And with a harsh laugh of triumph, he clenched his hand tightly into a fist.

  Willis Royce shrieked in agony and clutched his groin with both hands. Moaning horribly, he dropped to the floor. Muttering incomprehensible obscenities, the cult leader rolled back and forth in the dirt, oblivious to anything else.

  "Leave now," said Papa Benjamin, aiming a finger at the two goons trying to help Royce to his feet. "Take your mighty Bocar with you. And tell him, when he recovers, that he is no longer welcome in my oum'phor. The next time, I will not let go so quickly."

  In a mad shuffle, the two bodyguards were out the door, dragging Royce, still moaning in pain, between them. In the peristyle, only Papa Benjamin and Ape Largo remained.

  "A very nice example of using the power of suggestion to its maximum effect," said the bodyguard, flashing his grotesque smile. His laughter sounded like a cement truck in action. Strangely enough, Papa Benjamin found himself warming to this incredibly ugly character.

  "You doubt my power?" he asked, only half in jest:

  "I never said that," replied Largo, his hands dropping in a defensive position between his legs. "I always considered voodoo a perfect amalgam of the practical and the supernatural. As a man looking for his roots, the religion always fascinated me. I joined Royce's group hoping to learn more. It didn't take me long to realize my mistake."

  "I could teach you many things," said Papa Benjamin, his mind working at a furious pace. "A true houn'gan is always willing to instruct those seeking the truth."

  "Sounds fascinating," said Largo, "but no way I can accept. Royce depends on me. I doubt if he would take kindly to my unexpected departure. But"—and the disappointment was apparent in his every word—"thanks again for the offer."

  "Perhaps events will change," said Papa Benjamin.

  "Yeah, sure," said Largo, turning to the door. "I better get going. The others will start wondering what happened to me."

  "Go in peace," said Papa Benjamin, with a shrug of dismissal.

  Then, just as the giant reached the doorway, Papa Benjamin had a sudden change of heart. Anxiously, he called out to the other man.

  "Largo. Wait. One more thing I saw revealed in the bones. Death knocks three times. Do not forget. Death knocks three times."

  "In these crazy times, I don't forget anything," said Largo. "Thanks for the tip. I hope I can figure out what it means."

  Largo disappeared out into the street. Now only Papa Benjamin sat in the peristyle. Visions of blood and slaughter filled his eyes. Royce was a walking dead man. He had seen that the minute the cult leader walked into the room. But with luck, Ape Largo might escape the doom that pursued his boss. Good fortune aided by certain entreaties to the gods of voodoo, Papa Benjamin decided. The Mysteres worked in strange and devious paths. This time he suspected their plans and his coincided. Finally his nightmares of hours past made sense.

  13

  The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted Taine as he walked into his office a little before nine. Mrs. McConnell poured him a cup as he hung up his raincoat. Outside, a light but steady drizzle soaked the city. Sitting across from his secretary, Taine listened attentively as she reported her findings. Mrs. McConnell used large yellow legal pads to record her notes. At least a dozen pages were covered with scribbled facts.

  "I'll start with Evangeline Caldwell," she began, a slight note of disapproval in her tone. "Finding information on her proved no challenge. Her exploits filled the scandal sheets. An enterprising filmmaker could produce a spectacular X-rated movie of her life. She might even play herself, if the mood struck her."

  "I gather our client leads the wild life?" asked Taine.

  "Wild hardly describes her activities. Evidently she and her husband have a very open marriage. Both regularly make the gossip columns with their sexual shenanigans. But the possibility of divorce never comes up."

  "Yet," said Taine, "when she came here, she wanted the visit kept secret from her husband. Illicit sex is okay but seeing a detective is not. Sounds like she has a wonderful home life."

  "You know her father is Harmon Sangmeister, reputedly the richest man in Chicago, perhaps the entire country. I'll come back to him later. Angel, the nickname she prefers,"—and Mrs. McConnell could not suppress a snort of derision as she spoke—"and her papa have never gotten along very well.

