Book of Shadows

CHAPTER Six

Garrett made a quick phone call from the relative quiet of the restroom corridor. The DMV check gave Jason Moncrief’s address as Morris Pratt Hall, Amherst College. Erin’s dorm. The throbbing music segued into another dark piece with a ghostly Irish influence as Garrett found Landauer in the Cauldron crowd and filled him in, shouting over the banshee wail of violins and harmonica. He watched Landauer’s eyes take on a sudden gleam in the dark.
“What do you think?” Garrett shouted into his partner’s ear.
“Hell, yeah, let’s go,” Landauer shouted back.
Garrett looked up at the massive, Gothic clock face on the wall. It was already half past midnight and a good hour and a half drive up to Amherst, and it was too much to hope (Too easy floated through his brain again) that they could make an arrest that night. But if there was even a remote possibility, they would do whatever it took. College students were apt to be up at all hours on a Saturday night, anyway, and there was much that could be useful about questioning a witness/potential suspect who had been awakened from a sound sleep.
The partners wound their way back through the gyrating crowd and ordered large coffees to go from the corseted bartender, who flipped Garrett a suggestive “Come again,” before they turned away from the bar and headed for the road.
The road to Amherst was a dark and misty highway, the thick forest an oppressive tunnel around them: nothing but the dark silhouettes of trees and the occasional roar of a big rig at this hour. At the wheel, Garrett swilled coffee and stared out the windshield at the reflecting center line, his only guide through the drifting fog. Landauer smoked cigarette after cigarette; Garrett could feel lung cancer taking root from the secondhand smoke, and thought for the ten millionth time that he had to put a stop to it, somehow, soon . . .
But not tonight.
He hit the window button and let the cool night air blow against his face.
Garrett had lived in Massachusetts his entire life, but had never been to the town of Amherst until a month ago, on a weekend trip with Carolyn when she’d been a guest speaker at the summer session. He remembered uncomfortably that the trip had not gone well. Amherst was Carolyn’s alma mater, one of the most prestigious and elitist institutions in the country. Garrett admitted to a chip on his shoulder about his education: a BA in Criminal Justice at the truculently blue-collar U Mass, Boston, and he was the first of his father’s side of the family to finish an undergraduate degree at all. Amherst was U Mass’s opposite in every way, a rarefied world Garrett had never been part of, and it grated on him to see Carolyn so obviously in her element, speaking as an intimate to the sons and daughters of the richest men in the state, taking her privilege as a God-given right. Garrett had made unfortunate quips about blue blood and silver spoons and consequently there’d been “no dancing,” as Elvis Costello used to snarl euphemistically, that supposedly romantic weekend.
Garrett suddenly remembered that Carolyn was expecting him sometime that evening, and grabbed for his cell phone. He got her voice mail and left an update that was more professional than personal, but utterly failed to fool Landauer, who waggled his tongue lewdly and pumped his hips like a spastic sixteen-year-old before lighting up yet another Camel and dropping his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes as he smoked.
Garrett punched off the phone and drained the last of his coffee, watching the signs for the Amherst turnoff and brooding about Carolyn and Erin. Both blond and beautiful, children of wealth—and now it seemed their best lead was, too.
Landauer suddenly spoke. “You know the part I don’t want to think about?” He crushed out his cigarette, stared out the passenger window into the rush of dark. “What’s he doing with the head and one hand?”
Garrett felt his stomach tighten. He didn’t want to know.
Sprawled on a hill overlooking the tiny, pastoral town, the college offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of blue sky and the Holyoke mountain range by day. But by night the campus was decidedly ominous, with turn-of-the-century lampposts beaming diffuse light through swirling fog, and footpaths gleaming in pale ribbons down the steep hills, under ghostly twisting trees.
Morris Pratt Hall loomed over a moonlit circle of lawn, a four-story nineteenth-century brick building. Farther up a hill a church spire stood oddly alone, a vaguely dangerous-looking needle with no church attached.
The detectives got out of the car and looked up through tree branches at the tall facade of the dorm. It was 2:00 A.M., but more than a dozen rooms on the side of the building they were facing were still lit up. Garrett started to shut his car door, then at the last moment, even though he was already armed, he reached into the backseat and grabbed the Taser that BPD issued all its officers, but which Garrett rarely carried. Landauer looked across the car roof questioningly and Garrett shrugged as he clipped it to his hip.
