The Colour of Death (35 page)

Fox looked at the violet gemstone on the floor and in the wall.  “Why amethyst?”

“Many reasons.  It’s tough:  seven on the Mohs scale of mineral hardness.  Diamond, the hardest, is ten.  Amethyst is cheap too; there are vast deposits in Brazil.  The main reasons for choosing amethyst, however, are that the violet gemstone is the color of death, it corresponds to the seventh chakra and gives the most defined imprint.”  Delaney pointed to the ankh around his neck.  “This contains an amethyst taken from a section of the headboard above my father's deathbed.  The headboard only contained a few decorative inlays of the gemstone but its imprint of my father’s death was deeper and more resonant than in the surrounding wall.  It’s also an excellent conductor for channeling the echoes.”

He reached out and patted the black ledger in Fox’s hand.  “Every one of the souls listed in there is in my collection.”  He turned to his son.  “We started at the bottom with the reds and the other animal chakras, didn’t we, Kaidan?  Then we began working our way up.”  Kaidan didn’t respond but Delaney didn’t care.  He was enjoying explaining his work.  “As well as color, we’ve experimented with age and gender, to see which subjects reveal the clearest path to the infinite.  Our hypothesis is that the higher up the chakra scale, the better the subject.”

He watched Fox flick through the ledger, scanning the names, struggling to understand the enormity of his vision.  “You’re saying that each of the people listed in this book was murdered next to one of the plaques in the walls?” said Fox.  “Just to imprint their individual death echo and add it to your collection?”

“They weren’t murdered.  The contributed gladly to the Great Work.  Most pleaded with me to sacrifice their worthless physical shell for a glimpse of the infinite.  Now, by touching a plaque I can experience that person’s dying imprint.  But the Great Work is about more than just collecting death echoes.”

“And this?” Sorcha said, tentatively reaching down to the violet lotus symbol on the floor.  As soon as she touched the amethyst she pulled back her hand as if scalded.  “What madness made you do this?”

Delaney frowned, unaccustomed to being challenged or questioned.  He would have to make them appreciate and acknowledge the genius of what he had done.  “It’s not madness.  It’s very simple.”  He pointed at the white concave table on which images from the camera obscura were projected by day.  “That’s for observing the living.”  His foot tapped the amethyst flower on the floor.  “This is for communing with the dead.  This is my chorus of lost souls, my symphony of the dead and my inspiration for continuing with the Great Work.  Death echoes diminish the further they travel from their source, but, as I said, amethyst is an excellent conductor.  The network of amethyst in the walls conducts the individual plaques and then channels each death echo up the tower.

“Like veins carrying blood to the heart, every death echo flows into this amethyst lotus flower beneath our feet, the symbol of Sahasrara, the crown chakra of pure consciousness:  the God Source.  This symbol resonates with the faint but combined death throes of all the imprinted souls in this tower.”  Delaney bent down, as if in prayer, placed his cheek flat against the polished gemstone and closed his eyes.  For a moment he said nothing, just allowed the intense visions, smells and sounds to swirl around him.  “This, Dr. Fox, is why Sorcha can’t touch the violet.  To me, this amethyst beneath our feet is a heavenly choir of the dying.  Touching it makes my heart soar, makes me feel alive and validates my mission.  To her, though, it’s a sea of damned souls.  She’s so sensitive to their cries she fears that is she stands on it she will drown in their suffering.  I envy the connection she feels.”

Fox stared down at the polished amethyst as if trying to see the ghosts in its shimmering reflective surface.  “What do you hope to achieve by capturing all these death echoes?”

“To follow their path and see beyond the veil.  To regain my rightful, divine inheritance.  Isn't it obvious?  And this is just the start.  A small part of the Great Work.”

“But these are nothing more than imprinted echoes,” said Fox.  “Residual memories of a spent life force.  You only sense them because of your rare synaesthesia.  They can tell you no more about the afterlife than a spent match can tell you about fire.  You’re not a god.  There’s no magic here.  How many people have to die before you understand that?”

Delaney couldn’t believe it.  The man still didn’t understand.  Don’t be so obtuse.  These are much more than echoes:  they’re spiritual footprints, a trail left by the departing astral body.  A trail we can follow.”

“How can you know that?”

How can I know that?
  Had the psychiatrist not been listening?  Did the man not understand that he was the Seer?  Delaney’s veneer of civility suddenly deserted him.  “How
dare
you fucking question me?  How dare you doubt me?  What do you know of this?  Have
you
studied the phenomenon?  Have
you
experienced it?  Of course you haven’t. 
I
have.”