  "She attended a half-dozen private schools as a teenager. No one was willing to comment on her expulsions. However, I gathered all of them involved breaking the rules regarding proper behavior for young ladies. Our Angel started swinging early and never stopped."

  Mrs. McConnell turned over the first page of her legal pad. "I compiled a list of her more outstanding conquests."

  Mrs. McConnell held up her notebook. The page was covered from top to bottom. Taine recognized a number of well-connected businessmen, several movie actors, a TV newscaster and three baseball players.

  "She's no angel," he said, with a shake of his head.

  "You'll even notice several women on the list. Ms. Caldwell obviously believes in equality among the sexes."

  Turning the page, Mrs. McConnell continued. "Her husband provides her with a very generous allowance. She makes the most of it. Though they might whisper behind her back, the owners of the most expensive stores on the Magnificent Mile welcome her with open arms when she comes calling. Our little Angel is notorious for dropping big bucks when she goes on a shopping binge.

  "Her tastes run to the latest in the neodecadent punk rock fashion. She sticks to the basics—customized black leather jeans, spandex tops; or tight knit dresses in primary colors. According to one of her more outrageous interviews, she dislikes undergarments and rarely wears any."

  "Enough lurid details," said Taine, raising one hand in protest. "Did you find anything about her that might tie into our investigation?"

  "Not much. As I mentioned, the bitterness between her and her father actually exists. They hate each other. The old man didn't even attend her wedding. Though it's quite possible she didn't invite him.

  "I can't imagine anyone blackmailing Angel. She enjoys flaunting her excesses. Nothing shames her. Meanwhile, Victor obviously knows and tacitly approves of her indiscretions. It frees him for his own lustful activities."

  "Which leads us to the big question," said Taine. "What sort of bizarre ritual or ceremony frightens a woman like Angel?"

  Taine expected no answer nor did Mrs. McConnell offer one. "What did you learn about her charming husband?"

  Another shuffle of yellow pages. "Victor Caldwell defies ordinary descriptions. Physically, he stands five-eight, weighs three-fifty—"

  "Three hundred and fifty?" interrupted Taine, not believing his ears.

  "That's correct," said Mrs. McConnell. "He blames glandular troubles for his weight. Most people I interviewed thought his habit of eating a pound box of chocolates every day might contribute to his problems. And he routinely goes on incredible eating jags where he devours a half-dozen hamburgers, a carton of soda pop and a half-gallon of ice cream. Victor firmly believes in 'Everything to excess.' "

  "He sounds charming," Taine said. "Yet both you and his wife referred to his numerous amorous encounters. Am I missing something here?"

  Mrs. McConnell gave Taine an odd look. "Victor doesn't rely on his good looks to attract women. Instead, he attracts them the old-fashioned way, with money. His seventy-five million supplies him with all the bimbos he desires."

  "He's older than Angel?"

  "Ten years. She's thirty. He's forty, pushing a hundred. Between his lifestyle and weight, he should have died years ago."

  "I think that's plenty on his personal life. What about his business dealings?"

  Another shuffling of notes. "Mr. Caldwell's name came up a number of times in the recent FBI probe of the Commodities and Futures Exchange. According to stories leaked to the papers, Victor masterminded a secret network of traders who swapped information on major buy-and-sell transactions. Advance tips can make brokers millions if they coattail their purchases with big corporations. It enables them to plunder the market without risking a dollar in real money. They skim off huge profits just by making a few phone calls.

  "Needless to say, such insider trading is strictly illegal. However, when the charges finally came down, Victor's name was notable only by its absence. In fact, not one of the brokers linked with him in the scam was accused of wrongdoing. For all of the sound and fury, the FBI had no hard evidence proving any of the allegations."

  "What happened?" asked Taine.

  "Absolute and total silence defeated them. In these types of investigations, the FBI depends on their moles for inside information.

  "That worked fine with the one large group of traders. Those idiots convicted themselves. Remember the stories in the newspapers detailing their weekend orgies and lavish trips to the West Indies. Sooner or later that sort of behavior catches up with you."

