Where There's Smoke

Twenty-Eight

“How long have they been in there?”

“They went in maybe five minutes before I called you,” Henry said. “I wanted to make sure they were stay­ing before I looked for a phone booth.”

We were sitting in the cab of his truck. The engine was running, and the windshield wipers swept aside the heavy rain, affording us a good view of the dark and silent church across the street.

“There’s condemned signs all over it,” Henry said, “and the windows are boarded up. I counted maybe two dozen people going in since Fletcher and the bald guy got here. They been going in one at a time or in pairs, Ben, through the back there—you see that gate in the iron rail­ing?”

“Yes, I see it.”

“A patrol car went by about ten minutes ago, but either they been paid to ignore it, or they didn’t see nothing.”

“Where’d you pick up Natalie?”

“Outside that building on Ninety-sixth, like you said. I followed her out to Hainesville. She went in a rooming house there, didn’t come out again till almost dark. Then she drove down near the Tolliver Street Bridge—you know the bridge down there? Something must’ve hap­pened down there, Ben. There were fire engines and po­lice cars all over the place. Anyway, she picked up the bald guy about four blocks away from the bridge. He was carrying two heavy suitcases.”

“Where’d they go after she picked him up?”

“They went to eat, and then to a movie. They came out about eleven-fifteen, and I followed them here.”

“Good, Henry. You ready to go in there?”

“What’s in there?” he asked.

“A wedding,” I said.

He cut the engine, and we walked through the rain to­ward the church. An iron railing surrounded the small graveyard behind it. We went through the gate. As we ap­proached an arched wooden door in the rear stone wall of the church, I reached into my pocket.

“Put this on,” I said.

“What is it?”

“A hood. I hope the eyeholes are in the right place.”

He took the hood and pulled it on over his head. “Very nice,” he said.

“I made it myself.”

“Very nice. I dig silk,” he said.

I pulled the second hood over my own head, and then I knocked on the wooden door. We waited several mo­ments. The door opened a crack.

“Yes?” a man’s voice said.

“We’re Cleopatra’s guests,” I said.

The door opened onto a small entryway constructed entirely of stone. The man who admitted us was short and squat. Like Henry and me, he was wearing a black hood over his head. He studied us through the eyeholes, and then silently indicated that we should go through the archway opposite the entrance door. There were iron hinges in the stone blocks supporting the arch, reminders of where another door once had been. We went through the archway and into a large vaulted room supported by stone pillars. The only illumination came from candles burning in sconces on the walls. An altar was at the front of the room, but if there had ever been pews, there was no evidence of them now. A large half-moon-shaped area of floor space had been left open before the altar, defined by the altar itself and the rough semicircle of folding chairs that had been arranged around it. On those chairs, at least three dozen black-hooded people were sitting. Henry and I found seats. I looked at my watch. It was five minutes to midnight. No one spoke. The windows in the room were boarded over from the outside, and the air was stale. More people came through the archway into the room. By midnight all of the seats had been filled, and several people were standing behind the circle of chairs.

To the left of the altar, black curtains parted. A hooded figure in a black robe moved swiftly to the altar. Even be­fore she spoke, I knew from the erect carriage that this was Susanna Martin.

“Welcome,” she said. “I welcome yon in the name of Lucifer, and in the name of Beelzebub, his Prime Minis­ter. I welcome you for Astorath, the Grand Duke, and for Lucifuge and Satanachia, Agaliarept and Flueretty, Sargatanas, Nebiros, Agares and Marbas, Bathim and Bael, Nuberus and Aamon, and all others in the infernal hierar­chy. I bid you welcome for them, and I bid you, also, to reaffirm now the Satanic Oath we each have separately and in the presence of this company sworn before.”

She raised her arms like a stickup victim, bent at the elbows, the wide black sleeves of the robe falling back to reveal pale white flesh, the palms of her hands turned to the semicircle of silent, hooded people.

“We, Lucifer,” she said, “and all beforementioned and following spirits...”

“We, Lucifer,” they repeated, “and all beforementioned and following spirits ...”

“Swear to you, to almighty God through Jesus of Nazareth...”

“Swear to you, to almighty God through Jesus of Nazareth...”

“The Crucified One, our conqueror ...”

“The Crucified One, our conqueror...”

“That we will faithfully perform everything written in the Liber Spiritum...”

“That we will faithfully perform everything written in the Liber Spiritum...”

“And never do you harm, either to your body or your soul...”

“And never do you harm, either to your body or your soul...”

“And execute all things immediately and without re­fusing.”

“And execute all things immediately and without re­fusing.”

