Ash Return of the Beast

CHAPTER 28



There was something foreboding about the Temple of Baphomet. One could sense it even before stepping inside. It was a converted three-storied brick home, probably built back in the 1940s. It was set back in the shadows behind two huge, ancient oak trees on the corner of a back street on the edge of one of Capitol Hill’s more unsavory neighborhoods. A beat-up black 1974 Plymouth was parked out front. The head of Baphomet was crudely illustrated on the hood of the car in white paint.

Kane was not one to be easily spooked by anything but he couldn’t escape a touch of the heebie-jeebies as he followed Ravenwood up to the front door.

The upper panel of the door was a stained glass window. It depicted a downward-pointing pentagram in varying shades of purples and blues. Within the pentagram was what appeared to be the head of a goat. It was basically the same image that was on the hood of the car. Above the pentagram were the words ‘Blessed be the cube of nine’.

Kane looked at Ravenwood. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nine times nine, times nine.” She paused to see if he could do the math in his head. His blank response clearly indicated that wasn’t going to happen. “The cube of nine,” she explained, “is seven-hundred-twenty-nine. Aleister Crowley claimed a wizard had used some sort of magickal number system to derive that number from the name, Baphomet.”

Kane rolled his eyes and rapped firmly on the door.

Alone, in one of the upstairs rooms, Cromwell stiffened at the unexpected sound. He stuffed a rolled up dollar bill into his pocket, picked up a razor blade and scraped the rest of a white powdery substance off the small mirror and into the plastic bag and then slipped all the paraphernalia into the desk drawer. He wiped the residue off his nose, gave his goatee a quick swipe with his hand and made his way down the stairs to see who had interrupted what he’d hoped was going to be a quiet and blissful afternoon.

Kane was about to give another couple of solid raps on the door when he looked through the window and saw the shadow of a figure approaching. The door opened and Kane wasn’t sure if he was suddenly face to face with the Devil himself or just a freak from a circus sideshow.

Dressed in a tight-fitting sleeveless black t-shirt, a pair of black Levis and black cowboy boots tipped with silver toe clips, the man was tall, with a sinewy but solid build, a bald head, hairy arms, a thin, weathered face and a prominent jaw set off by a black goatee. His green eyes were set deep within the shadows of a heavy overhang of mono-brow. He sized up his two visitors. They hadn’t come to pay homage to Baphomet. He was pretty sure of that. “Yeah,” he said with a scowl. “What is it? If you’re passing out Jehovah’s Witness material, I ain’t interested.”

“Not exactly,” Kane said, flashing his badge. “Lieutenant Kane, Seattle P.D. This is Special Agent Ravenwood, FBI.”

Cromwell scanned Ravenwood from head to toe. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Nice. Very nice, indeed”.

“We just want to ask you a few questions,” Ravenwood said.

“About what? I ain’t done nothin’.”

“No one said you did,” Kane replied, taking a step forward. He tried to focus around Cromwell’s head to see inside the house but it was too dark to see much of anything. “Mind if we come in for a minute?”

“Yeah, I mind.”

Kane smiled. “Got something to hide?”

“Got a warrant?”

“I can get one.”

Cromwell reconsidered, swung the door wide and stepped aside.

The room was dimly illuminated by the dull orange glow of sunlight filtering in through a drawn window shade and the air was thick with incense. Kane imagined the living room must have once been a quaint and cozy place with a large adjoining dining area. Now it was a virtual museum of the occult. The only piece of actual furniture was a tired old brown leather sofa hugging a wall. The wall was covered with grotesque ceremonial masks. It didn’t escape Kane’s attention that there were exactly nine of these masks arranged in rows of three. It also didn’t escape his attention that a hooded robe hung next to each mask. A couple dozen fold-up auditorium chairs were leaning against another wall. The bare hardwood floor was scuffed and darkened with age. A large encircled pentagram had been inscribed on the floor with a dull reddish-colored paint. At least Kane hoped it was paint.

The perimeter of the room was lined with shelves and folding tables, all of which served to display a parade of bizarre items: several sets of ritual daggers; a variety of skulls, both animal and human; ornate wrought iron pots for God knows what; large crystals, strange amulets, boxes of Tarot cards, two old wooden Ouija boards that Ravenwood recognized as rare originals from the 1890s; several brass bells of various sizes; statuettes of demons, gods and gargoyles. The collection was overwhelming. Ravenwood was silently impressed. Kane was silently creeped out.

