Leo often manipulated information to come up with unusual variations on the truth. He never lied. The need never arose. Instead, he took one or two unconnected facts, and with a wall of lies and half-truths, constructed an elaborate charade to further his ambitions. After listening to Roger's ranting last night, Janet believed the part about kidnaping Tim. However, she suspected that the reasons behind the crime dealt with something other than blackmail.

  Riding back to Brentwood last night, she came to the conclusion that Leo was hiding something from her. She needed to do some investigating on her own. Thus, on her return to the mansion, she told Leo all the details of Roger's attack except one. She never mentioned her ex-husband's lodge pin. It was her secret. Today she planned to learn the meaning of that bizarre charm.

  The design looked familiar. Her memory rarely failed her. She was sure she had encountered that emblem before. As a history major, she had studied unusual societies and religions throughout the world. One of her old textbooks probably contained the information she needed.

  Unfortunately, she had deposited all of her college books into the trash bin after finals her senior year. She decided the main library in the Loop would be the best place to find a copy of the textbook she had used in college.

  After getting dressed, she wandered over to Tim's room. A quick search turned up a box of crayons and a sheet of blank paper. She drew a rough sketch of the design engraved on Roger's ring. It wasn't great, but it served its purpose.

  Studying the picture, she detected a strong note of sexual symbolism in the basic structure. A vague memory tugged at her subconscious mind. She grasped at a fleeting recollection of ancient fertility rites discussed in anthropology classes years ago. In pagan rituals, serpents and knives usually meant blood and sacrifice.

  Suddenly in a hurry to learn more, she folded the sketch and put it in her purse. A quick word to Martha and she was off. Leo had left early in the morning on a series of business meetings and was not expected back until late that afternoon. Bruno was picking up Tim from school. For one of the few times in the last few years, she had the day entirely to herself.

  An hour later Janet was waiting impatiently at the reference desk of the main library. It was pouring outside and the water dripping off her umbrella was forming a huge puddle on the marble floor. The librarian, an elderly gray-haired lady, was explaining how to use the microfilm system to an anxious college student. Janet tapped one foot anxiously against the hard floor. She hated delays.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting," said the librarian, coming over to her. "How can I help you?"

  "I need information on secret societies," said Janet. "I've already gone through the encyclopedias and standard reference volumes on the open shelves but didn't find anything. One of the books listed a title in the bibliography that sounded promising. I checked the card catalog and it lists the volume as being in the noncirculating section."

  Janet handed over a small sheet of paper. "I copied down the reference code. The name of the book is The History of Occult Societies by Russell Arrigo."

  "How very, very odd," said the librarian. She smiled at Janet's confusion. "You're the second person today who requested that book. Two in the same day, and before that, not a nibble for years. There must be something in the air."

  The librarian shuffled off to the noncirculating section. Desperately, Janet bit the inside of her lip and tried to come up with a believable story. Finally, as the elderly woman returned carrying a thick, dictionary-size volume, Janet settled on her course of action.

  "You said another person requested this book this morning?" she asked, letting her voice tremble a bit. "Did he say why?"

  "Actually it was a woman. Nice, personable sort," the librarian added. "She needed information on a group called The Mystic Order of the Knights of Antioch. I remember because it was such an odd name for a secret society."

  Swiftly Janet turned to the correct page. "It can't be," she gasped in surprise as she found herself staring at a picture of the emblem from Roger's ring. "It can't be true."

  "Is something wrong?" asked the librarian.

  "I've been working on my doctoral thesis for two years," said Janet, improvising as she went along. "It's a study of primitive and modern secret societies. It links the various groups by beliefs, traditions and customs. This Order is very obscure. If someone else is researching them as well, they might be working on the same topic. It would mean I've wasted two years of my life!"

  Janet poured every bit of emotion possible into her short and passionate speech. Several patrons in the reading room turned to stare at the tears running down her cheeks. Janet didn't care. She had to discover the identity of the other woman.

  "Now, now," said the librarian, patting Janet on the hand in a motherly fashion. "The other patron called first to see if the book was available. She left a phone number. I still have it here. If you like, I can give it to you. Here it is. Her name is Mary McConnell."

  "Oh, could you," said Janet, trying not to overdo it. "I'll give her a call later in the day and just make sure we aren't working on similar projects. I appreciate it so much."

  Janet managed to duplicate the article without attracting too much more attention. She tucked the phone number safely away in her purse. She left the library a few minutes before noon.

  Janet ate lunch in the main dining room at Marshall Field's. Waiting for the waitress to bring her sandwich, she studied the short article on the Knights of Antioch. Nothing in the piece awakened any forgotten memories. Still, Janet felt certain she had seen that distinctive emblem before.

  More important, she had the phone number of this other person also researching the same group. The librarian was right. Chance stretched only so far. Janet meant to find out this afternoon why this Mary McConnell was investigating the Mystic Knights. With Roger and her father both mentioning a weekend deadline, there was no time to waste.

  15

  The man who thought of himself as Arelim frowned at the cards on his desk. Like all great magicians, he implicitly believed in the power of the tarot deck. Today his reading left him puzzled. And a little worried.

