Play with Fire

chapter Fifty-Three

IT TOOK A while for Morris’s nerves to recover completely, but after a week had passed from “The Night the World Was Supposed to End, But didn’t,” he no longer jumped at loud noises. There was, it seemed, no second shoe about to drop. The Apocalypse had been averted, although Morris would have been easier in his mind if only he could have understood why.

He would have welcomed the distraction of a new assignment, but none had been forthcoming. Things appeared to be slow in the ghostbusting business. Morris spent a lot of time searching online news sources for information about any new church burnings, but America’s houses of worship had apparently been left inviolate following the destruction of Austin’s only mosque.

Then he began to consider the possibility that the spell might not require the bloody pentagram to be drawn over a map of the U.S., and started to wondering if the one calling himself Theron Ware had set up shop in another country, there to begin his campaign of fire and murder afresh. But nothing showed up in the international news reports to confirm his fear.

Eight days after that chaotic, fearful night in Austin, Morris’s shoulder muscles had finally unclenched fully, and he actually felt like eating a full meal, for a change. He was mentally running down the list of friends who might like to join him for dinner at one of the city’s nicer restaurants when he got the call that made his body tighten up all over again.

“Mister Morris, this is Father Bowen. I’m relieved to hear your voice – I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.”

“My phone’s been on, far as I know, Father. And if this is about the Corpus Hermeticum, I already told you–”

“I’m not in Montana, Mister Morris – I’m in Rome. I have no doubt you would have answered my call if you’d received it, but the local phone companies are on strike. Their computers are still processing local calls, but international calls aren’t going through – or haven’t been, until now. Something about the satellite uplink. Same for email. I’m just glad I’ve finally reached you.”

“What are you doing in Rome, Father? Trying to keep your job?”

“No, quite the contrary. I shall probably lose my job, at the very least, once the cover story I gave them falls apart, as it will, eventually.”

“Now you’ve lost me. What cover story? To who?”

“To Cardinal Abruzzi, who is in charge of the restricted room of the Vatican Library. I told him there was some doubt as to the authenticity of volume five of the Corpus Hermeticum that we had in Montana, and I wanted to compare his version against ours, which I’d brought to Rome with me.”

“But the one you had in Montana is missing.”

“Cardinal Abruzzi doesn’t know that – yet. But he allowed me access to the Vatican’s copy on the condition that, when I’m done, I show him in person what disparities exist – by comparing the Montana copy, side-by-side, with the Vatican’s. At which point my deception will be revealed, and I’ll be forced to suffer the consequences.”

“That seems like a big step you’ve made there, Father. I had the impression that you had no interest in taking any chances, the last time we spoke.”

“My refusal has weighted heavily on me ever since then. I could not stop thinking of the consequences for the world if you were right, and I, in my arrogance and pride, were wrong. And I thank God for those sleepless nights now, for surely it was He who sent them.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you were right. The ritual described in book five of the Corpus Hermeticum really is designed to open the Gates of Tartarus, allowing all the denizens of Hell to invade our world.”

“Uh, Father, there’s something you should know about that. Last week–”

“Last week, there was a mosque burned in Austin, where you live. Is that right?

“Yes, it is. And afterwards–”

“And afterwards, the world did not end, so you assumed you’d been wrong the whole time.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“You were wrong, Mister Morris, but because only because you lacked all the relevant information.”

“Father if there’s a chase here, I’d suggest you cut to it.”

“The Gates of Tartarus don’t open after the fifth sacrifice, Mister Morris – but after the sixth.”

“Sixth? But a pentagram’s only got five points.”

“True, but it also has a center. And according to the ritual, which I finished translating just yesterday, the sixth sacrifice must take place in the center of the pentagram that has been created by the points of the first five.”

“In the center of the pentagram.”

“Yes, and unlike the initial sacrifices, which called for the murder of a member of the clergy, this one calls for wiping out the entire congregation – by fire – while they are engaged in worship services.”

“And the interval between five and six is still ten days?”

“Yes, which means the final sacrifice will take place the day after tomorrow.”

“Where, exactly, do you know?”

“As I said, the phone and internet services have been unavailable here since I finished the translation. It is almost as if the Devil himself wanted to stop me from reaching you. I’m glad he has been thwarted.”

“Father, your point is–”

“I couldn’t remember the location of all five of the sacrifices, and have been unable to look them up on the internet that I had no access to. But I assume you have that information handy.”

“Yes, I do. Hold on.”

Morris was back on the line in four minutes.

“Looks like the center point is someplace in Kansas,” he said. “It’s not near any of the larger population centers, so I’m gonna need a more detailed map to figure out where, exactly. Unless you have any more information for me, I’ve gotta go now, Father.”

“Go, then, Mister Morris. And may God go with you.”