The dorm entry was startlingly opulent, with a three-story-high recessed archway over sweeping front stairs and a marble porch. The partners’ footsteps echoed under the archway as they climbed the steps. A sleepy hall coordinator in a flannel robe answered the buzzer. Garrett’s badge opened his eyes.
Jason Moncrief’s room was on the fourth floor, and according to the nervous, round-faced H.C., he had a private. The carpeted stairs smelled strongly of beer, as did the darkened fourth-floor hallway. Garrett and Landauer walked past closed doors, caught a whiff of pot from one room. Landauer rolled his eyes and feigned taking a monster toke, then pulled out his badge, lifted a meaty leg, and mimed the start of a kick to break down the door.
Garrett shook his head, but he understood that his partner was blowing off steam. There was a lot riding on the next few minutes.
They slowed as they approached the closed door of 410, Moncrief’s room.
He was up.
There was music coming from beneath the bedroom door. It was dark and screeching with unearthly violins and harmonica, and someone was playing live guitar along with the track. Garrett was startled to recognize the same music that had been playing when they’d left Cauldron. Immediately he dismissed the thought; the music was similar, that was all. But the eerie feeling of continuation remained.
Landauer leaned forward and rapped on the door. “Boston PD,” he called loudly. The partners listened as the guitar stopped mid-phrase. There was a quick soft scuffling in the room before the door was pulled open.
The young man facing them was musician-slim, with longish dyed black hair and an indolent and slightly androgynous sensuality—a languor that was possibly drug-related. He looked the partners over with an insolence that stiffened Garrett’s spine, but he forced down the reaction; the kid’s arrogance might well work in their favor.
“Boston PD. I’m Detective Garrett, this is Detective Landauer. Homicide Unit.”
Moncrief didn’t have any visible reaction to the “Homicide Unit” identification, but then again, his eyes were black basketballs. High on something, for sure. And that was useful, too.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Garrett continued. Moncrief shrugged and pushed open the door.
Garrett and Landauer immediately stepped into the darkened room, unable to believe their luck. It was a small, typical dorm room, with a bed that was larger than usual for a student room; Garrett guessed it was two single beds pushed together; plus dresser, bookcase, institutional desk and chair. The only light came from thick candles burning on the desk and windowsill; Garrett noted with a start that they were made of black wax. He saw from the careful stillness on his partner’s face that Landauer had noticed, too.
They were at a dangerous crossroads. They were not at this point legally required to read Moncrief his Miranda rights. He had not been taken into custody, the door was open, he could walk out at any time. And technically they were only interviewing him as a witness. But he was becoming more of a suspect by the second. If they Mirandized him, most likely he would snap shut like a clam, and they would be no farther along than they had been before. On the other hand, if they let him keep talking, un-Mirandized, he might well say something crucial that would then be inadmissible in court.
Moncrief slumped down on the bed beside his guitar. The bedspread was black, as were the curtains at the windows.
Garrett decided to walk the tightrope for another minute or two, if only to get a better look at the room. He glanced at the sound system. “Mind turning down the music?”
Moncrief shrugged, made no move from the bed. Garrett stepped to the shelf that held the sound system and pushed the volume off, then turned back to Moncrief. “We’re here about Erin Carmody. Do you know her?”
Moncrief looked at them as if they were imbeciles. “She lives here. Second floor. Killer ass,” he added slyly.
Garrett’s eyes subtly raced over the sparse contents of the room. A poster that was a larger version of the flyer from the club was prominent on one wall. The ceiling shone with glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars, not randomly applied, either; Garrett could see Orion, Cassiopeia’s Chair, and an odd, uneven pattern that he recognized as Scorpio. Astronomy had been one of the classes that had made him stick with college, that rough freshman year.
“How do you know Erin?” he said aloud, in what he hoped was a conversational tone.
“Class. Astronomy,” Moncrief said, his eyes slanting sideways at Garrett. “My favorite,” he added with exaggerated enthusiasm. Garrett felt a jolt of surprise, then narrowed his eyes. What f*cking game is this?
