Read Online Faustus Resurrectus by Thomas Morrissey - Free Book Online
Authors: Thomas Morrissey
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battered meat freezer powered by cables coiled, snakelike, around the floor.
Stripping with unconscious efficiency, he walked naked to the valet chair. Gooseflesh rose on his skin but he knew it wasn’t from the cool damp. Draped over the chair back was the suit he wore whenever he went to make a sacrifice (murder was so judgmental a word). The dark cloth had a bit of a funk to it but he had come to accept it. According to the book the integrity of the ritual would be spoiled if he washed away any bodily fluids his efforts generated, either his own or those of his sacrifices. He dressed quickly, eager to go out and take another step closer to his ultimate goal.
Before he left the room, he did two things: flipping open the seat of the chair, he removed one of the two remaining black velvet sacks from inside. A blue design—two zigzagging lines resembling waves—was sewn onto it. He traced it with a finger, the material slick under his touch.
“The Water-Bearer,” he murmured.
He unhooked a professional’s messenger bag from the back of the chair and slipped the sack inside, next to the bone saws and two red candles. He touched everything in the bag, making certain nothing was missing, then turned to the table. On top of it sat the book. The title, Vade Mecum Flagellum Dei , had been embossed once but now was nearly invisible from wear. Its midnight purple cover had the texture and warmth of freshly flayed skin—the first time he’d touched it, Valdes had thought it was a living thing. Flipping a bulk of pages over, he revealed a cut-out section; inside was the Sigil of Baphomet he’d worn during each sacrifice. He removed it and looped its chain around his neck. A smile crept across his face.
He closed the cover and left.
SIX
GRASPING AT STRAWS
“O dd.” Donovan glanced at his watch. “Conrad’s late.”
He and Joann sat on a plush orange couch at one of the tables in the lounge of Daniel , the epitome of French restaurants in Manhattan. Donovan preferred the bar but had chosen a table in the lounge because he knew Conrad didn’t like barstools—they made his feet dangle like a child’s.
“That’s not like him, but traffic is ridiculous today, with the UN conference.”
“He needs a motorcycle.” Donovan sipped from his neat Bushmill’s. A mental picture of Conrad Clery on a bike made him smile. “I always imagined he’d wear a leather helmet and those really big goggles if he ever got one.” She smiled, distracted. He put his hand on hers. “Nervous?”
“About this? No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Something is coming down soon at work.” She sipped her Chopin martini and shook her head. “Sorry. I promise I won’t let it drag us down tonight.”
“What kind of thing? With Fullam?”
“Fullam?”
“The zodiac murders thing. He found Capricorn hanging in the Dinkins Shelter.” She stared, confused. “You didn’t—? I figured because it was in the Dinkins Shelter you would have heard.”
“No, I didn’t. How do you know about it?”
“Last night, he called Father Carroll to see it and asked him to bring me. Since I had been, ah, celebrating our engagement with some people from work I was not in the best shape, but I went.” He explained about the body, the vicuna noose, and the wax at both murder sites. “Fullam thinks he might be able to get DNA samples from it. I’m thinking if the wax isn’t from cheap card store candles, it might be mixed with something that will tell Father Carroll and me its ritual use.” He cocked his head. “What?”
“I’m trying to grasp that you went to a crime scene high.”
“Sort of. But, in fairness, I had no way of knowing I was going to end up there. And it didn’t stop me from helping, anyway.”
“No, I suppose not.” Joann regarded him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “If he calls you back with something…you know this is serious, right? I mean, you get that, don’t you?”
“What makes you think I
Stripping with unconscious efficiency, he walked naked to the valet chair. Gooseflesh rose on his skin but he knew it wasn’t from the cool damp. Draped over the chair back was the suit he wore whenever he went to make a sacrifice (murder was so judgmental a word). The dark cloth had a bit of a funk to it but he had come to accept it. According to the book the integrity of the ritual would be spoiled if he washed away any bodily fluids his efforts generated, either his own or those of his sacrifices. He dressed quickly, eager to go out and take another step closer to his ultimate goal.
Before he left the room, he did two things: flipping open the seat of the chair, he removed one of the two remaining black velvet sacks from inside. A blue design—two zigzagging lines resembling waves—was sewn onto it. He traced it with a finger, the material slick under his touch.
“The Water-Bearer,” he murmured.
He unhooked a professional’s messenger bag from the back of the chair and slipped the sack inside, next to the bone saws and two red candles. He touched everything in the bag, making certain nothing was missing, then turned to the table. On top of it sat the book. The title, Vade Mecum Flagellum Dei , had been embossed once but now was nearly invisible from wear. Its midnight purple cover had the texture and warmth of freshly flayed skin—the first time he’d touched it, Valdes had thought it was a living thing. Flipping a bulk of pages over, he revealed a cut-out section; inside was the Sigil of Baphomet he’d worn during each sacrifice. He removed it and looped its chain around his neck. A smile crept across his face.
He closed the cover and left.
SIX
GRASPING AT STRAWS
“O dd.” Donovan glanced at his watch. “Conrad’s late.”
He and Joann sat on a plush orange couch at one of the tables in the lounge of Daniel , the epitome of French restaurants in Manhattan. Donovan preferred the bar but had chosen a table in the lounge because he knew Conrad didn’t like barstools—they made his feet dangle like a child’s.
“That’s not like him, but traffic is ridiculous today, with the UN conference.”
“He needs a motorcycle.” Donovan sipped from his neat Bushmill’s. A mental picture of Conrad Clery on a bike made him smile. “I always imagined he’d wear a leather helmet and those really big goggles if he ever got one.” She smiled, distracted. He put his hand on hers. “Nervous?”
“About this? No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Something is coming down soon at work.” She sipped her Chopin martini and shook her head. “Sorry. I promise I won’t let it drag us down tonight.”
“What kind of thing? With Fullam?”
“Fullam?”
“The zodiac murders thing. He found Capricorn hanging in the Dinkins Shelter.” She stared, confused. “You didn’t—? I figured because it was in the Dinkins Shelter you would have heard.”
“No, I didn’t. How do you know about it?”
“Last night, he called Father Carroll to see it and asked him to bring me. Since I had been, ah, celebrating our engagement with some people from work I was not in the best shape, but I went.” He explained about the body, the vicuna noose, and the wax at both murder sites. “Fullam thinks he might be able to get DNA samples from it. I’m thinking if the wax isn’t from cheap card store candles, it might be mixed with something that will tell Father Carroll and me its ritual use.” He cocked his head. “What?”
“I’m trying to grasp that you went to a crime scene high.”
“Sort of. But, in fairness, I had no way of knowing I was going to end up there. And it didn’t stop me from helping, anyway.”
“No, I suppose not.” Joann regarded him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “If he calls you back with something…you know this is serious, right? I mean, you get that, don’t you?”
“What makes you think I
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