae — Father of the Earth. Baalzephon was known by many nicknames like this. Father of Passion, Father of Art, and Father of the Earth.”
Jack slouched. “I don’t know about you, Faye, but I could sure use a drink.”
Jack drove them in his unmarked straight to the Undercroft. Faye could tell he’d had a bad day. He smoked three cigarettes on the way and said almost nothing.
Inside was a typical weeknight crowd. Jack and Faye pulled up stools as Craig poured from three taps at once behind the bar. “I want something with some kick,” Faye said.
“I think that can be arranged,” Jack remarked. “Craig, the young lady here would like something with some kick. We’ll leave it to your professional discretion. As for me—”
“The usual,” Craig finished. He poured Jack a Fiddich and got Faye a bottle of Tucher Maibock. “By the way,” he said, “one of your least favorite people in the world was in earlier looking for you.”
Jack opened his mouth but stalled. “Who ever it was, don’t tell me. The way I feel right now I don’t even want to hear about it.” He held up his glass in the bar light. In a few moments it was empty.
“You drink too much,” Faye said, “but I have a feeling you’ve heard that before.”
“Once or twice. Alcohol brings out the best in me.”
“I can see that.” Coming here, Faye saw now, was a mistake. By consenting to come here she was allowing him to be fed upon by his problems. She knew that she liked this man, but right now she didn’t like the part of him she was seeing. Yesterday she’d vaguely entertained the idea of getting involved with him, and last night, they’d slept together. Now, though… She didn’t know. Jack’s voraciousness for drink unsettled her. Did she really need the headache? Jack drank because he couldn’t handle his problems, and if he couldn’t handle them, then that wasn’t her problem. I’ve got my own problems, she thought. I can’t worry about his. And this presented another problem. She didn’t know if that’s how she really felt, or if that’s how she thought she was supposed to feel.
“Ninety percent of all homicides are either domestics or drug-related,” Jack said when his next drink was poured. “Those are easy. Why do I get all the winners?”
Now he was feeling sorry for himself, which Faye couldn’t stand in a man. “Maybe it’s because you’re a good investigator.”
Jack looked at her. “I doubt it. This case is sinking. Maybe the people upstairs know that, and they’re letting me have it because they think I’ll screw it up. Then they can get rid of me.”
“Poor little you.”
“Why are you so sarcastic tonight?”
“Self-pity brings out the best in me.”
“Sarcasm is your best trait?”
“Keep talking like you’re talking, and you’ll find out.”
Now Jack smiled genuinely for the first time tonight. “You’re doing very good work.”
“Please don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not. You’re doing good work, but I need you to do better work. Now I want you to identify the geographics of the ritual.”
“I don’t think I can; it’s too diffuse.”
“Give it a try, though.”
“Okay. What else?”
“You’re the researcher, not me. I’m too busy with the mechanics of the case. You decide what research avenues would be the most productive, then give me what you’ve got.”
No, he wasn’t patronizing her at all, he was putting his faith in her, and she guessed she liked that. She liked the beer too; it was smooth and malty, and they weren’t kidding when they said it had kick. She was beginning to feel a buzz already.
“Do you think any of it’s true?” Jack pondered.
“What, the stuff the aorists did? Sure.”
“No, I mean the supernatural stuff.”
Faye squinted at his meaning. “Are you asking me if I believe that human beings became incarnate of devils, and that sacrifice victims were ritually transported out of the real world?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m asking.”
“Of course I don’t believe it.”
“But they believed it. There must’ve been a reason.”
“Oh, there was a reason. They were peasants reacting to a tremendous oppression. Oppressed people become fanatical in their belief systems. All of history is a pretty good example.”
“So the guy was lying?
“Michael Bari, the deacon spy? No, he wasn’t lying. He was living in the middle of a delusion he didn’t understand, that’s all. He was intimidated to believe by a simple but repetitive exposure to an antithetical force. The Catholic church believed in demons; it still does. That’s one part of Christian thesis that never changes: to believe in God, one must also believe in the devil. It’s also pretty likely that Michael Bari was under the influence of narcotics; the aorists routinely used drugs to heighten their religious experiences. Bari could never have maintained his credibility as a sect member without taking part. I have no doubt that he believed he witnessed an incarnation. And as for the sacrifices, the rituals and descriptions — all that stuff was definitely true.”
“It makes me think about how much mankind has progressed.”
“Or hasn’t progressed,” Faye said.
“God, you’re pessimistic.”
“Am I really? Michael Bari’s account of the aorist ritual is six hundred years old. You’ve got people practicing the exact same ritual, in this city, right now.”
“I guess you got me on that one.” Jack slugged back the rest of his Fiddich and flagged Craig for another. “That reminds me — what you were saying about drugs. My TSD chief found an herbal extract of some kind in the first victim’s blood, but it’s not in the books. Find out everything you can about drug use among the aorists. And find out more about…what’s his name?”
“Baalzephon,” Faye replied.
Even Craig winced when Jack put his empty up for a refill. He’d just downed two drinks like they were shooters. Great, Faye thought. She’d need a wheelbarrow to get him out of here. Again, she began to revert to the lack of compassion she always felt when she was disappointed.
“Haven’t you had enough?” she suggested.
“There’s never enough, and there’s an old saying by a very famous person that I subscribe to wholeheartedly. ‘If I don’t drink it, someone else will.’”
“We got here less than a half hour ago and you’re already ordering your third drink!”
“I like odd numbers,” Jack said.
“Jack’s favorite number, by the way, is thirteen,” Craig joked.
But before Faye could further complain. Jack said, “Be right back,” and excused himself for the obvious.
“He tries,” Craig said when Jack went up the stairs.
“Tries? He’s ruining himself.”
“Why don’t you give him a break? He’s got some problems.”
“Everybody’s got problems, Craig. Getting drunk is the weakest way to deal with them.”