As they rounded the corner of the main room they came to what had once been the dining area. Now it was a literal shrine to Baphomet. The floor of the area had been raised about 6 inches. It served as a platform upon which stood a 6-foot statue of Baphomet in the form of the same Sabbatic Goat that Kane recognized from the image on the website. The statue sat between two stone pillars. The entire scene was framed by something resembling an ornate theatrical curtain of gold and black satin.

Cromwell opened a door off to the side of the shrine. “This way,” he said.

The door led to a small room that apparently served as Cromwell’s study. Shelves of books lined two of the walls. An old office desk took up a third wall near a window and a small couch was pushed up against the remaining wall. Above the couch were three Mega Therion posters, one of them signed by Rye Cowl.

Cromwell leaned back against the desk and folded his arms. “Well?” he said with a prompting glare. “I don’t have all day. What the hell do you want?”

Ravenwood took a seat on the couch. Kane couldn’t help notice she seemed quite at ease in this bizarre environment. He, on the other hand––the detective whose career included being the driver of the lead car in one of the department’s most dangerous high-speed chases on record; who had tracked dangerous armed dope dealers down dark alleys; who, as a uniformed police officer, had been shot twice in the line of duty and lived to tell about it––that same fearless Detective Kane was about as comfortable in this house-of-the-damned as Indiana Jones in a pit of vipers. He decided to remain standing next to the door.

Ravenwood settled back into the couch. “We heard you’re a big fan of Mega Therion.” She twisted around and glanced up at the posters on the wall behind her. “Looks like we heard right.”

Cromwell smirked. “That’s a crime?”

“Of course not. We just wondered if maybe you happened to attend their last concert.”

“Yeah, I was there. So what?”

“So you probably know about the pastor who was found dead in the men’s room.”

“Yeah, of course. Everybody heard about it. The guy was some kind of a goddamn do-gooder with a grudge against the band. I heard he was planning to disrupt the concert but the bastard died of a heart attack instead. Served him right. So what’s all that got to do with me?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, we think maybe there was something a little unusual about the circumstances of his death. If you know what I mean.”

Cromwell read the look on her face. There was something about the woman. She knew things. He couldn’t put his finger on it but his instinct told him she was no stranger to the occult. “You’re talking about magick.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Something like that.”

“Wait a minute. You think I had something to do with that guy having a heart attack?”

Kane stepped forward. “Did you?”

“Hell no. Why would I?”

“Big fan of Rye Cowl and his band of merry misfits?” Kane offered. Maybe you have it in for anyone who threatens to bring them down. Maybe you’re obsessed with them and you’ve become their self-appointed bodyguard. I mean, you know. Just sort of thinking off the top of my head here.”

“No f*cking way. You’re not going to pin this––”

“Relax,” Ravenwood said. “Nobody’s accusing you. But here’s the deal. We know about you, what you do, the people you hang out with. We just thought maybe you might have heard something… you know… through the grapevine? Word on the street?”

“Yeah? Well, I haven’t heard anything.”

Ravenwood stood up. “Well,” she said, handing him a card. “If you do hear anything, maybe you’d give us a call?”

“Why should I? What’s in it for me?”

“Well––” she started, but stopped short. As Cromwell reached for the card, she was startled to see the tattoo on the back of his left hand. It was an exact match for the altered Lucifer Seal. She grabbed his arm. “What is that?”

Cromwell pulled his arm back. “What’s it look like, lady? It’s a friggin’ tattoo.”

Kane sprang forward and grabbed Caldwell’s arm to see for himself.

Caldwell pulled away again. “What the hell is your problem?”

Ravenwood looked Cromwell in the eyes. “Do you know what that is?” she asked, nodding toward the tattoo.

“Yeah. What the f*ck do you care?”

Ravenwood looked at it again. “The colors are faded.”

“It’s old.”

“How old? Where’d you get it?”

Cromwell’s face wrinkled into a smug look. “Charlie did it. I was drunk. He told me it would bring me luck. That was the last time I ever saw him, just before that whole Helter Skelter thing.”

Ravenwood’s eyebrows lifted. “Charles Manson? Charlie Manson put this tattoo on your hand?”

Cromwell nodded. “Yeah. Pretty cool, huh? Why are you so interested? What’s it to you?”

