The money came to her in secret, so as to keep it hidden from The Man. There were dozens of thick stacks of bills, held together by heavy rubber bands. According to Royce, other women removed the donations from envelopes received at the church. A small portion of the funds went into the bank to confound the tax agents. The rest ended up with Charlene.

  She followed the same routine every week. Late Sunday night, she sorted out the currency by denomination, forming huge stacks on her dining room table. Most of the money was in singles, fives and tens, but there were occasional twenties and fifties, and even a rare hundred.

  For all of her poverty, Charlene never once felt the desire to steal a penny of the loose cash. If what the Reverend told her was true, these donations represented the dreams of thousands of her brothers and sisters throughout the country. She would sooner cut off her fingers and toes than rob from her fellow sufferers.

  After all the piles were neatly arranged, she counted and totaled the entire sum. She worked with a small, hand-held calculator and checked her work three times. Most weeks, the amount hovered around thirty thousand dollars.

  Monday morning, she divided up the cash into amounts ranging from one to three hundred dollars each. Each small stack she put in a brown manila envelope, labeling it on the outside in pencil.

  In the early afternoon, she made her rounds. Taking the El to the North Side, she visited several dozen currency exchanges. She carried the money in a big paper sack, her old sweater concealing the envelopes underneath. Nobody took notice of a big old black woman on a shopping trip. Charlene blended right in with the Chicago scenery.

  At each currency exchange, she converted a package of bills into a cashier's check. The small amount rarely interested the clerks working the windows there. They routinely handled much larger sums without question. In all cases, Charlene had the checks made payable to herself. Again, this was a common practice. Such transactions took place every day.

  Over the course of several hours, more than half the cash turned into paper. The rest of the money she converted with the help of the government.

  Most post offices required that postal money orders be paid for in cash. Charlene spent the rest of the afternoon going to several dozen substations buying postal money orders. Again, she kept the amount as small as possible to attract little notice.

  Printing carefully, she filled in the necessary information. Instead of putting in her own name, she used a dozen fictitious aliases as the buyers. In all cases, however, she was named as the recipient.

  Tuesday was bank day. Instead of traveling by El to currency exchanges or post offices, she rode the subway downtown to the Loop to visit a dozen different banks. She maintained an account in all of them.

  In each institution, she deposited several of the money orders and cashier's checks. Again, the amounts were small enough to pass by bored clerks without notice. No one cared about an elderly black woman depositing a few thousand dollars in checks every week.

  "Good investments by my late husband," she confided to anyone willing to listen. Only one or two of the tellers even knew her name.

  Today, Wednesday, was when she wrote checks. The efficiently laundered cash now returned to the Church of Danballah in the form of checks, written from a dozen different accounts in major Loop banks. None of the donations were large enough to raise any eyebrows. Despite all of the attention paid Royce, none of the investigators bothered checking the identities of all of his supporters. The IRS knew little old ladies provided the Church with much of its operating capital. No one suspected that the funds actually resulted from the efforts of a few dedicated women.

  For her efforts, Charlene kept 5 percent of the cash involved. Part of the sum she used for her expenses. The rest of the money, amounting to nearly one thousand dollars, she kept in a metal box hidden beneath her bed. Despite all of the numerous bank accounts she had opened at the orders of Willis Royce, she mistrusted the financial institutions. She preferred to have her money safe at home where she could keep an eye on it.

  Charlene was counting her bankroll that Wednesday afternoon around two o'clock. There was nearly twenty thousand dollars in the box. For weeks now, she had been debating buying an automobile. It had been years since she had owned a car.

  At her age, it was more of a hassle than it was worth. Parking was a problem; there was insurance to be paid; and car thieves routinely patrolled her neighborhood. Finding a service station where an attendant pumped the gas for you was another problem. Too many places only offered self-service. There was no way, at her age she was going to fill the gas tank.

