Beyond Rue Morgue Anthology: Further Tales of Edgar Allan Poe's 1st Detective

THE WEIGHT OF A DEAD MAN By WESTON OCHSE AND YVONNE NAVARRO

He stands with his back to the painting, protecting it with his life as the men array themselves before him, their faces masks of red death, their every bone and muscle tightened in outrage over what he’d just done. But nothing matters except the painting— St. John tries to flee, Jesus forgives Judas, two soldiers dressed in fifteenth-century Spanish armor move to arrest Jesus, and Caravaggio himself, part of the painting he so idealized with light and brushstrokes, shines a lantern on all of them like a divine voyeur. In the Garden of Gethsemane, it is the betrayal by one so beloved that is represented by the humility and tiredness on the face of Jesus.

Today, if he is to survive, he needs something not portrayed in this timeless, famous painting to happen soon.

The men move one step closer.

Escape, perhaps.

Not soon.

Now.

The word was ratiocination and his grandfather had been an alleged expert at its implementation. But as Nate Dupes stood and stared at the rheumy-eyed gunslinger at the end of the bar, he couldn’t help wonder if it wasn’t a load of Old World crap his father had bestowed upon him, forever trying to impress a young man with tales of a famous relative who’d solved what Edgar Allan Poe had fictionalized as The Murders in the Rue Morgue. The idea of ratiocination was to so firmly place yourself inside the mind of a criminal that you would know as much about the crime as the criminal, in this case the thief of the missing painting known as The Taking of Christ by the fifteenth century Baroque master Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio; the very same painting which had been commissioned for recovery by the British Royal Art Society through the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

“You staring at me like you want to have my child,” the gunslinger said, his words like sawdust.

Nate sighed, still baffled that such a thing as ratiocination really existed. The further idea that he could even remotely have the other man’s child sickened him to the point where Nate had to cover his mouth with the back of his left hand. “If you’ll pardon me,” Nate said, careful to speak in small-syllable words, “I’m looking for a man known as Burt Johnson. I thought you might be him.”

The man, who just a moment before seemed about to pass out from too much rye, suddenly straightened and adjusted his cowboy hat. He levered his tired frame from the stool. Dressed like every other cattle puncher in southern Arizona, the thing that set him apart was the way he let his gun ride low and easy on one hip, as if they were old friends and had gone places together. “What if I might be this man you looking for? You got some kind of beef?”

Nate shook his head, acutely aware of his own appearance. Where the other man was large and filled out with bulky muscle, Nate was small-boned and more finely muscled. Instead of dusty canvas and stained cotton attire, Nate wore wool pants and a vest over a clean white shirt beneath a gold and brown brocade coach jacket. He had a pistol as well, but his was a German Mauser 9mm Zig-Zag kept tucked under his left arm, rather than the Peacemaker the other wore like a third limb. There was, of course, the additional fact that Nate’s green-tinted sunglasses were a little off-putting. He hadn’t seen anyone else wearing sunglasses since he’d left Saint Louis three weeks earlier. He had never liked wearing a hat, preferring to let his blond hair bleach beneath the hard desert sun and his face take on the hue of well-tanned leather.

“No beef, Mr. Johnson. I’m on a search and rescue mission, as it were.”

“Rescue? Who is it you’re going to rescue?”

“Not who, Mr. Johnson — as I do believe you are the man I’m looking for.” When the other gave an almost imperceptible nod, Dupes continued. “Rather, a thing. A painting, to be exact. Mr. Oliver in Saint Louis said you’d appropriated it for a Mr. J.C. Magillicutty, formerly from Chicago, Illinois, but now residing here in Douglas. Do I have my facts about right?”

“I didn’t ‘propitiate nuthin.’” The big man spat tobacco on the floor as if to accentuate his innocence.

“Appropriate. It means you received and took it to the man who hired you.”

“Then why didn’t you say that yourself?”

“I have no idea,” Nate replied, trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “So then you are that man.”

“So what if I am?”

“Then I’d like to give you twenty dollars.”

Greed won over guile. “Yeah, I’m him.”

Nate reached into his vest pocket and brought out a gold piece with two fingers. “Just one thing before I give this to you.”

Johnson’s watery eyes fixed on the gold eagle coin. “What?”

“Please describe the painting you delivered to Mr. Magillicutty.”

“The painting? I don’t know art. It was just a painting.”

Nate pulled out another gold piece and tucked it neatly into the same two fingers that still held the first coin. “I was hoping you knew art just a little bit, Mr. Johnson.”

It was all the big man could do to keep from drooling. “It was a picture of Jesus with soldiers and stuff.”

“Was it a small picture?”

Johnson shifted his eyes from the coins to Nate’s face. “Who you kidding? It was a huge painting. The size of a man, only rolled up and pushed into a wooden tube.”

“And you delivered this to your boss?”

Johnson nodded.

Nate handed over the coins.

“Is that all you want to know? You don’t want to see it?” Johnson asked. He rolled the coins in one hand, obviously hoping for more.