Ravenwood glanced over at Kane and then back to Cromwell. “Nothing. It’s just… unusual, that’s all. Thanks for your time, Mr. Cromwell. And, like I said, we’d appreciate a call if you happen to hear anything.”

Kane put the car in gear and was only too happy to be pulling away from Cromwell’s little freak show.

Ravenwood buckled herself into the passenger’s seat with her eyes on the side mirror as the Temple of Baphomet receded into the distance. “Well, that was interesting,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I think the incense in that place was thick enough to gag a guru.”

“Besides that.”

“I’m thinking Cowl may have just slipped to number two on our short list of primary suspects. That tattoo––”

“I’m thinking the same thing. But you can’t arrest someone based on a tattoo.”

“Yeah, not when that’s the only solid thing we have to go on. Damn shame. But we definitely need to keep an eye on this guy.” He checked the calendar on his watch. “Two days from now another preacher is due to meet St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. I say we put twenty-four-hour eyeballs on both Cromwell and Cowl that day.”

“I agree. But even if one of them is our man, I don’t know how much good it will do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember whoever is doing this is projecting a double of himself. He’s not really physically present at the scene. Unless we have somebody actually inside Cowl’s house and Cromwell’s house and monitoring their activities at the moment the murder is going down, we’d have no way of knowing which one of them is doing it. And that’s assuming either one of them is doing it at all.”

Kane scowled. “What about placing surveillance cameras in their homes?”

“Nice idea. But based on the evidence we have so far, which is next to nothing, you know we’d never get a warrant for that. Even if we did, what room would you put a camera in? Every room in the house?”

Kane knew she was right. He was fishing out of frustration but he had no bait on the end of his line. “Why are we even talking about it? It’s not gonna happen. We’ll have to come up with something else.”

Ravenwood sank back into the seat. “Obviously. But what?”

“I thought this kind of case was your specialty.”

“Yeah, well, right now I feel more like Crowley on his death bed.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Just before he died, his final words were ‘I am perplexed’.”

The comment brought an amused chuckle from Kane, followed by at least two miles of silence. If she thinks she’s perplexed, she ought to be in my shoes. That thought triggered a mental picture of his daughter with her feet on top of his feet as he danced her around the living room to one of his favorite old songs, ‘Dancing On Daddy’s Shoes’.

Ravenwood caught the grin on his face. “A penny,” she said.

“What? Oh. Just thinking about my daughter.”

“Sarah, right?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

Ravenwood gave him a look that said ‘Are you kidding? Did you forget who you’re talking to?’

He shook his head. “And I suppose you know about––”

“The accident?”

“Of course you do.”

“Do you get to see her often?”

“What, you mean you don’t know?”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to pry. Just thought you might like to talk about it.”

Any other time he’d probably tell Ravenwood to mind her own business. But lately, with his days being shrouded by black magick and characters that seemed to enjoy dwelling in the dark, Sarah was the one bright spot in his life. He wasn’t at all comfortable with any part of this bizarre case but oddly enough––as he just at that moment realized––he was actually beginning to feel comfortable with Ravenwood. That made no sense to him, whatsoever. He shook his head. I am perplexed. “I see her as often as possible,” he said. “Which hasn’t been all that much lately.”

“The job?”

“That, and she’s off at camp right now.”

“Camp?”

“Music camp. Flute. She’s really good. Don’t know where she gets it. Her mother, I guess. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

Ravenwood smiled. “Me neither.” Wow. The Teddy bear has returned.

Kane glanced over at her. He couldn’t deny she was physically attractive as all hell. The devil on one shoulder was shouting in his ear, ‘This is not good’. The angel on his other shoulder was whispering, ‘Yeah, but it ain’t bad’. “What about you?” he asked. “Got any kids?”

“Me? No. Haven’t found the right guy.”

“Hmm––you like kids?”

“Sure. Who doesn’t like kids? I always thought I’d be a great mom. I mean, you know. If that ever happened.”

“You wanna meet Sarah sometime?” He couldn’t believe those words had tumbled out of his mouth. Shit. What the hell did I just say?

The question threw Ravenwood back against the seat as if someone had ignited a rocket thruster and they instantly jumped from a comfortable 35 miles per hour to a Star-Trek warp speed and the Teddy bear was piloting the ship.

She quickly regained her bearing and pretended to brush a speck of lint off her pant leg. “Sure,” she said, casually turning to gaze out her side window. “Why not?” She was now more perplexed than ever.