  All three passes yielded the same run of four major trumps. First came "The Hermit," the symbol of hidden wisdom. Next came "The Wheel of Fortune," the symbol of destiny. Third in the sequence was "Pope Joan," the card signifying a mysterious woman. The final card in every run was "La Mort," the trump of death.

  Normally, he experienced little trouble interpreting the divination. The meaning of three of the cards he understood perfectly. Death walked in the Dark Man, "La Mort" brought to unholy life by his dark magic. Hidden wisdom gave him the power to control that unstoppable killer. Each murder committed by his agent advanced his destiny. It progressed with a certainty almost without question. Except the recurring image of Pope Joan troubled his vision.

  With a curse of annoyance, he gathered the cards together and flung them into the top drawer of his desk. Perhaps he worried too much about nothing. A new woman served as priestess in the ceremony Friday night. She could be the mysterious figure indicated by the tarot deck. The explanation left him unsatisfied and annoyed.

  Arelim disliked uncertainty. The element of chance added unforeseen elements to the dangerous game he played. His enemies already knew about the Dark Man. The black girl's escape had been an unfortunate slip. Yet, in a way, it had actually worked in his favor.

  He played with that thought for a moment. The first few killings had been attributed to a new gang trying to expand into the Chicago marketplace. Up to last night, the Children of Danballah had been preparing for war. Such battles were a fact of life in the drug trade. The dealers recognized them as an inevitable result of their occupation. That much easy money always attracted casual violence.

  However, the girl's description of the Dark Man and his attack changed all that. Suddenly, the Children found themselves faced with an enemy they couldn't comprehend. Death beckoned with a butcher's cleaver. Street punks understood a maniac armed with a machine gun. But they panicked when faced by an unstoppable killer who chopped them to pieces and then painted the walls with their blood.

  Arelim smiled. Perhaps the black girl served as Pope Joan in his tarot reading. Her unexpected survival had changed the complexion of the game. Sometimes, he planned too carefully. The Dark Man operated too efficiently. One terrified living witness spread the panic much better than a dozen unconfirmed rumors.

  The coming violence today and tomorrow would squash what little resistance still remained. The drug lords' empire was already crumbling. With a few well-defined slashes, it should be in ruins by Friday night. The rise of the Dark Man signaled an end to the Children of Danballah.

  Shaking his head, Arelim rose from his chair and circled his desk. All of his plans culminated Friday evening. Over a year of scheming and plotting climaxed in only two days. If anything, he regretted the game was coming to an end so quickly. He enjoyed such exercises.

  Even though he always won, he still enjoyed the challenge of manipulating his enemies. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than pulling the right strings at the right times.

  To Arelim, life itself was a game. The greatest of all challenges, it gave meaning to an otherwise meaningless world. Great men played, with other men as their pieces. It was a game without rules, without judges.

  He secretly sneered at the fools who proclaimed that the extent of their possessions crowned them the winners. He knew the real truth. In the great game, those who wielded the most power were the true victors.

  That was why rich men entered politics. They spoke of public duty and civic obligations. But deep beneath all the rhetoric lurked that overwhelming passion for power.

  Keeping that thought firmly in mind, he spoke the four words of domination. He needed no other spell. The ancient words reverberated through the room like living things. The very walls seemed to shiver with their passing.

  In front of Arelim, the air twisted in upon itself. Darkness swirled out of nothingness, coalesced into the stuff of nightmares. Where there was nothing, was something. Before the magician, radiating cold evil, stood the Angel of Death.

  A product of Arelim's innermost passions and hatreds, the creature fashioned its image from the worst fears of its victims. Throughout history, it had worn a thousand shapes, each time reflecting the greatest horrors of the time. The one who summoned it gave it purpose, gave it life. In modern Chicago, it was the Dark Man.

  "You are ready to proceed with the next stage of our program?" Arelim asked his creation.

  "Of course," answered the creature, his voice smooth and confident. "You know that. Are your thoughts not my thoughts? I know exactly where to look. Their blood calls to me."

  "The ones you seek are old and weak."

  "It doesn't matter," said the Dark Man. "My strength comes from their death. Young or old, healthy or sick, they all quench my thirst. My power increases with each killing. The actual act provides me with their life energy. Only the runes matter. Can't you feel the power surge through you each time I inscribe those letters in their blood?"

  Arelim nodded. They were linked together, the two of them, with bonds closer than any mortal ties. As the Dark Man grew stronger, so did Arelim. It was an unholy symbiosis. His creation obeyed his every command without hesitation. But what if the servant turned on its master?

  Arelim pushed the thought out of his mind. Without him, the Dark Man had no life. It was anchored to this plane of existence only through him. For all of its monstrous powers, the creature needed him to survive. His worries were groundless. Or at least he told himself that.

  Originally, Arelim planned using this supernatural being only to destroy the Children of Danballah. That plan continued without a flaw. Now, new ideas crowded his dreams at night. Why banish the creature back into endless night so quickly? There were many others who deserved to die.

