Dark Rites

“Well, we’re going to bring Satan to earth, sir! More specifically, we’re going to bring Satan to Boston. And you, Professor, are the man with the knowledge to help us do it.”

He couldn’t see the man’s mouth, but he was sure that he smiled.

Did this dude know how ridiculous his words were?

“Yes, you are the man!”

What if I refuse?

Alex wasn’t exactly an atheist. He considered himself a deist, believing in a higher power, but not in all the myth that went along with it—through any religion.

Satan wasn’t real to Alex, and, therefore, he couldn’t be summoned.

But...

He didn’t bother to ask what happened to him if he refused. He knew.

He could see the instruments of medicine, surgery—and torture.

He could see the rat-riddled body in the corner.

“How intriguing,” he said. “I assume you believe that I will somehow be able to find the proper rites and means by which to do this through historical research?”

“Oh, yes. You see, Satan has come to Massachusetts before,” the high priest said. “You will bring him again.”

“Great challenge!” Alex said, trying to put some enthusiasm into his words.

Find me, Vickie, find me, for the love of God. Yes, there is some kind of a God, I do believe that, Vickie, find me, find me...

The high priest spoke, apparently accepting Alex’s words.

“Indeed! Yes, hail Satan! He has lived among us before. Through you, he will return. All hail! Satan shall return!” The high priest stepped forward, a key in his hand. He was going to free Alex.

Free, if he was free...

He was skinny, but he was no weakling. He could try to overpower this man...

“Hail Satan! Hail Satan!”

It was a chant. Alex looked up; there were several people there now, in the doorway to the old operating room. They were all in the red capes and masked hoods.

He could not fight...

“Come, brother!” the high priest said. “We will initiate you by letting you witness our sacrifice!”

He was going to see a sacrifice. Please, let it be a chicken! he thought.

It wasn’t going to be a chicken.

He suddenly found prayer, prayers he had known as a kid.

Please God, he prayed silently, don’t let the sacrifice be me.

* * *

“Vickie!”

Griffin suddenly came bursting into the room, pushing past the unknown man who had stood in the doorway when it had opened.

“Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhh!” Vickie cried.

She felt like an absolute idiot—no idea what to do, how to react. She was sitting on the sofa, naked and in heels, and Griffin was with Craig Rockwell, one of Griffin’s closest friends—and coworker!

A man she had met just once!

Pillow! She grabbed a pillow and pressed it before her.

Griffin was doing his best to block her, and Rocky and Devin Lyle were backing away, excusing themselves awkwardly—and laughing, certainly.

She wanted to disappear. To sink beneath the floorboards.

Vickie could hear herself talking, garbling out something. Griffin was talking...his friends were apologizing as they moved back into the hall...and she was backing her way into the bedroom.

In the bedroom she grabbed a robe from the closet and slipped into it as fast as humanly possible. By then, Griffin had reached the room. She started in on him furiously. “Why didn’t you call me, why didn’t you let me know, why...”

She couldn’t help it; she let him have it with a pillow.

“Hey!” he protested, catching the pillow. And she saw that he was almost smiling. His dark eyes shining in his rugged face, drawing her in and almost making her forget her embarassment.

Almost.

She got another pillow and let it fly.

“I just wasn’t expecting such a greeting!”

“Oh! Your friends! Your work associates. Your professional work associates!” Vickie said, shaking her head. “Oh, my God. What must they think? Oh!”

Griffin pulled her tight against him, smoothed back her hair and looked down into her eyes. And now he was smiling. “They’re thinking I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he told her.

He kissed her—a tender kiss, a great kiss. She wanted to forgive him.

Her level of humiliation was just a little too high.

“They’re still out there, right?”

“I think they’re standing awkwardly in the hall, maybe trying to leave...”

“You can’t...you can’t just leave people in the hall. Or make them leave. I mean, you—get out to the parlor. Go. Try to...oh, I don’t even know what you can try to do. When I can, I’ll come out.”

“They’ll leave. They won’t mind.”

“No!”

“But after everything you did for me, your preparation...”

“Out!”

“Got it. I’m on it,” Griffin assured her.