“That’s enough for now.” Nate touched a finger to his forehead in a small salute, then turned and left the bar, mindful that Johnson didn’t follow. It would be better, he decided, to get back to his hotel than continue his search tonight; perhaps he could get the owner to once again scrounge up some ice. This town was beyond hot. Even the night gave almost no respite. But before he could get relief, he had one more chore, a telegram to send and one which should have gone out the moment he’d arrived.

This evening a cold water bath was the best the owner could provide, so Nate sat in the beaten copper tub with his legs hanging over one edge and his head resting on another while he read the latest issue of the Douglas Dispatch. A newspaper told a lot about a town if one paid attention. His grandfather Le Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin believed that even a bad newspaper could provide a good detective with the necessary links one would need to determine the major players.

Douglas, it seemed, was fighting to become an incorporated township. The odds looked good because of the railhead and the silver mines, but certain landowners, such as the infamous J.C. Magillicutty, were against it because of its possible disruption of the free-range cattle business.

There had also been several recent fires. Two occurred at warehouses, but a third destroyed the home of a ranch hand who’d been accused of raping a Mexican girl, but released for lack of evidence. The cattle worker himself was nowhere to be found.

Sears, Roebuck and Co. had just established a catalogue store.

Buffalo Soldiers, a Negro cavalry unit out of nearby Camp Huachuca, were assisting elements of the 10th Cavalry in the relocation of several Apache Indian tribes.

Twin girls, Eloise and Marie Duvall, had been missing for several days with no clues as to their whereabouts.

A gunfight on Main Street had resulted in the death of one Mr. Frank Dorsett, a known card shark and cheat.

Agnes Moffit brought in another pail of cold water from the well. A one-time girl of Madame Menadue’s, she was now house woman of the inn where Dupes was staying, and she was no stranger to the sight of a naked male body. However, what had stunned her when she’d first helped him out of his clothes were the tattoos covering his back and arms. Many of them were done in black and white ink, but several more were in color; all sported a Far East Asian motif and were indelible memories of the five years Nate Dupes had spent in China.

“I see you’re reading the newspaper of our fine city,” she said. He could tell she was trying to sound as civilized as possible in front of him.

“I am, dear Agnes. Just pour that water in and—” His words broke off as the cold water hit his stomach and groin. He let out a surprised gasp, then inhaled and smiled. When he had his air back, he asked the question he’d been wanting to for at least half an hour. By then Agnes had settled on a rocker with her back to him; ready to assist if needed, she was passing the time by crocheting a doily. “So, what’s interesting that isn’t in the newspaper?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said without looking up from her work.

“Well, take this man whose house burned down. What’s the real story behind that?”

“If you mean that no good rapist Billy Picket, then he got exactly what he deserved.”

“Says here there was a lack of evidence.”

“Ain’t no evidence found around here that can stand up in an American court when it’s a Mexican against an American.”

“So he was guilty?”

He watched her back as she paused in her crocheting. “I’m not knowing if he was guilty or not, but if he did rape that woman, it wasn’t the first Mexican girl he’d forced himself on.”

Ah. So the fire was payback.

“Looks like people are going to be able to order anything they want now that Sears and Roebuck has a catalogue store.”

“Oh, yes,” she said as she went back to her doily and rocked backward. “Mr. Magillicutty brought one all the way from Chicago. Says we need to be as civilized as the rest of America.”

Nate raised one eyebrow behind the woman’s back. He had seen how civilized America really was and thought the remark more than exaggerated. Born in Paris, Nate’s father had immigrated to America, allowing the administrators on Ellis Island to change the family name from Dupin to Dupes. That single deed had ruined America for his father, a man who had continually basked in the shadow of his own sire. All his life the elder Dupin had been unable to do anything but promote the brilliance of the fictionalized accounts of Nate’s grandfather, the very real Le Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin. Nate, however, didn’t care a bit. While he appreciated the fame of his grandfather, he was determined to make a name for himself. His only nod to his ancestor was to take a similar job, which was why Nate had not only been a detective in the employ of Lloyd’s of London, but most recently worked for the famous American Pinkerton Detective Agency.

“It’s a shame about these twin girls,” he said. “Any hope of finding them?”

She ceased crocheting and sat, not moving or speaking. He’d struck a nerve.

“Their mother must be crazed with concern,” he added, hoping for something… anything. He waited a few moments, then decided to let it go.

Then she surprised him by speaking in a low, slow voice. “Girls have been disappearing around here for a long time. Three years, maybe. No one knows who’s taking them, or even how they do it.”

“The article doesn’t mention anything about it.”

“And it won’t. Because up to now it was only Mexican girls.”

“What happens to them?”

She turned, her eyes shining with tears. “I don’t know. I just heard they sometimes find a body in the desert, buried and curled into a ball just like when they came out of their mother’s womb.”