  "I gather Caldwell's friends kept a low profile."

  "Correct. Despite a paper trail that indicated a networking scheme of colossal proportions, the FBI couldn't do a thing. All of the suspects belonged to a certain club, but no law prevented that. Plenty of other people, not in the Commodities and Futures Market, belonged to the same organization.

  "All of the government's circumstantial evidence meant nothing unless someone cracked. They tried infiltrating the private club but their agents were routinely denied membership. Bribes met open hostility and were immediately reported to the proper authorities. Veiled threats were ignored. The FBI was stumped. They never ran into a wall of silence like this before.

  "Caldwell's attorneys immediately claimed the FBI was engaged in a political vendetta, based on sheer coincidence, against their client. They wanted an apology issued and the agents in charge of the investigation fired. The whole mess ended up in court where it will be buried for the next ten years."

  "What's the name of this wholesome organization defamed by our federal investigators?" asked Taine.

  "I thought you would never ask. They call themselves The Mystic Order of the Knights of Antioch."

  Taine closed his eyes for a moment, marshaling his thoughts. He had suspected the worse. Now he knew for sure.

  "No connection I assume with the Knights of Columbus, the Masons, or other well-known fraternal groups?" he asked, already knowing the answer to the question.

  "None of them ever heard of the Knights of Antioch."

  "That emblem I asked you to check on . . ."

  "Their insignia," said Mrs. McConnell, sounding smug and satisfied with herself.

  "Surprise, surprise," said Taine. "What else did you learn about this secret society?"

  "According to what little information is available to the public, the Lodge is a private fraternal order of men and women from the business community. Membership is by invitation only. They hold quarterly meetings, usually a dinner at a fancy restaurant in the Loop. No business takes place at these meetings, nor are any dues collected."

  "How do you join?" asked Taine.

  "They contact you. I gather that only the wealthiest, most powerful men and women in the city are invited. The order is quite secretive about its membership rolls."

  "Victor Caldwell and Harmon Sangmeister both belong."

  "Of course. I greased more than a few palms at certain downtown dining establishments. Amazing how much information a hundred dollar bill can buy these days. Here's a list of some of the more prominent people in the organization."

  Mrs. McConnell handed Taine a yellow sheet filled with names. He nodded in satisfaction. His assistant handled bribes much better than he did. He lacked the necessary patience and finesse to realize exactly when to make the right offer. Mrs. McConnell suffered from no such inhibitions.

  Taine scanned the list she handed him. He felt somewhat chagrined to admit he recognized fewer names than on Evangeline Caldwell's roll call. So much for his familiarity with the movers and shakers of Chicago business.

  "I take it this club represents a lot of money."

  "Billions," said Mrs. McConnell, forming each syllable into a separate word.

  "A lot of power rides with that kind of cash," said Taine. "Hard to believe they don't use it somehow."

  "Very hard to believe," repeated his assistant. "Why do I get the impression, Mr. Taine, that I'm telling you things you already know?"

  He ignored her question. Instead, he asked another of his own. "Who runs the show—Caldwell or Sangmeister?"

  "Definitely Angel's big bad daddy. According to my restaurant friends, he's ruled the Lodge for over twenty years."

  "Tell me a little about the mysterious Mr. Sangmeister," said Taine, changing subjects.

  "He likes bleached blondes with big tits," said Mrs. McConnell.

  Taine shook his head as if trying to get his ears working correctly. Mrs. M^cConnell never talked like that. "Would you care to repeat that?"

  Smiling at his reaction, she did exactly that. "I said he likes bleached blondes with big tits."

  "And . . ." prompted Taine.

  "And nothing," she said, making a face. "Thus my expression of displeasure. Except for his taste in women, I discovered absolutely nothing of importance about Mr. Sangmeister. All I learned was that nobody knows a thing about him. After hours of work, I ended up with a big fat zero.

  "His obsession with privacy rivals the late Howard Hughes. For all I know, he is Howard Hughes, living under an assumed name."