“I’ll never be able to face them if I don’t face them now!” Vickie said.

He left her, heading on out to the parlor. During the moments the bedroom door was open, Vickie could see that his Krewe friends hadn’t stayed in the apartment; they were out in the hallway waiting. Or they had left altogether.

She could also see that Griffin was still smiling. She felt like crawling beneath the floorboards.

But as much as she wanted to, she knew that she couldn’t hide out in her room forever.

Vickie slid into jeans and a T-shirt, and stood in front of the mirror again. Totally unsexy, she decided. Except for the flood of color that rose to her cheeks every other second.

She hesitated, then opened the door to her room. She could hear Griffin speaking, hear a female voice, and another male voice. Griffin was in the kitchen, making coffee, it seemed.

She paused, listening.

“You think that there are a number of people, all of them assigned to randomly attack people?” Devin Lyle was saying. Vickie had met her—and Rocky—just briefly, earlier during the day. She’d instantly liked Devin. They had a lot in common. Even if they’d grown up in very different cities, they had both been born in Massachusetts, steeped in the history of the state, come and gone, seen the good and the bad—and still loved it as home.

“I get how you figure it might be a number of people, but...why? I’ve been thinking about it since you were so convinced that the young man who died had to be one of many,” Devin finished.

“I don’t know. Gut feeling. I can’t help it. But from the beginning, someone has been making a statement. That poem. Attacking people without killing them...thank God they’re not dead!”

“Maybe the attacks are the statement,” Rocky said.

“Or the attacks might be a way to distract law enforcement from what is really going on,” Griffin said.

“If you believe that, what do you think is really going on?” Rocky asked Griffin.

Vickie heard plates being set on a table. She figured that maybe Griffin and his friends hadn’t quite gotten through dinner. She hadn’t had much of a meal herself.

And they weren’t talking about her, didn’t even seem to be thinking about her...

She had to get over herself and just step out into the room.

She managed to do so. It didn’t go quite as well as she’d hoped, but then again, she had no control over the flare of heat that rose into her face.

Devin Lyle was sweet and charming and tried to pretend that she’d seen absolutely nothing when they’d come in. Rocky was just as circumspect. But then she could see that the man lowered his head and turned away, and that he was trying to keep from smiling when he looked over at Devin. But then Devin shook her head and gave Vickie a tremendous smile and said, “Hey, hi! Well, let’s try to get a bit more comfortable here! We’re so sorry...”

“So, so sorry!” Rocky agreed.

“On so many levels!” Devin said with a grin. “And even now, well, we have to mention the elephant in the room. Only way to clear it out. We are beyond sorry!”

“And, wow, envious,” Rocky said.

“What?” Devin demanded. “Hey!”

“I’m referring to the fun of it, my love,” Rocky assured her. “What a cool thing to have thought of to do for someone after a hectic night,” he added.

Devin grinned and looked at Vickie. “There you go—the pressure is on!”

“So, anyway, we’re all good?” Griffin asked Vickie hopefully.

“Terrific,” she said, deadpan.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Griffin said.

“I’d leave it,” Devin told him sagely. “Take whatever you can get right now!”

“Yep, just leave it for now,” Rocky said. “Anyway, for the last time, please forgive us the invasion. We were going to head straight to Griffin’s apartment and go to bed. Then we figured we’d talk among ourselves, see if we got anywhere, over a midnight snack. We never ate. The night became very long and convoluted.”

“Because, of course, there’s what happened,” Devin said.

“And the fact that your friend Alex is now missing. You still haven’t heard from him, right?” Rocky asked.

“No,” Vickie said.

“We’ve made sure that we—as in the Bureau, and especially the Krewe of Hunters—are involved at every level,” Griffin told her seriously.

“FBI participation? In investigating the attacks, the death of the man tonight—or with the disappearance of Alex?” Vickie asked. “As far as I know, everything that has happened has happened within the state. And we’re not looking at murder here.”

“We may be looking at a kidnapping,” Devin said.

“Rules and protocol have changed,” Griffin said. “You know, Vickie, that all kinds of boundaries and jurisdictions changed after 9/11.” He turned toward the counter and she saw that he’d brewed coffee. It was late for coffee, but she doubted that it would keep any of them up.

