Ash Return Of The Beast Part 17

Somewhere, deep in the shadows of some ancient invisible underworldpopulated by demons and hordes of abominations of indescribable horrorthe essence of the man the world once knew as Aleister Crowley began its ascent toward its long awaited host.

A moment later, Cowl's body sprang to life, reanimated by some unseen force, eyes wide-open, alert. He maneuvered his legs into position and rose to his feet with the awkward grace of a newborn calf. He found his footing, straightened his back and scanned the room. The essence of Crowley was observing his surroundings for the first time. Lowering his eyes, he examined his youthful body. With an approving smile, he turned to the Messenger. "Well done," he said. "Your services will no longer be required. Simple as that."

The Messenger gave a slight bow and backed away, fading slowly into the void.

Outside, in the midnight sky, the full moon slid behind a billowing blanket of black clouds gathering, en ma.s.se, like an army of demons over the brooding fortress of Moorehouse Manor. The Old Ones were pleased.

CHAPTER 27.

Three Months Later...

As the week progressed, and even though Cowl was at the top of the list of suspects, the investigation turned up several more persons of interest. One by one they were eliminated, save for two. One was a 59-year old former San Francisco hippie-turned-Satanist and founder of an organization called the Brotherhood of Baphomet. Their temple was located on Seattle's Capitol Hill, the place that, coincidentally enough, was also the location of Moorehouse Manor, the home of Rye Cowl. But Capitol Hill was a community with a split personality. On the one hand it boasted some of the finest old homes, acclaimed historical landmarks, world-cla.s.s public parks, and several of the most popular restaurants in the city. On the other hand, there were areas well known as havens and hangouts for body-piercing extremists, Goths, Wiccans, New Agers, would-be poets, faux vampires, grunge musicians, pill poppers, crack addicts and others representing every alternative lifestyle imaginable.

The other potential suspect was the husband of a woman with whom the now deceased St. Martin had been having an affair.

While the jilted husband certainly had a motive, not to mention a rather shaky alibi for his own whereabouts at the time of the murder, the one thing he didn't have was any knowledge of ritual magick, much less the ability to project a doppelganger. He quickly slipped to the bottom of the list. But the aging hippie-turned-Satanist was a different matter altogether.

His name, oddly enough, was Aleister Cromwell, originally from Wolverhampton, England, sometimes abbreviated as simply "Wolves", and where the city council's motto was 'Out of darkness, cometh light'. Just that information alone was a little creepy, not to mention that Wolverhampton is located in an area known as the 'Black Country'. It all seemed like a scenario from the pages of a gothic horror novel.

Ravenwood already knew a little of Cromwell's background as he had turned up as a suspect in a ritual murder case in Oregon a couple years earlier. But the actual killer was caught before she even had a chance to question Cromwell in person and, as it turned out, he had no a.s.sociation with the killer anyway. She only knew all this from reading a report from a routine preliminary investigation that was handed to her when that case first came across her desk.

Cromwell had come to the United States with his parents in 1964 and they settled in a suburb of Los Angeles. His father was a Pentecostal minister with the a.s.semblies of G.o.d church. Aleister Cromwell had a rebellious streak and a knack for getting into trouble and eventually served two-years on a narcotics charge at a California State Prison in 1976 and was acquitted of a s.e.xual molestation charge two years later. He moved to Seattle in 1986 and founded his Brotherhood of Baphomet in 1991.

All of this was a matter of record, easily verified. The most disturbing aspect of his background, however, was that he claimed to have once been friends with the infamous killer and cult leader, Charlie Manson. Cromwell claimed Manson had introduced him to the dark side of the Occult in the mid-1960s. There was no way of verifying that claim but just the fact that he openly boasted about it provided some insight into the man's psyche.

Kane had Wheeler do a little snooping around to see if anything new could be learned about Cromwell. Wheeler discovered Cromwell was also a musician and had his own Metal band back in the mid-70s. The band was called SOAP, an acronym for Son Of A Preacher. The band met its demise when Cromwell went to prison on the narcotics charge. Wheeler was not surprised to learn Cromwell was now a devoted Rye Cowl fan.

Kane found it incomprehensible that a man of Cromwell's age could possibly be a fan of Cowl's music or any Metal music for that matter. Kane winced at the thought. "That c.r.a.p gives me a G.o.ddam headache," he told Ravenwood.

"I know," she said. "But this guy isn't exactly the grandfatherly type, sipping lemonade on a front porch swing like a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting. He's the founder of an organization called The Brotherhood of Baphomet, for crying out loud. You think he's going to be playing Barry Manilow on his stereo?"

"What's wrong with Barry Manilow? I like Barry Manilow."

Ravenwood tried to suppress her response but a short chuckle slipped out.

Kane looked at her. "What?"

"Nothing."

"So, what is this Baphomet, anyway?"

"Is your computer fired up?"

"Yeah, why?"

Ravenwood moved around to Kane's side of the desk and leaned over him to use the keyboard.

He tried to ignore the alluring fragrance of her perfume but the gentle touch of her breast against his shoulder, unintentional as it may have been, caused him to swallow hard. It had been a long time. Every muscle in his body tightened up. "What are you doing?" he asked.

Ravenwood's quick Internet search for Baphomet brought up the quintessential image as depicted by the 19th century occultist, Eliphas Levi.

"There you go," she said, still leaning over his shoulder.

He could feel the warmth of her breath on the side of his neck.

"Baphomet, the pagan G.o.d, the Sabbatic Goat, the image of Satan, take your pick. Long and interesting history that would probably bore you to death. But I think you can tell just from looking at it what kind of stuff our friend Cromwell is into."

She straightened up and returned to her chair and the tension in Kane's body eased out like a slow leak from a flat tire. He'd barely heard a word she'd said. "I'm sorrywhat?"

"I said, you can tell just from looking at it what kind of stuff Cromwell is into. He just might have acquired some powerful skills over the years."

"Magick, you mean."

Ravenwood nodded.

"Powerful enough to do what we saw in that video?"

"I don't know. But we definitely need to pay him a visit."

Kane groaned. "s.h.i.+t. I thought we had our man."

"Yeah, so did I."

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 ill.u.s.trated 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 gla.s.s 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 h.e.l.l 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 sc.r.a.ped 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-s.h.i.+rt, 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 pa.s.sing out Jehovah's Witness material, I ain't interested."

"Not exactly," Kane said, flas.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d 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 bra.s.s bells of various sizes; statuettes of demons, G.o.ds 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 h.e.l.l 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 handthe 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 itthat same fearless Detective Kane was about as comfortable in this house-of-the-d.a.m.ned 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n do-gooder with a grudge against the band. I heard he was planning to disrupt the concert but the b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 circ.u.mstances 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?"

"h.e.l.l 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.u.c.king way. You're not going to pin this"

"Relax," Ravenwood said. "n.o.body'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 h.e.l.l 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.u.c.k 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."