  Still, she did a lot of traveling every week. Riding the El in the winter was no fun, and she often had to walk for blocks making her trips to the currency exchanges. A car provided instant mobility for her aching feet. The argument raged on in her mind, with neither side emerging as the clear winner.

  Thump, thump, thump. The whole bungalow shook from the hard knocking at her front door. Hastily, she shoved the iron box filled with money back under her bed.

  "Hold your horses," she called rushing to the living room. "I ain't so fast no more."

  The door resounded again with three powerful knocks before she reached it. Her visitor's lack of patience riled Charlene. Nobody had any patience these days. It was always hurry hurry hurry. "What the hell's the matter with you?" she demanded angrily, flinging open the wooden portal.

  "Not a thing, Charlene," said the Dark Man.

  "May I come in?" he asked, crossing the threshold into her house before she answered. He gently closed the door behind him.

  "Who—who are you?" she asked, backing away from the giant dressed entirely in black. "You a friend of the Reverend?"

  "Not exactly," said the Dark Man, with a chuckle that sent tremors running up and down her spine. "Actually, I've come to tell you how your friend Mr. Royce is playing you for a fool."

  "Whatchoo talking about, boy?" said Charlene in her sternest voice, trying to make it clear to this giant that his appearance didn't frighten her. But her brave words rang hollow in her ears.

  "It was a sweet scheme," said the Dark Man. "The Reverend used a half-dozen women just like you to launder his drug money. He told them all the same sad story. He knew none of you would suspect him of deceiving you."

  "But The Man ... the taxes . . ." said Charlene, trying to find the lies in the Dark Man's story.

  "All bullshit," said her tormentor. "He took advantage of your good nature and unquestioning trust. And he greased the way with a little greed."

  Charlene shook her head in despair, recognizing the truth. She had willingly cooperated with the Reverend for a small cut of the profits. "You here to take the money? You from the police?"

  "No," said the Dark Man, reaching with one hand beneath his coat. Smoothly, he drew out a bloody red butcher's cleaver. "My authority comes from this."

  Before Charlene could react, one of his huge gloved hands had her by the neck. Up went the cleaver. Her terrified eyes followed its terrible arc.

  "Final audit, Charlene," said the Dark Man. Down came the cleaver.

  17

  Victor Caldwell resembled a giant white slug. Tiny black eyes hidden by thick folds of flesh peered out at Taine in open hostility. Reluctantly, the obese financier shifted forward in his chair and offered a hand in greeting.

  "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Taine." His grip felt like the kiss of a dead fish. Caldwell withdrew his hand instantly, as if contaminated by the touch of another human being. "What can I do for you?"

  "I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice. I know how busy you are."

  "You told my secretary it was urgent we speak. Obviously, you impressed Vanessa with your sincerity." Caldwell stirred uneasily in his huge chair. "My time is precious."

  "Then I'll be brief." Taine leaned forward and stared the commodities broker directly in the eyes. "My business here concerns a man named Arelim. I was led to believe you might know his present whereabouts."

  The only sign of distress Victor Caldwell exhibited was a slight tightening of the skin around his piglike eyes. His tone remained neutral, uninterested. "Arelim, Arelim? An odd name, that. I meet so many people in this business. Most of them I forget rather quickly. Vanessa remembers for me. Maybe we should ask her. Is it his first name or last?"

  "Both," said Taine. "You're positive on this?"

  "I never heard of him," said Caldwell testily. "Sorry. I can't help you."

  As if dismissing Taine from his thoughts, the fat businessman started shuffling through some papers on his desk. Then, as if in afterthought, without even looking up he asked, "Who gave you my name?"

  "He said he was a friend of yours," said Taine carefully. He suspected their conversation was anything but finished. "He mentioned something about a Lodge—the Knights of Antioch."

  That remark caught the fat man's attention. The muscles in his neck involuntarily tightened, jerking his head up like a puppet on a string. His pale white flesh took on a distinct reddish hue.

  "How interesting," he said, licking his lips between sentences. "I take it you can't reveal this friend's name?"