“Here,” Vickie murmured, moving forward. She went to get mugs. Griffin opened the refrigerator and drew out sandwich makings.

“The FBI even does more on foreign soil,” Devin murmured. She looked at Vickie and asked, “May I help with anything?”

Vickie laughed. “I’m not even sure what Griffin is doing.”

“This is it, I’m afraid,” Griffin said. “Sandwiches, chips...”

“A gourmet buffet at this point!” Rocky said. He took a plate of cheese from Vickie and told her, “Roles change, and it’s often good—we’re sometimes involved with cases that concern just one state or area—or the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, as it is here. It can be a really good partnership, especially when the local police want help and are ready to become part of a task force with a lot of cooperation.”

Vickie poured the coffee, taking her own cup and sinking into a chair at the table. “Well, naturally, I’m delighted that you’re all on this—whatever this is. You’re working with Detective Barnes? And everything is going well?”

“Fine—I like Barnes,” Rocky assured her. He seated Devin and then he and Griffin took chairs at the table, too—and dug in. The three were obviously hungry. “He seems to be a very good man. Comfortable and assured—and not in the least daunted by the feds. But then, you’ve already worked with him, right?”

“Yes, during the Undertaker thing,” Vickie said.

“Doesn’t hurt to have a precedent set,” Rocky said.

“So, do you know who the man was tonight—the man who killed himself when Griffin caught him? Was he the one who hurt Alex Maple before? And if so, why is Alex still missing?”

“I admit that no one can reach him, but are you still convinced that Alex is missing?” Griffin asked her. “Even Barnes helped us start a report before it’d normally be done.”

“I haven’t known Alex that long, but I do know him pretty well. He didn’t show for dinner. I really believe that if he could, he would have found a way to have called me by now,” Vickie said. “I am seriously worried.”

“We have people checking the local hospitals,” Devin said.

“And the morgue, of course,” Rocky added.

Devin nudged him hard.

“Hey, it’s all...necessary,” Vickie murmured.

“I know that Barnes said he’d call us, but...” Devin said, looking at Griffin.

“I’ll go ahead and call him,” Griffin said.

He dialed. Vickie listened, looking at him hopefully.

“Have they found anything?”

“They’re still tracing the phone. Alex is not home. His landlord opened the apartment and he wasn’t there. Also, there was no sign of a struggle in his apartment,” Griffin told her. “They’ve checked with every hospital—and the morgue. No sign of Alex.”

Vickie nodded. “Thank goodness for that, anyway,” she murmured.

“So far, people have been attacked in the street,” Devin said. “Are we assuming that the same perps who struck Alex Maple so hard they could have killed him have now kidnapped him?”

“I know it sounds strange, but let’s face it—everything to do with these attacks is strange,” Vickie said. “Here’s why I’m scared that what you’re saying just might be what happened, Devin. There was a great deal of publicity about the attack when Alex was hurt. There was information about him on every channel, in every newspaper and on the web, as well. Alex is young and brilliant. He may know more about Massachusetts history than just about anyone else alive. What if...?”

Griffin looked up from his sandwich, considering Vickie from across the table. “What if whoever is doing this needs someone who knows the ancient lore of Massachusetts?”

“It doesn’t explain the random attacks, really,” Vickie said, looking at Griffin earnestly. “But from the beginning, those attacked had the same historical words written on them. So whoever is behind this is making a statement. Alex was the first victim—the press and media went wild with the story. Details about Alex were shared with just about everyone. He was happy at first—it was nice to be recognized as one of the youngest professors. Of course, he hoped the publicity would help his attacker be caught. This is just a theory—what if Alex’s attack was random at first. The attacks were random, or carried out on vulnerable people when help didn’t seem to be near. But after this person or these people learned about Alex, they wanted him.”

Griffin, Rocky and Devin were silent, looking at her.

