“Crowley’s Libre five,” she said. “The ritual of the mark of the beast.”
Nick shook his head. “The killer used the pentagram, not a unicursal hexagram.”
“Then perhaps wrath, the fifth heavenly vice,” she said.
“Jealousy,” Nick said. “The fifth poison in the Buddhist Mahayana tradition.”
“Doubt,” Horus countered. “The fifth defilement in Vasuhandhu.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but it sounds like there are endless possibilities for the motive or message hidden in the five. Nothing for us to identify the killer. We don’t even know if we’re on the right track with Schelz’s version.”
“True,” Nick said. “We can’t rule out Schelz, however, until we’ve exhausted every effort to find out if his pamphlet went into circulation.”
“Horus, you said you’ve seen other pamphlets like this. Locally?” I said.
“Like this, but not this pamphlet. I’ve seen similar,” she said. “Fanatics with time and money have been printing religious propaganda since the fifteenth century. Before that, ink on scrolls, and before that, carved into stone. I’ve seen every variation. So have you, Nick.”
“Not everything,” he said. “I searched the library then online for numeric adaptations of the inverted pentagram, pre and post Schelz. Nothing.”
“Go see Vic Walkowiak. If this pamphlet or a new version of the same is floating around, Vic will know. He collects religious propaganda. He owns the comic book store a few blocks north. Tell him I sent you.” Horus reclined in her chair, stretching her legs. “Is that all?”
“Are there any new devil worship covens or cults in the area? Any rumors you care to share?” Nick said.
“As much as I lust over every inch of you, dear Nick, you know I can’t break the code. You’ll have to accept my word that none employ your symbol.” She traced her fingers up the snake tattoos on her thighs with her eyes fixed on him. “Unless you’re willing to barter your body for more information.”
Nick glanced at me.
Seriously? He was thinking about it?
“Horus, I don’t share,” I said.
“Self-preservation and lust. You’re a true lioness, Liz. I like you.” She rose, walked over to Nick’s chair, and straddled his legs. I watched, startled, as she wrapped her fingers around the back of his head and kissed him hard on the lips. She left the room without a word.
I stood outside on the sidewalk letting the sunlight thaw my body. Horus’s horns, tattoos, and offensive, overt sexual innuendo created a massive shield, making it impossible to ignore her and a challenge to like her. Yet I sensed fragile vulnerability behind her toughness.
“Slut,” I said when I got into the car.
“Don’t buy into her sex-and-shock act, she’s quite a genius,” Nick said quickly. “She was a different person when we were in school together at Oxford. I’d always find her sitting at a table in the library, translating ancient Middle Eastern religious texts. She wrote one of the most compelling analyses of the Virgin birth I’ve ever—”
“Not her. You.” I poked him. “You actually thought about having sex with her? Because if—”
“To keep you from getting arrested?” Nick made a half shrug with a so-what? look. “Damn right it crossed my mind—for a second. The tattoos don’t bother me, but I draw the line at horns.” He started the car and made a U-turn at the stoplight, driving north.
“So, if she didn’t have horns, you—”
“Watch for a comic store. We didn’t get the address.”
I rubbed his knee. “You would have laid your body on the line for me? I think I’m getting teary.”
“She didn’t give us the shop name.” Red-faced and ignoring me, Nick’s eyes darted from the traffic ahead to the storefronts along the sidewalk. “What if there isn’t a sign?”
“I think I see it. Pull over.”
He parked at the curb then looked over his shoulder. “Where?”
“The white building three doors back.”
We got out of the car and strode down the empty sidewalk past a manicure shop and a deserted dance studio. I stopped at a window filled with action figures from Star Wars to Harry Potter, Spider-Man, Superman, and Iron Man poised for combat on glass shelves. Nick nudged me when we entered, pointing to a small, red-neon sign on the rear wall. “THE COMIC STORE.”
Packaged action figures hung on the walls above rows of white bins filled with alphabetically filed comic books encased in plastic. Featuring characters from comic book–action movies of the past three decades, the shop appeared to be nothing like the comic book store in the valley Dave and I frequented in grade school. Where were the dusty, dog-eared stacks of used Donald Duck comics? Where were Archie and Veronica?
“We’re here to see Vic Walkowiak,” Nick said to the clerk, a thick, freckled man with a combover and beard eating a burger behind the counter.