  "Correct," said Taine. "I promised him confidentiality. I doubt if he would have talked otherwise."

  "Not very surprising," said Caldwell. "The Order strictly enforces certain rules. Chief among them is a promise never to discuss Lodge business with outsiders. The penalties are quite severe."

  "Am I right in assuming then, that you do know Arelim?" asked Taine, following up quickly on Caldwell's remarks. "But that your Lodge vows forbid you to speak about him."

  "Nonsense," said Caldwell. "I already told you. I never met the man."

  "But he has threatened you," said Taine, sensing the fat man changing his tune. If Caldwell didn't want to talk, he would have never agreed to see him in the first place.

  "Well, yes," said Caldwell. He glanced around the office as if checking for eavesdroppers. "What's your role in this madness, Taine? Don't give me that innocent detective bit. I wasn't born yesterday. Where do you fit in?"

  "I know that you aren't very happy with the help you've been getting from Harmon Sangmeister," said Taine. "And you don't trust the old boy for a second."

  "Damn right," said Caldwell, leaning forward on his desk. There was a whining edge in his voice when he spoke. "Harmon's done a lot of talking lately but that's about all. It's been that way for the last six months. He's through and everybody knows it. This Arelim crap is the last straw."

  "You would handle things differently," said Taine, trying to keep the other man talking.

  "You bet your ass I would," said Caldwell. Pig-eyes narrowed and his whining voice suddenly grew suspicious. "You seem to know quite a bit about the Black Lodge. Who gave you the key to the mint?"

  "Check your own files," said Taine, with a nasty twist to his voice. He picked his words very carefully. "I moved here from the West Coast a few years back. Or should I say, I was sent."

  The force of those words rocked Caldwell back in his chair. "I always suspected there were groups like ours all over the country," he whispered.

  "Throughout the world," said Taine. "I was sent by concerned parties to put your house in order.

  "Now cut the crap," he continued in the same harsh tones, "and tell me what gives on this Arelim business."

  "You know most of it," said Caldwell, his voice subdued. "The threats started a few months ago. They came in the mail. All of the masters received them. They were short and to the point, Disband the Lodge or die."

  "Everyone ignored them of course?"

  "Of course."

  "And then."

  "Nothing much. Only Sangmeister seemed genuinely worried. He's had this pet theory for years. According to the old man, since a Black Lodge existed, then perhaps so did a White Lodge."

  "A White Lodge?" asked Taine, trying not to appear too ignorant.

  "Yeah. Imagine that," said Caldwell with a laugh. "A band of White Magicians who have gathered together to oppose the powers of darkness. As if it really mattered. Black or white or medium pink, the words mean nothing to most of us. Nobody in our Order cares about color schemes. A few fanatics like Sangmeister uphold the old ways. The rest of us are in it only for the money—and the power."

  "So Sangmeister thinks that Arelim is a member of this so-called White Lodge?"

  "Yeah. He claims this White Lodge has sent an Avenging Angel to destroy us for our sins. I thought the old fool had gone over the edge until the threats started getting a bit more personal."

  "Mentioning you by name?"

  "Right as rain," said Caldwell. "As if killing one Master would damage the Lodge in any way. The Order cannot be destroyed that easily. One death, or even several, would merely open up a place for another novice or two to move up into the ranks of the Masters."

  The fat man hesitated, as if struck by the meaning of his own words. "Which sounds like a definite motive to me."

  "You suspect someone?" asked Taine.

  "Dozens of them," said Caldwell. "They all know the only way to advance in the Lodge is through treachery and deceit. Few Masters ever die of old age. I never considered one of our novices as the source of the threats." He laughed loudly. "It all makes sense."

  "Why threaten you in particular?" said Taine, trying to keep one step ahead of Caldwell. "Why mention anyone by name? Wouldn't a general threat raise less suspicion?"