“Yes, it’s a stretch. But hey, the attacker or the cult or the group is saying that Satan will come back. That implies that he’s been here, and we all know that the devil and Massachusetts have quite a history. We have the very sad truth of the worst witch trials in the New World, for instance. But there’s more because of the very harsh situation of the times—brutal winters and repressive societies and, of course, constant fear of Indian attacks. The darkness in the forests—all those things made it easy for impressionable minds to believe in Satan. The human creature hasn’t changed so very much. People have always wanted power. They’ve always coveted what others have.”

Again, silence greeted her words. Then Devin smiled. “I like her, Griffin. I really like her.”

“We know a little bit about that witchcraft thing,” Rocky said ruefully. “And very sick minds.” He looked at Griffin. “She really might have something.”

“But where does it all lead?” Vickie wondered. “Where do you start?”

“Well, the good thing is—we are part of the Krewe of Hunters,” Griffin said. “Adam Harrison and Jackson Crow call the shots, but they’re the kind of guys who just don’t believe in micromanagement.” He smiled at Vickie. “When we need help, we can call the office. When we don’t, we go where our intuitions take us. We start with what we know, and we investigate from there. And sometimes, what we know about the past—in this case, the witch trials—can lead us into answers for what is happening now.”

“Here’s the good—God help us, the trials are remembered for their inhumanity! We look back at them now and shudder at the concept that anyone was condemned on spectral evidence. And the thing is, I don’t think we’re looking back at Salem.”

“The good old founding Puritan fathers might not have seen a difference, but today, there is a tremendous difference. We’re not looking at any modern form of witchcraft—or the midwives and other healers who might have been persecuted as witches. We’re really looking at Satanism,” Vickie reminded him. “‘Hell’s afire and Satan rules, the witches, they were real. The time has come, the rites to read, the flesh, ’twas born to heal. Yes, Satan is coming!’”

“But you told me that rhyme is not even original,” Griffin said. “Right?” He glanced at Devin and Rocky. “Alex and Vickie had been researching the words left on the victims. They date way back.”

“From 1665,” Vickie said. And she went on to explain what they had discovered about Ezekiel Martin, his obsession with Missy Prior—and his early invention of cult wherein he was able to “marry” any woman he chose, share them with his closest male followers and wield strict control over his little colony of “Jehovah.”

“I have heard of Jehovah,” Rocky said, “and we even learned about Ezekiel Martin. Of course, Devin grew up in Salem and I’m from Peabody. That history was just a brief side note for us, though. When you grow up anywhere near Salem, you kind of live and breathe the Salem witch trials. And due to the case occurring when we met, we’ve been pretty heavily steeped in it all, too.”

“We all knew there were other instances of supposed witchcraft and that there were other executions in Massachusetts—and even the other colonies,” Devin said. “I believe that the Salem witch trials just grew in such hysteria, volume and ridiculousness that they dwarfed everything else we learned. And, of course, for the Puritans anything suggesting witchcraft had to do with the devil, so it wouldn’t have been like today. Wiccans these days have a recognized religion in which they honor the earth. But in the 1600s, the only concept of witches was one which included Satan.” She shrugged. “Even if, when you look at the pagan religions from which the Wiccan derived, the tribes practicing the religions wouldn’t have even heard of Satan.”

“To be fair, in Boston, you pretty much had to rub the faces of the powers that be in the fact that you were a Quaker or other religious dissenter to be executed,” Vickie said. “You were usually banished. And, from what I’ve read, I believe that Ezekiel Martin was furious that he wasn’t permitted to become a minister and given a congregation. We know that when people are disenfranchised, miserable and can’t find their place in society, they are most vulnerable to join a cult. There must have been people back then who were equally susceptible, especially if he was a charismatic speaker.”

“That quotation,” Griffin said. He shook his head. “Whoever is pulling the strings here knows all about Ezekiel.”

“And whoever it is has Alex,” Vickie said. She looked at them one by one, ending with Griffin. “I just have this strong feeling that he’s been kidnapped. They want to use him, use what he knows about history, about old cults, about ancient religions, about Massachusetts,” she added.

“About Jehovah?” Devin asked.

“He definitely knows about Jehovah—he is a veritable encyclopedia on the state,” Griffin said.

“So, should we head for Jehovah to look for Alex?” Vickie asked.