Fox still wouldn’t back down.  “Whatever it is, your Great Work’s over,” he said.  “When the police come looking for me—”

“They’ll find nothing,” Delaney snarled.  “You were never here.”  He indicated Kaidan.  “The police don’t think the killer was linked to us before, why should they think he is now?  Not only have they no proof Kaidan was ever in Portland, they don’t even know of his existence.  And the police won’t find anything to interest them in here.  A silk garrote is used for every sacrifice, which leaves no blood or mess, no trace at all.”

“What about the bone pit in the forest?”

Delaney thought for a second, absorbing the fact that Fox had found the burial ground.  “What about it?  It’s simply an unconventional burial site on private property — an offering back to nature of our discarded bodies.  Assuming the authorities do find it, Kaidan will have already removed anything remotely incriminating.  If I were you, Dr. Fox, I’d worry less about dismissing the Great Work and more about what’s going to happen to you.”  He turned to his daughter.  “What do
you
think, Sorcha?  Will you kneel on the lotus flower, touch the amethyst and then tell me they’re nothing more than empty echoes or dumb imprints?”  Sorcha didn’t move.  “I thought not.”  He turned to the Wives.  “Enough of this.  Take her away.”

While listening to Delaney talk about his precious tower and Great Work, Fox had been studying the man, trying to understand better who he was dealing with.  Throughout his career Fox had interviewed numerous patients and criminals with every form of psychosis and neurosis, but the ruthlessness of Delaney’s psychopathy and scope of his megalomania were in a different league.  Not only could the man not comprehend why anyone would be horrified by his Great Work, he demanded adoration for its brilliant vision and execution.

Fox’s main focus had been on Kaidan, however.  He’d been waiting for when the big man might lower his guard — and rifle.  That moment came when Delaney ordered the Wives to take Sorcha away.  As the Wives approached, both Regan Delaney and Kaidan shifted their attention for an instant, and Fox took his chance.  He lashed out with a straight punch to Kaidan’s solar plexus, then he turned and hit him hard, aiming for the larynx with the point of his elbow.  But Kaidan twisted as he fell, protecting his throat.  Fox reached for the rifle, but before he could wrest it from Kaidan’s fingers Delaney was upon him.  He was strong and it took Fox precious seconds to fend him off by slamming the heel of his hand into Delaney’s face with a satisfying crunch.  By then Kaidan had recovered enough to ram the rifle barrel into Fox’s gut and then slam the stock against his back.  Fox’s legs buckled beneath him and he fell to his knees, winded.  As Kaidan stood over him and raised the rifle butt Fox tried to catch his breath and defend himself.  Then Sorcha stepped onto the amethyst and threw herself at her half-brother.

“Leave him alone.”

“You’re on the amethyst, Sorcha,” said Delaney, spitting blood from his mouth.  “You care that much for Dr. Fox?”

She ignored Delaney and bent down to Fox.  “I’m so sorry, Nathan,” she said.  “For getting you into this.”

“It’s OK,” he wheezed.  As the Wives pulled her away he tried to rise to his feet, but Kaidan hit him again.  “Where are you taking her?” Fox demanded.  “What are you going to do with her?”

Delaney bent down so his face was inches away from Fox’s.  His skin was white with anger.  “That doesn’t concern you anymore.”  He revealed a syringe in his right hand and injected the contents into Fox’s shoulder.  The instant he felt the jab Fox knew it was ketamine.  He could feel the numbness running like ice through his veins.  He tried to fight the drug but knew it was futile.  His head fell to the floor and before his face lost all feeling the polished amethyst felt cool against his cheek.  He had fallen on one of the areas patterned with holes and as he lay there he glimpsed the Wives dragging Sorcha down the staircase.  “Nathan, Nathan,” she kept calling up to him.  But he couldn’t reply.

“Dr. Fox, you should never have got involved with my daughter,” said Delaney, taking the small silk noose, which Fox now realized was a hand tie, and securing his right wrist to the amethyst plinth.  His voice sounded far away.  “You should never have come here.”  At that moment, if Fox could have spoken, he would have agreed with him.  Delaney walked toward the stairs.  “Come, Kaidan.  We must prepare for tomorrow.”

“What about him?”