The next morning Dupes had two messages waiting for him. One was from none other than Mr. J.C. Magillicutty requesting his presence. Nate’s forty dollars in gold pieces was as useful as the thirty pieces of silver Judas Iscariot had been given to betray a certain other J.C. The other message was from the sheriff, so Dupes decided to attend to that one first. He was late in presenting his Bona Fides to the local constabulary anyway. So after a meal of toast and eggs, Nate made his way to the sheriff’s office, and it took only a few moments of pretending that the sheriff was in charge and showing his Pinkerton credentials before he was allowed to leave. He held back his warrant for the missing painting, signed by the Secretary of the Interior; he’d use that when needed, but there was no hurry to reveal its existence now. With such an endorsement, not even the territorial governor had the power to countermand the warrant.

Magillicutty’s property was an hour away by horseback, due east along the border. Nate got there, but watched the place for an hour before he descended a small hill and rode down the front road. Surrounded by pastures, the main house was an impressive three-story Tudor mansion that seemed as out of place in the American southwest as a Caravaggio painting. An old silver mine rose out of the hillside behind it, the tailings scattering down the side of the mountain like a black and red veil.

A couple of men lolled around the front door, but they stood straight as he strode toward them. Both kept their hands near their pistols, but at least they didn’t have the bad grace to draw. He gave one the reins to his horse and bade the other announce him, providing a card with his name and title. The man looked at Dupes like the visitor had made his stomach go sour, but complied.

A few minutes later a big man with ruddy skin and a lion’s mane of red hair burst through the door. “Nathanial Dupes,” he said as he reached out a hand to shake, “no one told me you were a Pinkerton Detective. My man Johnson left that part out.”

“I might have forgotten to tell him,” Nate said, observing the quality of tailoring on Magillicutty’s Savile Row wool suit.

“Well, come on in. We’re still unpacking,” Magillicutty said. “Please forgive the mess.”

Nate followed him inside, realizing immediately that the other’s statement was nothing but platitudinous. Everything was in its place and seemed perfectly arranged. He’d always felt he had an eye for decorating, and he could find no fault in the decidedly European interior. “How long have you been here?”

“Five years, but it took some time to build the house and have my things shipped.” They’d made it to a library and the homeowner shoved his hands in his pockets. “I had three homes and consolidated everything into this one.”

Nate nodded, noting several statues and two paintings whose provenance, once established, would make each of them worth more money than he was likely to ever see in his life. The man was definitely a collector.

They exchanged some polite talk for a few minutes after Dupes accepted a seat in a comfortable leather chair, then he and Magillicutty got down to brass tacks.

“So why are you interested in my painting?” his host asked. As it had turned out, the J.C. was short for John Christopher and he’d asked to be called John.

“Because it’s not your painting,” Dupes told him bluntly. “It was stolen sixty years ago and it’s taken this long to track it down.”

John sat very still for a few moments behind his massive desk. Finally, he sighed. “I’m sorry. You seem like a nice enough and responsible fellow, but you can’t have it.”

Nate had been waiting for this. He leaned forward and drew out the piece of paper he’d kept close at hand for these past four months. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, I have a warrant for its return, signed by the Secretary of the Interior.”

John smiled slightly. “No, I’m afraid you’re the one who doesn’t understand. It’s true that I had the painting at one time, but I don’t have it any longer.”

Nate’s smile fell. “You lost it? Sold it?”

“I don’t have it,” John repeated. “If you like, feel free to check every room.”

“I will,” Nate said stiffly. “What happened to it?”

John leaned back and shrugged mightily. “Who knows?”

For the first time in weeks Nate found himself flustered. The man had had the painting, but now it was gone. He’d even offered to let Nate check his house — and Nate definitely would — but the best he could offer was only that he didn’t have it anymore?

“I doubt very much it grew legs and walked away by itself,” Nate said. “Either you gave it away or it was stolen. So who has it now?”

John shrugged again, making a gesture meant to impart his lack of knowledge. Dupes didn’t believe it for an instant. Then Magillicutty leaned forward. “Not what you expected, was it?” He grinned the same way he’d probably done to the last dozen business competitors he’d bested and ruined, making Nate wish he could do nothing more than punch out a few of the bigger man’s teeth.

The ride back to town was long and depressing. Dupes had little doubt that the local constabulary was in league with the landowners, so trying to get them to open even a cursory investigation would be impossible. Adding to his frustration was the fact that he’d already telegraphed back to Pinkerton Headquarters and told them he’d found the missing painting, so there as a certain expectation that he would actually produce it.

Back in Douglas, he dropped off his horse and went to Calumet House. It was smaller than where he’d met Johnson, but promised to be a little more civilized.

Dupes was on his third glass of claret when a proud-looking young Mexican, wearing a broad-rimmed hat, approached him. He wore a bandolier across his wool suit and his trousers were tucked into shined — but worn — brown boots. At his side was a.40 caliber pistol, the trigger guard released.

“My name is José Doroteo Arango Arámbula,” he told Nate as he stopped in front of the table. “But I’m known around here as Arango. Can I join you?”