  "I do stand out in a crowd," said the fat man, waving one bloated arm as if dismissing any doubts. "Everyone knows that I covet Sangmeister's position as Grand Master. Perhaps Arelim thought that by threatening me he would gain the favor of the old man. How should I know? You're the detective."

  Caldwell paused again. "Which raises an interesting point. If you came here two years ago, why did you wait till now before identifying yourself?"

  Taine rose from his chair. It was time for him to get going, before Victor Caldwell started asking too many questions.

  "There was no time limit placed on my mission," he answered, heading for the door. "I watched and waited for the right time. I'll see you again, soon, Caldwell. Thanks for the information."

  "The right time," repeated Caldwell slowly. "What do you mean by that? Why for all I know, you could be Arelim."

  "Now isn't that an interesting thought," said Taine and exited.

  18

  Two detectives came to see Papa Benjamin around three o'clock that afternoon. He had been expecting their visit ever since Willis Royce told him about the murders and their seeming connection with voodoo. The police might be slow, but they were not stupid.

  He knew both of the officers quite well. One of them, Calvin Lane, had grown up only a few blocks from his church. A large, innocuous-looking man, his bland features concealed a sharp, probing mind. Calvin had worked his way up through the ranks to Homicide Investigations.

  Equally intelligent was his partner, Moe Kaufman. Papa Benjamin had met the detective several years ago at De Paul University night school. Kaufman had been a student in the Comparative Religions course. He was finishing his degree at night while working days on the police force.

  Papa Benjamin had attended several sessions of the class as a guest lecturer. Kaufman went out of his way to introduce himself. Even then, he understood the importance of religious leaders in the black community. He accorded the same respect to a voodoo priest as he did to a Catholic priest or a Baptist minister. Kaufman had ambitious plans in the department. He worked hard maintaining his friendships all through the city.

  "Sorry to bother you, Papa," said Calvin Lane, shrugging his shoulders as if lifting a heavy burden. "But we have to follow up every possible lead in these killings. If you'll pardon the expression, the shit has hit the fan."

  "What killings are you talking about?" asked Papa Benjamin. If the police knew nothing about Willis Royce's visit, he didn't plan on telling them about it. "I saw nothing on the news about any murders in the city."

  "They haven't made the news yet," answered Kaufman, with a heavy sigh. "But the lid's about to pop. Someone leaked the story to the papers. It's gonna be hell tonight."

  "Some maniac is loose in the streets," said Lane, continuing as soon as his partner stopped speaking. "We assume it's only one man, but considering the slaughter that's taken place, it could be a whole army of lunatics."

  "Words can't describe the carnage," said Kaufman, keeping the singsong description going. "In the last few nights, this guy has chopped a dozen people into little bitty pieces. I mean, we are talking maniacal here. This killer has to be a real looney tune. I never saw anything like it."

  "You're telling me," said Lane, talking as much to his partner as to Papa Benjamin. Describing the killings to a third person gave the two men a chance to air their own fears and frustrations to each other without menacing their relationship. "Damned coroner complained the whole time he was at the last place. Said a regular body bag wasn't good enough for cases like this. There are too many unidentified parts floating around."

  Calvin Lane's black features had a distinctly green tinge to them as he continued. "The worst part of all was the blood. What a mess."

  "Blood everywhere," agreed Kaufman. "And the damned symbols painted on the walls."

  "Symbols," said Papa Benjamin, knowing it was time for him to interrupt. "What kind of symbols?"

  "That was why we came down to see you, Papa," said Lane. "Several of the guys in the department feel sure the whole thing revolves around some crazy cult thing. You know, like those killings that took place in Mexico a few months ago."

  "Yeah, especially since we've found large amounts of crack at every site," said Kaufman. "The whole case stinks of drugs."

  "Top brass think it's a war between rival gangs over territory," said Lane. "But nobody can explain why the killer never takes the rock or the cash when he leaves. He ignores the stuff in plain sight. This guy ain't a regular stickup boy."