“He’s not going anywhere.  Let him get to know the other ghosts.”  Fox heard the violet door close but could still hear Sorcha calling his name.  “Help them keep her quiet,” said Delaney, sending Kaidan ahead.  As Fox lay immobile, he noticed the plaques on the walls around him.  All were blank.  Delaney had no violet death echoes in his collection.  Was this why Sorcha was so important to his Great Work?  Were they both to be sacrificed at Esbat so they could join Delaney’s chorus of the dying?

Suddenly, the lamps went out, leaving him paralyzed and in virtual darkness.  Only a dim light from the level below shone through the holes in the glowing amethyst.  He no longer had any sense of his body and wondered how much ketamine Delaney had given him.  Large enough doses could cut you off from your surroundings and sense of self.  Drug users called it the K-hole.  As well as making it impossible to move or talk it could also make swallowing or breathing difficult.

He thought of the other lost souls trapped in the tower and suddenly felt very alone.  It would be days before his aunt alerted Jordache that he hadn’t returned and even then the detective would have no reason to suspect the worst.  It could be a week before Jordache came looking for him, if he came at all.  By then Fox could be nothing more than an imprinted memory, his dying moments recorded in the walls of the tower.  Trying to keep at bay the echoes in the dark, he peered through the holes carved in the floor, and focused on the weak light below.

Suddenly, he saw two figures.  For a second he feared they might be ghosts, then realized they were Delaney and the heavily pregnant Maria.  For some reason they hadn’t gone down with the others.  As he listened to their whispers he was glad they were still there, perversely grateful for any human presence.

Then he saw what they were doing and wished he could turn away.

Chapter 52

As Regan Delaney stood on the Indigo level and watched Kaidan help the others escort Sorcha down the tower, he could taste the blood from his split lip.  Who the hell did Fox think he was?  How dare he come here to his domain and question the greatness of what he had achieved?  Did he not have the vision to appreciate he was on the brink of something truly miraculous?

“Relax,” Maria soothed beside him.  “He’s not worthy of your anger.  He cannot understand what you’re trying to do.  He knows nothing.”

Fox had dismissed his project before he had explained the final stages and the ultimate objective of the Great Work.  Delaney couldn’t remember the last time someone had challenged him — let alone questioned the Great Work to which he had dedicated his whole life.  How dare Fox claim the astral imprints were just echoes?  What did he know of such matters?  He was a quack.  Maria was right:  the man knew nothing.  But he would learn soon enough.

The cause of his tension wasn’t just Fox, though, it was the prospect of tomorrow night.  Maria stroked his arm, sensing his apprehension.  “Everything’s in place,” she said.  “After Esbat tomorrow night, your Great Work will be one step closer to completion.”  She moved her hand to his crotch and began caressing him through the cloth.  “Nothing will go wrong.  All of us will help.  You are our Seer.”

She led him into one of the rooms and pressed his hand against one of the engraved  amethyst plaques.  Instantly, intense images, sounds and smells flooded his senses.  Despite his anger and tension, he felt himself become aroused.  He considered getting the cushions from the alcove but his need was too urgent.  Keeping his hand pressed against the amethyst, he turned Maria to the wall and hitched up her robe.  As he mounted her he felt for her distended belly.  The child in her womb — his child — would be born any day now and he wondered if, after all these years, it would be another violet.  As his pleasure intensified, he smiled.  After tomorrow night it wouldn't matter if the child were born with a violet aura or not.  Quickening his thrusts he pressed his palm harder against the wall plaque.  Maria turned to look over her shoulder, cheeks red with exertion.  “I want to see your face,” she panted.  “I need to see your face.”

He groaned, pushed back his head and stared blindly at the ceiling.  As he reached orgasm his eyes rolled in their sockets until only the whites were showing.  For a few ecstatic seconds he was a god unconstrained by earthly bonds.  He felt his spirit self depart his physical body, travel the astral plane and commune with the echoes around him.  He sensed his pure consciousness merge with the astral signature imprinted on the amethyst plaque beneath his hand — the imprint of Aurora, the indigo mother of his violet Sorcha — and for a tantalizing moment, was convinced he was about to accompany her on her journey to the other side:  to death.  Then, knees trembling, forehead glazed with sweat, he was back in the physical world, returned to his mortal body.  If while traveling the astral plane the invisible silver cord linking his two selves were severed, then his spirit would be free to follow Aurora all the way.  But if that happened his physical body would die and he would never be able to return.  To succeed in the Great Work he needed to straddle both worlds — the living and the dead.  In time though, with Sorcha’s help, that would happen.  He was sure of it.