Nate waved at the empty chair, watching as Arango settled onto it. “I followed you from Magillicutty’s,” he admitted. “I must tell you that I am curious about your relationship with that man.”

Nate weighed his words, then carefully explained that he’d been looking for something he’d been sure Magillicutty had, following with the landowner’s denial and that Dupes had no way of figuring out where the object now was.

Arango nodded, not bothering to ask for details. “I have the same problems with this man. He has no respect for Mexican men, women, or children. He’d rather feed a coolie than a Mexican. He’s said this.”

Admitting that he’d rather feed a Chinese rail worker than a descendant of Spanish ancestors spoke to a larger issue, one which if correctly divined might give Nate the necessary insight to move the proverbial mountain.

Arango was an interesting sort, as well. The Mexican sat with his back ramrod straight, as if he were of royal blood, but Nate could tell by the man’s handsome yet broad features that any remnant of the blood from Hernán Cortés de Monroy y Pizarro or his Conquistadors had been so watered down it was nothing but an echo of old Spain. Still, the young man was proud and elegant in a battered fighter sort of way.

Calumet House wasn’t the sort that cow punchers frequented, but there was still some rough trade at the bar. Occasionally someone would glance in Arango’s direction with conspiracy in their eyes. The Mexican never turned or acknowledged the looks, but Nate could tell he knew everything that was happening.

“Do not worry about me, Nathanial,” he said, making the th into a hard t. “Men like these do not concern me. They look for the now and forget the future. In that, us Mexicans are like Magillicutty’s coolies. The Chinese play the long game, as do we. There will be change. There will be revolution. And that which has been taken will be returned to us.”

Nate watched the man as he sipped another claret. Arango had a purity of purpose that he couldn’t help but admire. That Nate was one of the people Arango would ultimately align himself against didn’t bother him at all. As Arango had said, that was then — the future — and this was now.

“The disappearance of the girls must be weighing hard on you,” he said. By Arango’s reaction, Nate might as well have shot the man.

“It is an unholy thing that Magillicutty is doing,” he said in a low voice.

Nate held up a hand. “I’m not making light of it. I’m serious when I say this.” After glancing around, Nate asked quietly, “Do you have proof of his guilt?”

Arango shook his head. “No. We watch him. He’s careful. But we know.”

“There’s a place for supposition if you can back it up. Do you have any evidence at all?”

But Arango didn’t — it seemed no one did. That meant Magillicutty was innocent, or he was guilty but just too crafty for anyone to figure it out. The latter was the most probable, and Nate decided it was time for a little subterfuge.

Nate returned to his room and changed his appearance. Not being a big man, he’d perfected several different disguises. Although many were designed for a more civilized environment, the presence of the rail hub meant his Oriental persona could just be the key he needed to open certain doors.

A few hours later he was dressed like a Chinese businessman, his skin tinted yellow with a tincture he’d designed from lychee and turmeric. He settled himself at a table in the Silver Stop, a few blocks down from Calumet House and a few hundred levels beneath anyplace J.C. Magillicutty would frequent. Among the many hard-faced men in the dark, single-story bar were several Chinese, who by their pale skin and broken nails had traded the rail hammer for the mine pick. These were the men he targeted, and believing Nate’s claim of being the result of a Dutch and Chinese union, they allowed for his passable Chinese and found it easy to speak with him, especially since he kept their mouths loose with drink.

Because he was deep in conversation with the Chinese, Nate wasn’t in his room when the men came to get him, nor did they give him a second look when he passed them later on the street.

After all, he wasn’t the man they were looking for. He was just some uppity, over-dressed Chinese coolie.

Nate found Arango in Calumet House around noon the next day. At first the Mexican failed to recognize him as he sat down, then it became clear that beneath the makeup was none other than the Pinkerton detective he’d met the previous evening.

“I need my kit,” Nate said, meaning his bags. “But there are men up in my room, waiting for me.”

Arango smiled slyly. “Why don’t you let them take you?”

“I’d rather have more control than that over my immediate future. Besides, I learned something last night that might be of interest to both of us.” When he saw he had the other’s attention, Nate asked, “Have you ever heard of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn?”

Arango shook his head. “Is this a church?”

“Of sorts. It has a Christian basis for certain, but it propounds the idea that God made the universe by combining four elements and has on hand seven divine spirit guides. It claims that through ritual, one can use these guides to help elevate one’s spirit.”

That calculating look slipped back into Arango’s expression. “Agave will elevate your spirit much easier.”

Nate almost laughed. “I agree, although I could do without the hangover.”

“You can’t have one without the other.” Arango’s grin showed bright white teeth.

“The Golden Dawn thinks you can. They believe you can ascend to a higher level with no penalty.”

Arango studied him. “You asked me about evidence before. Now I ask you: how do you know this?”

