Demonologist (10 page)

“Only my closest friends tonight.” Jake, sidling up, strangely reserved.

“You forgot to call me
douchebag
.”

“I’m feeling melancholy.
Birthdays’ll
do that to you once you hurdle thirty-five. Being forty-four, well, I’m damn near bilge at the bottom-of-the-boat. Figured a small get-together with my friends might cheer me up some.”

“I’ve never known you to be so serious, Jake.”

“Fuck it.”

“That’s better.” Bev smiled, then asked, “Got any coffee?”

“Ask one of the waitresses. In the kitchen.”

“Thanks.” Jake ran off as the doorbell rang and a few more people arrived. Bev slid into the kitchen, trading smiles with Rebecca in passing. He found some coffee already brewed, and fixed himself a cup, dark with cream.

In an hour, the party had grown to a vibrant forty. People were drinking and eating, tying themselves into knots of conversation. Strangely enough, none of the members of Bev’s band had come, and neither had Kristin, whom he’d expected. He phoned her apartment. Got only her machine. Left her a message.
Where are you, baby? I came to this party just for you.

Or did I? If only I could remember
...

He mingled about, helping himself to hors
d’ourves
offered on platters by two well-dressed servers-for-hire. He talked to T.J. Fleming, a balding, freckled-faced L.A. radio host who gently hinted to Bev about doing a live on-air performance. Bev agreed to it, somewhat, asking him to arrange a date with Jake. Fleming responded with a mirthful grin. Bobby
SanSouci
cornered Bev too, albeit politely, and took as much time as Bev was willing to allow: about ten minutes. Bev endowed Bobby with no additional insight on his future intentions:
Speak to Jake sometime next week. Come to think of it, I just haven’t been feeling that well lately. Make it the week after that.
Rebecca
Haviland
kept mostly to other conversations, but not without answering Bev’s guileful glances with a few sidelong smiles of her own.

Also in attendance were people Bev didn’t know. One man in particular, seated on a couch by himself, wearing grey dress pants and a black shirt, piqued Bev’s curiosity. Perhaps in his early fifties, he had dark features, graying hair, with thick creases in his brow. Bev could see something desperate filling his eyes; yet, at the same time, a sense of warmth emanated from them—a quasi-psychic reassurance to Bev that everything would be okay.

“You look familiar,” the man remarked, eyes narrowed, voice cradling.

“Bev
Mathers
. I’m a musician.”

“Father Thomas Danto. Pleased to meet you.” He held out the hand that wasn’t busy with a glass of brandy. Bev accepted it. Cold. Tense. There was a shudder in it, and then he let go.
  

Father?

“Likewise. Are you friends with Jake?” His deliberate tone had
skepticism
all over it. He’d never known Jake to be the religious type.

“Jake is a new member of our congregation, at St. Michaels.”

“St. Michaels. On
Caliendo
Street.”

“Correct.” The priest smiled, then commented sarcastically, “I thought it might be interesting to see how you rock-and-roll people live.” He laughed mirthfully. Unfunny holy humor, Bev guessed.

“Don’t believe anything you hear. We’re a tame bunch.” Then added, with a wink, “For the most part.” At once Bev concluded as to why Jake had toned his language down: there was a holy man in attendance. This would be a first: no ”
douchebags
” in attendance at the party tonight.

“There are worse sins in the world than indulgence,” Father Danto said. “And I’m not one to judge. Even we holy men take to drink much too often, I’m afraid.”

Jake walked over and joined the pair. “I see you’ve met Father Danto, Bev.”

Bev nodded. “I have.”

“In addition to being a priest, the father is also an archaeologist.”

“Really?” he answered, feigning interest.

The priest shrugged modestly. “Non-practicing for the last twenty years—no time beyond my call of duty.”

“Ah well,
mon
...
monsieur
...the father needed a place to stay tonight. They’re doing a bit of clean-up at the church.”

Bev cast the priest a questioning glance.

Father Danto nodded, speaking reluctantly, it seemed. “Well, unfortunately, a disgraceful crime occurred at the rectory last night, forcing us all to relocate temporarily.”

“Oh...that’s terrible,” Bev said. “What kind of crime?”

He hesitated, then answered, “One of a most deplorable nature. Unfortunately we share this world with many sick people who have no qualms about committing blasphemies, for whatever selfish reasons they claim.” His voice rose in volume, showing a bit of anger, and perhaps fear.

Judd
Schiffer
, a reporter for the
L.A. Times
who’d done an
Entertainment Page
story on Bev’s “late-age” rise to success, moved in on the conversation. “Father Danto? Judd
Schiffer
. We spoke this morning on the phone. I did the story for the
Times
.”

“Mr.
Schiffer
...hello. My, this is a coincidence.”

“Indeed. Pleased to meet you, and thank you for the information.”

Danto nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Bev interjected, “I seem to be the only one in the dark here—can someone fill me in on what happened?”

Schiffer
answered. “Last night, someone performed a Satanic ritual on the lawn outside St. Michaels.”

“Well...not really,” Father Danto said, correcting the reporter.