  Taine left it at that.

  "Anything else to report?"

  "That book dealer in New York sends his regards. He says you should settle down and get married."

  "That means his weird daughter is still single," said Taine, laughing. "He introduced me to her on my last trip to the Big Apple. She dressed only in black and devotedly believed in astrology. Fortunately our signs didn't coincide. You asked him about Arelim?"

  "Of course. I got a rather cryptic reply. He said you would understand. He called the Angel 'The Finger of Elohim.' That make any sense to you?"

  Taine frowned. "I think so. But so what? It doesn't mean anything. I need some solid facts. It's time for me to do some talking to the members of the Knights of Antioch. I'll start with Victor Caldwell."

  "One last thing," said Mrs. McConnell as he prepared to leave. "I asked your friend in New York about the society. He suggested we consult The History of Occult Societies by Russell Arrigo. I called the main library and they have a copy in their reference section. If you want, I could go down there before lunch and duplicate any reference to the Knights."

  "It sounds like a longshot to me," said Taine. "But a little background on the organization might be useful. Don't forget your umbrella, though. The weatherman predicts rain all day and night. We'll both probably need something hot to drink before the day is over."

  14

  Maturity, Janet decided as she rolled over in bed and buried her face in the pillow, was knowing when to say enough. In the last four years, she had only missed a half-dozen days of work. All of those were the result of Timmy's illness, from chicken pox to the flu. Her own health was perfect. Natural disasters, from snowstorms to floods, never fazed her. Depression and other personal problems always took a backseat to the business. Until today.

  She couldn't face her employees with her face battered and bruised from Roger's beating the night before. Fortunately his slaps had not done any major damage. But they had left her black-and-blue. She looked like the loser in a rough-and-tumble boxing match.

  When she arrived back at the estate last night, Timmy was already asleep. With him safe in bed, Janet felt immeasurably relieved.

  Real violence frightened her son. At this age, he handled TV shows pretty well. Like most normal children, he understood the difference between acting and actuality. Watching a thousand robots destroy each other in cartoons never upset him. The wild antics of professional wrestling thrilled him. But catching a glimpse of the news showing soldiers armed with nightsticks breaking up a student demonstration in China terrified him for days. Janet shuddered as she imagined his reaction to her condition last night.

  Planning ahead for the morning, she arranged for Martha to wake Tim in the morning, feed him breakfast and get him off to school with Bruno. Janet often slept late when they stayed at Brentwood, so her absence wouldn't worry her son. By the time he returned from school, her features should be pretty much back to normal. Any bruises could be explained away by a bad fall.

  With a groan, she rolled over and stared at the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly nine-thirty. By now the girls at her store were probably wondering what happened to her. For an instant she considered driving downtown. But the mere motion of sitting up sent ripples of pain shooting through her body. Her breasts ached. Her neck creaked in protest. And her face felt like a hundred toothpicks were stuck in her cheeks. She dropped back down to the pillow. The business would have to survive without her meddling.

  Janet got out of bed a half hour later. A quick call downtown reassured her that her assistants were managing fine. Leah, the girl who answered the phone, sounded positively chipper when Janet admitted she might not come into work tomorrow either.

  A leisurely breakfast served in her room by Martha helped raise Janet's spirits. Over the last bite of bacon and eggs, and hash browns and toast, she meditated thoughtfully on Roger's weird behavior.

  Deadly drugs obviously motived most of his actions, along with his hatred of her. He was always intense in all of his actions. A number of times during their stormy relationship she felt he was borderline psychotic. Smoking crack had evidently destroyed his last shreds of self-control. The drug unleashed the mad beast lurking within his mind. Whatever fate her father planned for her ex-husband, he deserved it in full.

  Still, Leo's story about a kidnaping sounded awfully suspicious. In his present state, Roger seemed incapable of planning such an elaborate scheme. Nor could she believe anyone would be stupid enough to help him. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced her father had juggled the facts for his own ends.