“By certain symbols and signs.” Nate went on to explain, drawing invisible versions of each symbol on the tabletop as he described them. “Magillicutty brought in a bunch of miners to clear several chambers of the old mine behind his home. There was a symbol of a square and compass etched into one wall, which is a Masonic designation. There were many other symbols the Chinese didn’t understand, and my guess is that’s because they were Qabalah. But the most telling symbol which was described to me was of an ornate golden cross with six-pointed stars etched into it. These are Stars of David, and their presence on a Christian cross would be deemed sacrilegious… unless that cross was a ritual device of the Golden Dawn.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“I’m an art expert. Iconology goes hand in hand with knowing art.”

“And these Golden Dawn types are dangerous?”

“Anyone who believes in magic is dangerous. More importantly, there is a version I have heard of that says human sacrifices are needed for certain rituals.”

Arango’s eyes widened. “And this is in Magillicutty’s mine?”

“That is what I believe.”

“And you have a plan?”

“I do, but it involves you and many men. Are you in?”

Arango grinned again, but there was no joy in his features this time, rather an echo of an unnamed violence that had yet to happen.

Now that things had been arranged, Nate cleansed his skin of the tincture in a trough and then returned to his room. The men waiting were kind enough to let him change before they escorted him out; they took along all of his things, paid his bill, and let him ride his own horse. Nate wasn’t fooled by their courtesy; if he suddenly disappeared, there’d be nothing remaining to show he left of anything other than his own free will.

They didn’t bother taking him to the big house. Instead, they went straight into the mine, where they tied his horse inside the entrance. Just beyond, the walls were covered with sconces, and chandeliers hung from the ceilings; so many candles were lit it was almost as though the mine had sunlit windows.

Burt Johnson himself escorted Nate into the first chamber, which had benches surrounding a circular raised stage; through the second chamber, which held an altar and had an array of painted diagrams on the floor; and finally into the third and smallest chamber. This was a library with a table holding an alchemist’s kit; off to the side were several cages. Inside one stood a goat, bleating pathetically. The middle cage was empty, but the third cage held the prize: twin girls, both alive, but drugged.

Nate had found Eloise and Marie Duvall.

He’d taken a huge risk, and this was the part of his plan he hadn’t been able to predict. Would Magillicutty kill him outright — he certainly hoped not — or would Nate be allowed to see them make a different offering? Goats were the classical sacrifice if you couldn’t get your hands on a virgin, but here were twin virgins, young and innocent, and this promised some kind of special upcoming ritual. Although this made Nate believe that he might not be killed right away, as he stared at the angelic faces of the two lethargic girls, he did not feel better for it.

Locked securely in the middle cage, Nate’s captors made him wait until it had to be well past nightfall, with the hours passing as slowly as the sun over a dying man in the desert.

Finally, the sound of men in the other rooms grew louder, and eventually Magillicutty swept into the room, wearing a maroon ceremonial robe and a hat shaped like a pyramid with an all-seeing eye brocaded into the yellow silk. As Magillicutty approached the cage, Nate said casually, “I feel underdressed for the ceremony, Magister.”

Magillicutty froze in his tracks and his eyes narrowed. “I’m a Magus!” He examined Nate as if his eyesight could tell him more than what they saw. “And you are?”

“I am Practicus. First Order.”

“Who brought you in?”

“Aleister Crowley. We met in Switzerland.”

“Who was the second?”

“Algernon Blackwood. I met him at Wellington College.”

Magillicutty went to a bookshelf and brought down a tome. He opened it on the table and began to search through it. “When was this?”

“1891.”

After a few moments, Magillicutty looked up. His expression was hard, but there was still uncertainty in his eyes. “I found Blackwood and we know of Crowley, but of you there is no report.”

Nate kept his eyes steady. “I see on your shelf you have De Occulta Philosophia written by Cornelius Agrippa. I also see you have Baron Rosenroth’s translation of the Zohar, titled Kabbala Denudata, or Kabbalah Unveiled. I found it much easier to read than Agrippa’s work, especially as it detailed the sephiroth.”

His words had the desired result. Magillicutty’s mouth dropped open and his aura of self-importance wavered.

“If there’s to be a ceremony,” Nate continued, “I’d like to participate. I’ve been in the backwater for so long that it’s a rare occasion to find someone, much less a Magus, with an active order.”

Magillicutty glanced back the way he’d come, then at the twins, before he made his decision. “You seem to be a brother. A Practicus, you say?”

“I traveled to the Far East and was out of touch for several years. As it is, I am rusty when it comes to ceremony.”

The man walked over to Nate’s cage and opened it with a key he had tied to his waist. “You may participate, Mr. Dupes, but at the smallest hint of deception, I’ll have Johnson shoot you through the heart.” He brought his face close enough for Nate to smell onions on his breath. “Even if you are a Practicus.”

Everything Nate had said was true. He had been inducted into the Golden Dawn, but it wasn’t because he believed in all the ooga booga. Instead, he’d been desperate for the affection of Maud Gonne, an aspiring Irish actress he’d met in London. He’d followed after her like a sad puppy for the better part of a year, dining where she dined, drinking where she drank, being friends with her friends. Ultimately she’d run off with a Frenchman, igniting the fuel that had sent Nate to China. Half a world away would put her as far out of sight as possible, and make him incapable of following through on his ill-thought plan of trailing after her to France.