The room went utterly still.

“I will summon Satan to this company,” Susanna said.

Henry tamed his hooded head to look at me. At the altar, Susanna bent out of sight for a moment. When she stood again, she was holding in her hands a long black box, shaped somewhat like a child’s coffin. She carried this around the altar, holding it by the ornate silver han­dles on either end, and then stepped down onto the open floor space circumscribed by the folding chairs. She knelt swiftly and gracefully, put the box down on the floor and, still kneeling, lifted its lid. From the box she took a pair of silver candlesticks, and fitted black candles into them. She carried these to the center of the floor, lighted both candles, rose, and walked quickly back to the box. When she returned again to the burning candles, she was hold­ing a long twig in one hand and what appeared to be a quartz crystal in the other.

“This is a bough of hazel,” she intoned.

“Cut last night,” the hooded figures responded.

“With a new knife,” she said.

“From a tree that has never borne fruit,” they said.

“As prescribed in the Great Grimoire, the book of me­dieval magic.”

“Summon the Devil,” they chanted.

“And this is a bloodstone, as further prescribed.”

“Summon the Devil,” they chanted.

Using the bloodstone, Susanna traced an invisible tri­angle around the candles on the floor, and then a large cir­cle that encompassed candles and triangle. She stepped into the triangle and knelt to place the bloodstone between both silver candlesticks. Then, standing fully erect again, she grasped the hazel wand in both hands, left hand clutching one end of it, right hand clutching the other.

“I will repeat the Grimoire invocation twice, summon­ing Lucifer, Lord of the Infernal Hierarchy.”

“Lucifer, our Lord,” they chanted.

“I conjure you, Great Spirit,” she said, “to appear within a minute, by the power of Great Adonai, by Eloim, by Ariel and Johavam, Agla and Tagla, Mathon, Oarios...”

The recitation seemed endless. In order to reach Lu­cifer, one apparently had to call upon a battery of lesser demons. “Almouzin,” she said now, “and Mebrot,” stand­ing in the center of her invisible triangle, “Varvis, Rabost,” the candles flickering at her feet, which I noticed were bare, “Salamandrae, Tabost,” both hands clutching the hazel wand, “Janua, Etituamus, Zariatnctmik.”

Her voice stopped abruptly. Scarcely pausing to catch her breath, she went through the ritual a second time, just as she had promised, and this time I began counting. Be­fore she stopped again, I’d counted twenty-seven names in all.

She dropped to her knees. There was the sudden sound of chair legs scraping against the stone floor as the black-hooded assemblage, following her lead, knelt in worship to whomever she had conjured. I saw no one. Neither Lu­cifer nor any of his demons were visible to my eyes, but Susanna’s body stiffened, and she touched her forehead to the floor and placed her trembling hands palms-down on the stones. A single word hissed sibilantly from be­neath the black hood.

“Master.”

“Master,” they whispered.

What followed was the equivalent of eavesdropping on someone making a long-distance telephone call—a very long distance, in this case. I could hear Susanna’s voice, of course, but I could not hear Lucifer responding. I had dropped to my knees the moment the assemblage had. Henry was kneeling beside me. His arm brushed mine; he was shaking.

“We are honored,” Susanna said.

(Silence)

“We summon you tonight to witness and to bless the union of a pair devoted to you and to each other.”

(Silence)

“We beg that you observe, and pray we do not suffer your wrath from grevious omission or inadvertent error. May I rise?”

(Silence)

She got to her feet.

“May we rise?” the assemblage asked.

(Silence)

They rose, the semicircle of black hoods floating up­ward like malevolent balloons. A pair of similarly hooded figures parted the curtains and walked hand-in-hand past the altar. They stepped down to the open floor space and knelt before the burning black candles. Susanna held out both hands and rested them on the bowed heads of the couple.

“Master,” she said, “we beseech you to receive this woman, known to you in ancient times as Cleopatra, daughter of the Nile, Queen of all Egypt, proud possessor of the Ptolemaic name.”

“We beseech you to receive,” the assemblage chanted.

“We beseech you, too, to receive her in her present form, as Natalie Fletcher, who is here this midnight not to wed anew but to wed again, we beseech you to receive.”

“We beseech you to receive,” they chanted.

“We beseech you to receive as well her intended groom, who casts aside the hated name bestowed in keep­ing with the Christian belief, through baptism vile, in cer­emony honoring Jesus of Nazareth, the Crucified One, our conqueror, we beseech you to condemn to blackest night the name of Arthur Joseph Wylie ...”