  The sensation of each death, flowing through him from the Dark Man, filled him with an unholy joy. It satisfied him like no other pleasure. Like some sort of psychic vampire, he fed on their life energy. And with each killing, his own command of magic increased.

  "You enjoy murdering these cretins?" Arelim asked, curious about his creation.

  "Of course," said the Dark Man, chuckling. "I find great pleasure in their screams. Unfortunately, most of them die too quickly. The ones who struggle provide me with the greatest entertainment."

  "Tonight, we will both feast on the life forces of strong young bodies," said Arelim, a bizarre tremor of pleasure rushing through his body as he spoke those words. "All things come to those who wait. I learned that long ago in business. The others will not be home until nightfall. These 'seniors' "—and he sneered at that term—"gather during the day. One stroke and you will have them all. Crush them until the blood drips out from between your fingers."

  With a jerk of his hand, Arelim dismissed the Dark Man. "Go now. Find them and kill them all."

  "Your wish is my command," said the Dark Man, laughing again.

  He turned and was out the far door of the room in an instant. He moved so silently, so gracefully, his exit took a second to register on Arelim's mind. Somehow, the giant walked the streets of the city without being seen. Only his victims noticed him.

  Arelim returned to his chair. Gone were his earlier fears about the tarot reading. Summoning forth the Dark Man always banished his worries. The giant killer was unstoppable.

  Arelim's plans were entering their final stage. Even if his enemies suspected the worst, it was too late for them to escape. Faced with the Dark Man, death was inevitable. Nothing living could stop him. Nothing.

  16

  Charlene Jackson looked sixty, acted fifty, but was actually seventy-seven years old. She was a heavy set black woman, with big hips and a perpetual frown. That look of dismay masked a gentle nature and sweet disposition. For over fifty years she had served as the secretary of her church, donating her time and effort, weekends and evenings, for the benefit of her community. Everyone in her neighborhood referred to her as "Saint Charlene." The pastor of her congregation considered her one of the pillars of his congregation. No one knew about her other job.

  Nine o'clock every Sunday night, a certain pizza delivery truck pulled up to the widow Jackson's modest bungalow on the Near South Side. The same two men always emerged from the small van. No one ever questioned why it was necessary for two men to handle the delivery. Or why they spent several minutes checking out the neighborhood before hurrying up to Charlene's house with her order. On the South Side, you kept your questions to yourself.

  Anyway, it was inconceivable that Charlene would be involved in anything the slightest bit illegal. She always spoke out against the gangs at church meetings. Though all of her grandchildren were long out of school, she still contributed to the "Say No to Drugs" program. When a paramedic had been shot entering the nearby housing projects last year, "Saint Charlene" had organized the fund-raising drive to pay for his hospital bills. She hated crime.

  However, no one questioned that she also needed money to pay the bills. The social security check she received each month barely covered her necessities. And the retirement money from her deceased husband's pension plan didn't go very far. In years gone by, during the ice-cold winter, her gas and electric bills alone nearly overwhelmed her. She had lived in constant fear of one or the other utility being shut off.

  Then last year, during a particularly bitter cold snap, a guardian angel arrived at her door. In clear, concise terms, he explained how he needed help that only she could provide. While her mission bent and twisted a few laws, it served a good purpose. Working for the Lord absolved her of all guilt. And the small cut she earned made life a good deal easier.

  Charlene avoided thinking about the source of that money. Like most people, she found the easiest way to evade the truth was never to confront it. She pointedly skipped all the articles in the paper about drug money and switched off the TV whenever a story concerning crack or cocaine was broadcast.

  As if seeking pardon for her imagined sins, Charlene donated part of the money she earned each week to charity. Her favorite organization was the local halfway house for addicts. It made her feel a little better that if the money did come from drugs, it was being used to combat their influence.

  Today, staring at a table full of cashier's checks and postal money orders, she felt a lot more confident than usual. The newspapers and TV were filled with the latest scandal regarding an evangelical TV ministry. According to all the reports, the preacher involved took in nearly a hundred thousand dollars every week through pledges and cash donations. That sum dwarfed the amounts she handled. The comparison put all of her fears to rest.

  Every week, the two pizza men brought her several sacks of money. The cash came from the thousands of donations received every day by the Church of Danballah. The Reverend Royce needed funds to carry out his good work. His followers throughout Chicago and the nation provided the money.

  Unfortunately, according to the preacher, most of the funds came to the church in small cash donations. The little people supported his ministry. But the government wanted to see checks. The income tax people cast a suspicious eye on large cash deposits. Despite the church being a nonprofit organization, they insisted on taxing the cash.

  Charlene didn't exactly understand the situation but it sounded right to her. The politicians always treated the black folks like second-class citizens. Nobody stood up for their rights. When a strong leader like Reverend Royce came along, "The Man" tried to knock him down hard. Only Willis Royce didn't fall easy. He came from the streets and knew all of the tricks.

  So the politicians tried to trick him with taxes. They allowed him to deduct all of his donations paid by check. But the IRS counted all of the cash money he received as income. The bosses wanted to cut him off from the little people who formed the backbone of his church. And they would have done it, except for Charlene.