Out of the cage and potentially a free man, Nate followed the Magus into the center chamber, which was now filled with three dozen men. Each wore a colored robe associated with their rank and position on the Golden Dawn Tree of Life.

The First Order was comprised of five ranks, with the Practicus the third. The Second Order was for Adepts and had three levels. The Third Order, those who were given access to the magical texts, also had three levels, Magister Templi, Magus and Ipsissimus. It was a rare occurrence to run into a Magus, and Nate had been told there were only five Ipsissimi in the world.

Nate was handed a light blue robe with three stripes on the arms to designate his rank. He slipped into it and found a place with the others of his color, who made up the outer ring of a half circle, which itself formed around the altar.

He hadn’t had the opportunity to fully appreciate the room on his entrance. The walls had been smoothed by chisel work. Here and there he could see the marks made by the coolies, but for the most part, every surface was completely even. Five chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the light from hundreds of candles illuminating the interior. Several large paintings and designs hung on the walls, and with a start he suddenly recognized his Caravaggio. It held a place of reverence above a marble table on which rested a golden ciborium and paten, both of which would have been more at home in a Catholic church than a hermetic temple. Next to these was a dagger formed from a caduceus, two intertwined snakes, each of their bodies coming to stiletto points to form twin blades. The altar was raised between the center of the room and the painting, so that when watching the Magus, one could see the placid face of Jesus forgiving guilt-wracked Judas.

In the end, his grandfather’s ratiocination had told him how to proceed. Once he’d discovered the linkage to the Golden Dawn, it had been easy to get into the mind of the man who’d accepted the stolen artwork. If there was one thing Nate had learned while chasing the skirt of his actress, it was that above all else, the Golden Dawn members loved ceremony. Even more than Masons, who were all choppy arms and angled feet, the Golden Dawn had a structure to their activities that bordered on the obsessive.

So it was with the cold and objective eye of a detective that Nate watched the Magus stand next to the empty altar and begin his Qabalistic incantations. While Magillicutty droned on, Nate surreptitiously glanced right and left to observe the other members of the First Order. Every single member’s eyes were closed; every single pair of hands was folded piously before them. These were believers. These were men who’d stood passively aside as Mexican children were sacrificed, probably on this very altar, trading the innocence of young lives for better crops, or healthy stock — or wealth.

Magillicutty’s words ceased. It was finally time for introductions.

“We have a surprise member with us tonight, all the way from England,” Magillicutty said in an imperious voice. “Come forward, brother, so that we may recognize you by the sign of a Practicus.”

The inner circle of Adepts parted to let Nate pass. Magillicutty made the sign of welcome and Nate made the sign of a Practicus… or at least he hoped he did. Standing with feet angled, knees flexed and fingers intertwined was not something one did every day. It must have been sufficient, however, because he was allowed to live. Even so, as he looked upon the members of the order he spied Burt Johnson; the unrobed cowhand was leaning against a wall and holding a Henry rifle in the crux of one arm.

“Tell us about the order across the pond, Mr. Dupes,” Magillicutty commanded. “Explain to these poor men of the continent how well the order fares in England and Europe.”

Nate looked into Magillicutty’s eyes and knew what the Magus wanted. Behind the beatific smile was a stern and steely gaze. Nate was reminded about what Agnes Moffit had said regarding the man bringing civilization to Douglas with the installation of a Sears, Roebuck and Co. catalogue store. Magillicutty had also brought with him a level of mysticism unbeknownst to the region. Nate doubted if any of the locals had even heard of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn before the big man’s arrival. Magillicutty had admitted to arriving in the territory five years ago, and the Mexican children had begun to go missing a couple of years later. It had probably taken Magillicutty two years to firmly establish the order, pulling from local businessmen and ranchers with his promises of good, better, and best everything.

“I asked if you would tell us about the order across the pond, Mr. Dupes.” Magillicutty’s eyes glittered in the rampant candlelight. “Cat got your tongue?”

A few of the Adepts chuckled.

“The order is strong in London and Paris, Magus. We have thousands of members, each one reaching the pinnacle of their careers.”

At his words, need flared in the eyes of the members of Magillicutty’s order. They needed to know that they were not alone. They needed to be told that everyone did what they did. He saw a few gazes stray to the entrance of the chamber where the girls were being held; the movement spoke volumes to the bill of spiritual goods Magillicutty had sold them.

“And do they perform sacrifice?” one asked in an almost timid tone of voice. The men next to the speaker looked at the ground, but Nate couldn’t tell whether they were embarrassed at the question or afraid of the forthcoming answer.