“Pardon?”
Schiffer’s
incredulity shined like a beacon.

“It wasn’t exactly a
Satanic
ritual.”

“Father, it certainly appears that way—”

“Appearances can be deceiving, Judd. The ferocity of the act committed last night shows more of an influence of
demonic
worship.”
Schiffer
nodded, in understanding now. “There are vast differences between Satanism and Demonology, and even witchcraft. The kind of extreme conduct we saw last night doesn’t carry any
Satanistic
hallmarks.” He took a sip of brandy. “Demon worship, yes. But not Satanism.”

Bev found this sudden conversation riveting—especially with a priest involved.
Schiffer
sipped his drink, his gaze deadpan. “What’s the difference?”

“There’s a big difference. Satanism is a formulated religion based on a crude set of self-serving morals. Satanists, or members of the Church Of Satan, worship Satan as a God, and under his guise and so-called rule, act in immoral and selfish ways. But Satanists...they are also very secretive in their enterprises, and are considered to be merely harmless atheists. Yes, animal sacrifices are rumored to be made, but only within their private confines, and only during black masses, which are conducted solely on their appointed holidays. It’s a systemized and widespread organization that focuses, really, on parodying the Catholic religion, with no true harmful intent.

“Demon worship, on the other hand, which is also in its own way systemized—albeit amongst smaller cults—carries a much larger a threat with it. Demonologists and their followers take their ancient craft very seriously, utilizing the enigmatic powers of black magic in an effort to raise demon spirits from their slumbers. Demon worshippers are not merely atheists. They are individuals who knowingly and willingly choose to worship evil spirits and fallen angels instead of God. They seek only darkness and death, and are more than willing to go to any extreme to attain their goal. Hence, the sacrifice at the church.”

“
Sacrifice?
” Bev asked, stunned.

Jake,
uncustomarily
demure, asked, “Father, it sounds as though you’re a bit of an expert on this stuff—black masses and devil worship and everything?”

Danto shrugged, as if embarrassed. Swirled his drink. “I’ve done my fair share of research on Demonology and its history in religion.”
 

Bev asked impatiently, “Please forgive me for prying, but what exactly happened at the church?”

Schiffer
, asking permission: “Father?”

The priest nodded.

“Last night, someone sacrificed a goat on the lawn outside the rectory. It had been decapitated, its carcass gutted and impaled on a large crucifix. Its entrails were laid out into a pentagram shape beneath the cross.”

Danto added solemnly, “The individual—or individuals—who did this somehow made their way inside the rectory during the night. All of the priests, myself included, woke up this morning with goat’s blood on our hands. On one of the walls in the rectory, someone scribbled in blood,
Baphomet
has risen
. History tells us that
Baphomet
was a bearded demon with a goat’s head.”

“
Jesus
.” Bev was stunned.

“And the goat’s head,”
Schiffer
added unobtrusively, “was found perched upon the altar of the church, wrapped in sacred cloth.”

“The most alarming part of all,” resumed Father Danto, “is that there were no signs of forced entry. We have no idea how the person got into the rectory, or the church, since everything was locked up at ten P.M. Father Sandi was on duty last night, and he insists that all the doors were locked when he made his rounds.”

“Which means that the person who committed this act either has a key, or, was already on the inside.”
 

“An inside job.” Jake shrugged. “Sounds like something out of NYPD Blue.”

There was a wave of uncomfortable laughter. Father Danto said blandly, “It’s certainly reason enough for us to sleep elsewhere for now. Masses will still be performed, of course, but we’ll have to stay away until the smoke clears.”

Bev took a sip of coffee. Strangely, he felt invigorated.
No headache. No ghostly fingers
. “Father Danto...you mentioned earlier that you’d had some experience with Satanism. Is there any truth to all this black magic stuff?”

 
“Not Satanism,” he corrected. “Demonology. And yes, there is a great deal of validity to it. I attended the Institute of Archaeology in Jerusalem during the late sixties. I’d had a great deal of interest in the beginnings of Christianity, and the course curriculum at the university included an in-depth study of the archaeological finds from the first millennium B.C.E., at a site located just beyond the outskirts of the city. During the Six Day War, some errant
shellings
in the desert unearthed a burial ground near the site from the lower city section of
Hazor
, also dating back to the biblical era. There’d been a great deal of excitement at the time, as many of us had thought the discovery might be that of Jesus’ burial site—we religious archaeologists always think that. But eventually, after the
heiroglyphs
on the tomb were translated, we found our expectations to be misguided. What we’d found was no holy ground at all—it was the site of a massacre where thirteen children had been slaughtered by a man who called himself Allieb, son of the demon Belial. According to the story, Allieb was caught and punished for his sins, buried alive by the townspeople in the very same tomb he constructed for his
sacrifants
. For months we studied the bones of the children, and discovered that they’d all been flayed. Each of them had been decapitated with their heads positioned atop their groins, hands holding the skulls in place. There had been some attempt at mummification, but as we all know, only the Egyptians had mastered that craft, so there wasn’t much left of the children’s bodies to study, save for their brittle bones and some bristles of hair.”