“We beseech you to receive, we beseech you to con­demn ...”

“And accept as supplicant the reborn Harry Fletcher, brother to Natalie, and by profound belief, the brother, too, of Cleopatra. We beseech you to receive Ptolemy the Twelfth, who by virtue of the solemn ceremony for­swears allegiance to all other masters, renounces and for­sakes the Jesus who renounced you, and swears that he will faithfully perform everything written in the Liber Spiritum, and never do you harm, either to your body or your soul, and execute all things immediately and with­out refusing. We beseech you to receive.”

“We beseech you to receive.”

Susanna looked down at the kneeling couple. “Do ei­ther of you know of any reason why you both should not be joined in wedlock, or if there be any in this company who can show any just cause why these parties should not be joined, let him now speak or hereafter hold his peace.”

The vaulted room was silent.

Susanna knelt, picked up the bloodstone from where it was resting between the burning black candles, rose again, and touched the stone to the hooded forehead of the figure on her left.

“Do you, Harry Fletcher, take this woman as your wife to live together in the state of matrimony? Will you love, honor and keep her as a faithful man is bound to do, in health, sickness, prosperity and adversity, and forsaking all others keep you alone unto her as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.”

Susanna moved the bloodstone to the hooded forehead of the figure on her right.

“Do you, Natalie Fletcher, take this man as your hus­band to live together in the state of matrimony? Will you love, honor and cherish him as a faithful woman is bound to do, in health, sickness, prosperity and adversity, and forsaking all others keep you alone unto him as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.”

“For as you both have consented in wedlock, and have acknowledged it before this company, I do by virtue of the power vested in me now pronounce you man and wife in the presence of our Lord and Master. And may He bless your union.”

She held out the bloodstone. They each kissed it in turn, raising the hoods briefly, and then lowering them over their faces again. I nudged Henry. I thought the cer­emony was over, and I wanted to catch Natalie and Arthur before they ran off on their honeymoon. But they continued to kneel before Susanna, who now spread her arms wide, holding them above her head in an open V. Apparently, there was more business to conduct

The curtains parted again. A tall hooded figure came through them and walked swiftly to where Susanna was standing. In one hand he was carrying something with a black cloth over it. In the other hand he was carrying a carving knife. He knelt before Susanna, waiting.

“We beseech you, ancient serpent,” she said, “to accept this sacrifice of blood as token of this solemn union.” She nodded. The black cloth was pulled away, revealing a cage. Something squealed. A hand darted into the cage, there was another squeal, the knife flashed out, there was silence.

“We beseech you now...” Susanna said.

“We beseech you now ...” the assemblage repeated.

“We beseech you, judge of the living dead, who orders the winds and the sea and the tempests, we beseech you...”

“We beseech you ...”

“Master of the Lower Regions, to leave us now in peace, knowing we are pleased and contented, and to go in quiet, secure in our faith. We beseech you.”

“We beseech you,” they whispered, and the room fell silent again.

Susanna suddenly laughed and clutched Natalie to her in embrace. The ceremony was over and done with, Lu­cifer had apparently gone back to Hell in peace, secure in the knowledge of their faith, stinking of brimstone, trail­ing silken garments, and pouring lower-case smoke from bis pointed hairy ears. The assembled worshippers were moving toward where the black candles now sputtered fitfully in the silver candlesticks. There were cries of con­gratulations, and more embraces.

“Let’s go,” I said to Henry.

We moved swiftly to the archway at the back of the room, and then through it to the thick wooden entrance door. It was still raining outside. We took off the hoods.

“Where’d she park the station wagon?” I asked.

“Up the street,” Henry said. His eyes were wet.

“Are you all right?”

“Weddings make me cry,” he said.

They came out of the church not five minutes later. They had taken off their hoods, and they walked rapidly toward the blue Buick. They were chattering gaily. As Natalie unlocked the car, Arthur said something that made her laugh. Henry and I moved out of the doorway across the street, and ran to the car.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher?” I said.

Natalie turned. She was extraordinarily beautiful, long black hair wet with rain, brown eyes accentuated by black mascara and green shadow, generous mouth tinted blood-red. She must have assumed Henry and I were well-wishers, guests who’d taken off our hoods and fol­lowed them outside to offer our congratulations. She was smiling. Her eyes were bright. Her face looked almost ra­diant. Beside her, Arthur Wylie frowned. He had recog­nized me at once, from our early-morning meeting the night before, when he’d told me he was Amos Wakefield. He grabbed her arm. He was ready to bolt. And then he saw the gun in my hand.

“I think you’d better come with me,” I said.