“Members of the order do whatever is needed to promote the order,” Nate said, repeating one of the initiation tenets. “If sacrifice is needed, then sacrifice is performed.” Although the words were spoken and written in ritual, Nate was fairly certain they referred to personal sacrifice rather than physical. Still, his words would serve to make the members feel as if they’d killed for a higher purpose. Even as a ruse, Nate hated himself for making them feel that way, for excusing their most terrible crimes even for an instant.

“Well done,” Magillicutty said under his breath. Then he raised his voice: “Speaking of sacrifice, we have a special occasion this evening. It is the celebration of the birth of Poemander, the bringer of the knowledge of Ra.” He spread his arms as if to encompass all the others. “What say you we celebrate this great moment and become one with the universe?”

The men of the order shouted, “Aye!” together, and the sound carried through the chambers. The candle flames above them flickered as though the words had created their own breeze.

Nate moved to go back to his place in the circle, but Magillicutty’s hand landed suddenly on his arm, heavy and cold. “Stay,” he said. “I would have you participate in the ritual.”

Nate’s stomach did a sad, sick lurch, then knotted back up when the twins were pushed through the doorway and into the circle. Their mouths were covered by cloth, their hands bound in front of them, and they’d been dressed in small white robes. Crimson bows pulled their blonde hair back from their pale, terrified faces.

Two Adepts placed them on the altar side by side. They were so tiny it only took one man to hold their feet, and another to push down their shoulders.

The Magus spoke again. “Adepts, who art thou?”

“We are followers of Poemander,” the Adepts said in unison. “We are the mind of the Great Lord, the most Mighty and absolute Emperor. We know that thou wouldst have us, for we are always present with thee.”

The Magus spoke yet again. “First Order, who art thou?”

“We are also followers of Poemander,” the members of the First Order said in unison. “We are the mind of the Great Lord, the most Mighty and absolute Emperor. We know that thou wouldst have us, for we are always present with thee.”

“And how do I know you?”

Everyone said, “By the third eye, the golden heart, and the rose cross.”

“And how shall you be known to each other?”

“By secret sign and by our deeds.”

“And what are your deeds?”

“To seek higher spiritual order and to become resident in the Tree of Life.”

“So mote it be.”

Everyone bowed their heads. “So mote it be.”

Nate started to lift his own head then felt a weight pressed into his hand. He looked down and saw the dagger made from the caduceus. Named and formed after the staff of Hermes, the messenger god, Nate supposed that the dagger would hasten the spirit to the afterlife. Glancing over at Magillicutty, he couldn’t help but fix on the soft space at the base of the man’s throat. But then he followed the man’s gaze to where Burt Johnson now held his Henry rifle at eye level, sighting down the barrel and ready to send a bullet through Nate’s heart, just as the Magus had promised.

“For Poemander and Thoth and Hermes, we take these lives,” Magillicutty intoned. “Repeat after me.”

Magillicutty began the Rosicrucian Prayer and everyone followed his words, their eyes on the dagger as they waited for him to finish. Nate knew what was expected of him. Two swift jabs, one through each girl’s heart.

What should he do? He could make their deaths swift, remove the fear from their eyes, take them from a world that would allow them to be stolen away to fulfill the maniacal whims of a cult leader who promised others a better harvest if only these two innocents’ lives were given in return.

Nate thought of Caravaggio’s painting and how the artist had put himself in as witness to the taking of Jesus. How ironic it was that Saint John seemed to flee while the stranger, Caravaggio, stayed. John had been one of Jesus’ followers, yet in the betrayal of his master by Judas, he’d tried to run. Had it been curiosity that made Caravaggio seem to stay? Or had it been necessity?

Suddenly the truth came to Nate. Not curiosity, never that. He simply hadn’t wanted Jesus to be alone in his last, worst hours.

Nate stared down at the girls with the same feeling. These were truly their last, worst hours.

When the prayer ended, all eyes turned on him. The silence in the room was incredible, almost suffocating… except for the sound of the Henry rifle being cocked.

Nate had no choice. He did what he had to.

He ducked down and stabbed Magillicutty right in the jimmy. When the man shrieked and bent over, grasping his groin, Nate jabbed upward and shoved the dagger home deep into the man’s left eye. By then all hell had broken loose, and the row of Adepts surged forward.

Nate stood and hooked an arm around each girl’s neck, dragging them off the table until his back was to the Caravaggio painting. As he pressed against the canvas, to his great relief, he felt a breeze at the base of his neck.

The men clambered toward Nate, their faces bright red, as a sea of hands reached forward, ready to rip him apart. He let the girls sag at his feet and urged them under the marble altar. As they crawled underneath it, he spied Burt Johnson trying to aim at him with his rifle, but there were too many heads in the way for a clean shot.

One of the Adepts leaped toward him.

Nate kicked down with the inside of his right foot, catching the man just above the knee and shattering it. He fell aside, screaming, but another one jumped to take his place. Nate caught this one across the throat with the edge of his right hand, dropping the man’s bellow into a thin gurgle.

A gunshot made him jerk his head toward Burt Johnson, but instead of the expected bullet through his own head, Nate saw the cowhand fall forward.