Griffin looked back at her thoughtfully. “You know that, officially, at the moment, the powers that be believe that a single person was responsible for the attacks and leaving the message, and that one person committed suicide tonight.”

“I don’t believe it and you don’t believe it,” Vickie told him.

“Jehovah doesn’t exist anymore,” Griffin said.

“But we can find out where it was!” Vickie argued.

Griffin’s phone rang and he excused himself but didn’t move away to answer it. He looked at them and nodded.

Yes, the call had to do with the case.

He listened, gave brief answers and then hung up.

“Our young attacker-turned-suicide from tonight has been identified. He was Darryl Hillford of Framingham, twenty-five.”

“What a waste of life!” Rocky said.

“Sad,” Vickie agreed softly.

“Tragic,” Devin agreed.

“Except, of course, that he was willing to hurt other people. Possibly kill,” Rocky said flatly.

“Barnes did some checking on the guy, and I think we are looking at a ‘type’ that is easily maneuvered,” Griffin said. “He dropped out of college—too much debt, too many drugs and a few arrests. His past didn’t look so great. Alcoholic father, mother not in the picture. They’re doing a toxicology screen, of course, and we’ll know everything that was in his system tonight.” He paused for a minute, casting his head thoughtfully to the side. “I don’t think they will find that he was on drugs. He was doing what lots of people do...trying to find some kind of meaning for himself in the jumble of the world. He strayed onto a bad path. His last known address was a fraternity house, but he hasn’t lived there in over three years.”

“Well, then, he was living somewhere. If we can find out where...” Vickie murmured.

“Maybe we’ll find Alex!” Griffin said.

* * *

Alex was provided with an outfit to go over his jeans and T-shirt; it was a red cloak, conical hat and attached scarf-type mask, just like that worn by the man who’d called himself a high priest.

While other people were with him, none of them identified themselves—even by a fake name.

Not one of them seemed to even notice the headless corpse in the corner!

He tried to still his shaking hands. He didn’t know what the others thought, but he was pretty sure that the so-called “high priest” had left the rotting corpse there with calculated intention.

And now...

They led him out of the surgery room.

They didn’t speak much. There were four of them with him, two about his height, two a little shorter. He wasn’t even sure if they were men or women, young or old.

They brought him to a little cubicle. It had a heavy wooden door with a little panel that opened in so that he could be seen from outside. He was pretty sure that, once upon a time, such a space had held dangerous patients, the criminally insane.

Or perhaps those made dangerously insane by the crude treatment of the disabled in years gone by. Actually, he’d seen a few places where things hadn’t changed so much.

The small room had a cot. With a blanket. And a bedpan. That was it.

The blanket gave him hope.

He wasn’t going to die. The high priest seemed to want him. He had to play this right.

And pray that he wasn’t going to be asked to stick a knife into a living sacrifice!

He wasn’t shut up in the locked room for long. They came for him again—the four red-clad figures. They chanted as they led him out beneath the moonlight. Once, there had been something of a courtyard—a place where patients might have precious moments in the sun.

When there was sun, of course. It was, after all, Massachusetts. His mom used to joke that everyone should come for summer in Massachusetts—it happened every July 27.

He almost laughed aloud; he was so terrified, and grasping at strange, old memories.

He wondered if he was supposed to chant. He didn’t know what they were chanting, so he probably couldn’t chant with them.

Others joined.

He saw that an old tiled garden table had been stripped and set with inverted crucifixes. There was a large empty space on the table...

Room for the sacrifice!

Maybe there was no sacrifice. Maybe...

There would be a sacrifice. There was a large knife on the tiled surface. Its clean blade glinted in the dim light.

The chanting continued. They began to form a circle—twelve, all in all, including him. And then, as the chanting increased, another figure stepped into the center. He raised his arms, and he began to speak. At first, it was some other language—what, Alex just couldn’t be sure.

And then his words were in English.

“Do what thou wilt! For the day is coming, the day that is his! He will embrace his followers, those who bring him to flesh, to the pleasures of the flesh. For those who bring him to blood...oh, yes, the sweetness of the blood!”

As he spoke, a tall blonde woman was led into the group. She seemed to come willingly, but she walked as if she was in a trance.