He shifted slightly toward the desk to get a view of the bookcase. It was crammed with textbooks and what looked like required reading for class. But one entire shelf was quality hardcovers—what looked like expensive editions, some of them leather-bound and obviously old. Garrett scanned the titles and was electrified to see names and titles he recognized from his hasty Google search. Aleister Crowley was the author of several: The Book of the Law . . . The Vision and the Voice . . . Magick in Theory and Practice . . .
A CD case lay on the shelf as well, and Garrett froze as he took in the title: Current 333. The cover photo had a design of three fiery triangles with points touching, on a black background.
Garrett made a quick, instinctive decision and fixed his stare on the kid. “Jason, I’d like to keep talking. But before we go any further I’m going to advise you of your rights.” Garrett reached into his suit coat pocket and withdrew his micro-recorder, to which Moncrief had no reaction. Garrett turned on the recorder and began: “ ‘You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .’ ”
Neither Moncrief’s posture nor his expression changed during Garrett’s recitation. He looked about to nod off.
“Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you?” Garrett finished.
“Suuure . . .” Moncrief drawled.
Garrett glanced at the CD case again and made sure Landauer saw where he was looking. Land’s eyes registered the title and triangle image.
“Jason, what’s Current 333?”
The kid was staring at the green-glowing stars on the ceiling. A secretive smile spread across his face. “Choronzon.”
The partners looked at each other. The word was familiar to Garrett; he was pretty sure it had come up in his online searching. He eased out a notepad and wrote it down, guessing at the spelling.
“Corazon? You mean, ‘heart’?”
“Hardly,” the boy scoffed. “Choronzon,” he repeated, with maddening articulation.
“I don’t know what that means,” Garrett said. “Can you explain it?”
“The Lord of Hallucinations,” Moncrief said, his voice dreamy. Garrett and Landauer exchanged another glance. It was possible Moncrief was simply high as a kite.
“Really. You mean, a drug?” Garrett asked pleasantly.
“I mean the Master of the Abyss,” Moncrief shot back, his lip curling in disdain.
“I see. The Abyss,” Garrett repeated, writing it down. “You know, I think it would help if you started from the beginning—”
“Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law,” the kid intoned.
Definitely high.
Garrett decided to try another tack. “Jason, where is Erin?”
The kid suddenly lunged up from the bed and spat. His eyes had gone totally black, his face feral and twisted. “Zazas Zazas Nasatanada Zazas!” he snarled.
Out of the corner of his eye Garrett saw Landauer flinch back in surprise. Garrett stood his ground, staring at Moncrief. The boy’s skin was stretched tight over his skull, his lips were drawn back from his teeth like an animal’s, and a strange, foul smell rolled from his mouth. Garrett could feel every hair on his scalp and arms lift, a feeling of primal terror.
His mouth was dry as dust as he croaked out: “Where is Erin?”
Horribly, incredibly, that stretched-taut face smiled . . . a smile so tight to the skull Garrett thought wildly that Moncrief’s lips would split open.
“In hell,” the thing in front of them hissed, and then it lunged at Landauer like a coiled cobra striking. Fast as that snake he had sunk his teeth into Landauer’s bare forearm. Landauer let out a window-rattling yell.
Garrett catapulted forward and grabbed Moncrief’s arms, jerking them behind his back. He felt an unbelievable surge of power in the struggling young body and for a moment doubted he could hold him. He twisted Moncrief’s arms higher and grabbed at his belt for his handcuffs with his right hand, wrestled them onto the boy’s wrists. In their struggle they crashed against the bookcase holding the sound system and the music suddenly blasted. Landauer was shouting, swearing a blue streak; Moncrief’s jaw was still clamped around his arm. Blood seeped from between the boy’s teeth. With his left hand Landauer snatched the Taser from Garrett’s belt and shoved it into Moncrief’s neck.
The screaming violins filled the room as Moncrief’s eyes rolled up into his head and he crumpled to the bed, jerking horribly for an interminable moment . . . and then was still.
The partners stood above him, Garrett still feeling the slithering power of that slight body, Landauer dripping with his own blood.