Then a Mexican with a wide-brimmed hat and crossed bandoliers stormed into the room, brandishing a pair of pistols—

Arango!

Stunned, the members of the Golden Dawn scattered as more and more Mexicans poured into the chamber. Too late, they flailed at their robes and tried to pull out their own guns, but a full half were shot before they could even tug their weapons free. Others succeeded, and suddenly the noise became unbearable, explosion after explosion as the sounds combined with smoke and the smell of gunpowder to create a ten-second dose of hell just below the surface of the earth.

When it was done, the only ones left standing were seven Mexicans — Arango and six of his men — and Nate Dupes.

Arango picked his way over the bodies to where Nate stood, then helped him pull the girls from their hiding place beneath the altar. Untied and freed of their gags, they clutched at Nate and began to cry.

“This is a delicious revenge,” Arango said. He pointed at the room full of dead men. “These are the ones who have been murdering our children.”

Nate nodded, suddenly fighting with his emotions. He’d been holding everything so close inside that he felt like spinning with happiness. Instead of making a fool of himself, he grinned and said, “It took you long enough.”

“You know us Mexicans, amigo. We love our drama.”

“Did you think this was all shit, Nate Dupes?”

Nate and Arango spun at the same time, and Nate gasped at the sight of Magillicutty, standing tall and firm just behind them. The caduceus dagger jutted grotesquely from his eye above a wet stream of blood and clear fluid. Magillicutty raised one hand toward the ceiling and pointed at Nate with the other; his voice was hollow and oddly echoing. “Did you believe there was nothing to what we do?”

Nate felt a tingling along his spine and he backstepped, stumbling against Arango.

“I curse you, Nate Dupes. You shall never be happy. You shall never find peace." The words reverberated off the stone walls.

“How is he alive?” Arango demanded. “How can this be?”

Nate tried to answer, but found he couldn’t speak. Magillicutty swayed and switched to Greek, his words tumbling out. The ground began to tremble. Pieces of debris fell from the ceiling.

Arango pushed Nate aside and shouted to his men. “Corre!”

They scrambled out just before a piece of the wall collapsed and blocked the exit. Without hesitating, Arango drew both of his pistols and shot Magillicutty with every bullet he had, until he was clicking only on empty chambers. The Magus jerked with every gunshot, then stood for a long moment. When he finally fell, the ceiling — first in parts, then the rest — fell with him.

There was no more time to waste.

Nate ripped the painting free, revealing a tunnel bored into the rock wall. Arango went in first, pulling the twins behind him. Nate dove into the hole in the rock just before everything in the room collapsed with a roar. Pulling himself to his feet in total darkness, he felt his way along the tunnel, using his hands as eyes and following the faint sounds farther down. According to the Chinese coolie who’d told him about this escape route, it would twist and turn until it came out the back of the mountain. It seemed like forever until Nate finally smelled the clean and dust-free air of an Arizona night and came out on a ledge about seven feet above the ground. The girls were waiting for him with their backs to the hillside.

Arango had already made his way down. Four horses were staked and waiting for them below. The Mexican leaped atop one and reached out a hand. “Here, let me help.”

With the painting dragging from his left hand, Nate reached for the nearest girl.

“The painting first,” Arango called.

Nate stopped. “Why?”

“Let’s get it out of the way.”

Of course — right now it was a hindrance, dragging on the ground and getting in the way. Nate hastily rolled it, then leaned over the edge and handed it down to Arango.

The Mexican grinned broadly. “You have shown me what one has to do, amigo. I thank you for that. My people thank you as well. You are always welcome with us. I shall make it known.” He yanked on the horse’s reins and spun to the side.

“Wait,” Nate cried. “Where are you going?”

“Soon there will be a revolution!” Arango pulled up hard and his horse reared and pawed the air. “We will take back what was taken from us.” He hefted the painting above his head in a sign of victory. “And this will help to finance it!”

“You’re leaving us,” Nate said incredulously.

“You have horses,” Arango pointed out. “You have your life. Be thankful.”

“But you could help us!”

“Solo el que carga el cajon sabe lo que pesa el muerto,” Arango told him. “It means ‘Only he who carries the coffin knows how much the dead man weighs.’ Know this, Nate Dupes, and live it. You cannot know what someone else carries in his soul, nor feel the suffering he bears.”

Nate’s mouth twisted. “Trust no one, you mean.”

“It’s more than that,” Arango said with an almost sad smile. “Much more. Adiós, amigo — and know that you gave birth to the Revolution!”

And Arango was gone, leaving Nate on the side of a hill in the middle of nowhere with twin girls, feeling like he was standing in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Fifteen years later, after a decade and a half of experiences, but never a day of true happiness, Nate Dupes sits at a café table in New York City and recognizes a picture in the newspaper. The black and white image shows him a Mexican revolutionary bandit whom he knows was born José Doroteo Arango Arámbula.

But now, in this newspaper and forever after, this Mexican is known as Pancho Villa.