A small, fold-up umbrella completed her outfit. On a night like this, it served a multitude of purposes other than keeping her dry. Used properly, the stick made a dangerous weapon. Equally important, when held at the right angle, the dark canvas shielded a variety of sins from casual bystanders.

  Felice set off at a brisk pace down the block. She was parked only a few minutes away from a local community college. Eight o'clock classes ended in four minutes. With luck, she could score a few tricks and be on her way to Annie's before ten.

  She worked colleges as frequently as possible. Only a few other hookers bothered. Most of the girls preferred the downtown crowd or the swingers on the North Side. They were always looking for the big score, hoping to pull in a quick fifty or C-note. Felice thrived on turnover.

  Some nights, she screwed a dozen or more different men in the course of a few hours. When she was high on crack, nothing mattered. Totally amoral, she was willing to do anything for a price. Oftentimes, she took on two Johns at a time. She did it on her back or on her knees; standing up or bent over. Whatever the customer wanted, she provided. Place and position never mattered. Only the price counted.

  Just as she reached the edge of the four-square-block campus, the rain stopped. Surprised but pleased, Felice walked a little faster. Keeping her eyes open for college security guards, she headed for the Math and Science Building.

  The eight o'clock bell sounded a few seconds after her arrival. Running up the concrete stairs leading to the hall, she quickly climbed onto the far shoulder of the entranceway. Folding her legs beneath her, she sat down on the cold stone. For all purposes, with her wind-breaker drawn closed at her neck, she could easily pass as a typical coed.

  To her intense disappointment, only a few students came pushing their way through the doors. No time to scout out another building. With a practiced eye, she scanned the possible marks. In seconds, she fixed her attention on a mismatched pair of young white men dressed in business suits. Black girls always fascinated white boys. Felice considered the possibilities and smiled wickedly.

  Jumping off the wide ledge, she walked swiftly after the two students. Buried deep in conversation, they didn't even notice her until she came up beside them.

  "Interesting class, gents?" she asked, her voice low and sultry. Neither man was particularly handsome, but neither looked that bad either. In her present state of mind, she would screw a statue if it possessed the right equipment.

  "I thought so," said the shorter of the two. Dark brown eyes peered out at her through thick, hornrimmed lenses. "Do we know you?"

  "I'm Felice," she said, dragging her feet. As she expected, both men also slowed down to stay even with her.

  "Pleased to meet you," said the one wearing glasses. "I'm Cliff Kowalski." He gestured with his head at his taller companion. "This is my friend, Mark Finkel."

  "You boys looking for some action?" asked Felice unzipping her windbreaker.

  "You—you must be kidding," stuttered out Finkel, his face turning a bright red. "We're students."

  Felice laughed. Reaching up, she hooked both thumbs over the edge of her tube top. With a well-practiced move, she pulled the material down and across her body, exposing her large breasts. Her swollen nipples glistened in the dim lights from the nearby classrooms. "Come and get educated," she said.

  "But it's on campus," said Cliff, looking around for signs of life. They stood alone in a dark patch between two old brick buildings.

  His friend didn't seem to care. As if hypnotized by Felice's massive breasts, Finkel tentatively reached out and touched her with one hand. Gentle fingers massaged one rock hard nipple. Felice swayed forward in excitement, a low moan escaping her lips. Finkel needed no further encouragement. In seconds, his hands were eagerly exploring her exposed body. Bending over, he lowered his mouth onto her left breast. She gasped with pleasure as his teeth nipped her flesh.

  Really hot now, Felice grabbed Cliff by the arm and pulled him close. "Feel me," she said, passion thick in her voice. "You know where. Right down there."

  Still clutching his right arm, she thrust his hand beneath her short skirt and between her legs. She never wore panties. His probing fingers sent spasms of excitement pounding through her body. She felt like an animal in heat. Unconsciously, she thrust her body forward, already locking into a sexual rhythm with her two new lovers.

  "Back by the bushes," she gasped out after a few seconds. "We can do it there. I'll take you both at once."

  No worries about campus security now. In the near total darkness, they ripped off their clothes. Hurriedly, Felice positioned herself between the two men. "Give it to me hard and fast," she said to Cliff, bending over and spreading her legs wide apart. "None of those slow, gentle strokes. I want it rough."

  "I've got something special for you," she continued, peering up at Mark. Grasping his erection firmly with one hand, she smiled broadly and licked her lips. "You keep on pumping and let me do the rest."

  Then, knowing she was completely in command of the situation, she added, "Twenty bucks, each, okay with you boys? Maybe, if you're good, real good, we can try a few special tricks. Cost a little more, but you gotta pay for an education."

  The two young men were in no position to argue. Felice literally had them exactly where she wanted. Wordlessly, they nodded in agreement.

  Abandoning herself totally to lust, Felice started humping and pumping. Hot sex now, crack party later. Life was sweet, real sweet.

  25

  Show me those photos," said Taine, when Willis Royce finally finished his story.

  The pug-ugly everyone called Ape brought over the prints. Taine had heard stories about the infamous Ape Largo but never encountered him before tonight. The grotesque bodyguard measured up to his advance billing. He was the ugliest man imaginable. However, Taine knew better than to judge by appearances. More than once, he caught Largo smirking at some remark made by Royce. Taine suspected that the bodyguard might be a lot smarter than he looked.

  One glance at the pictures confirmed Taine's suspicions about the brutal murders. Vague theories hardened into fact. The five sigils answered a number of pressing questions. But those disclosures only raised new and troubling mysteries.

  Willis Royce impatiently drummed his fingers on the card table, waiting for answers. Taine didn't like the Bocar. More important, he trusted him even less.

  He knew just enough about the cult leader to keep him on his guard. Years ago, "Smooth" Royce ran one of the largest numbers games on Chicago's South Side. Though he claimed all of his money came from sharp business deals, everyone knew he made his money operating an illegal lottery. Though never arrested, Royce topped the police lists of crime bosses in the city.

  Despite or because of his reputation, Royce was one of the most popular black men on the South Side. To the poor residents of the inner-city slums, Royce was a man to be admired, not shunned. They loved the way he lived in style, spending money in wild orgies of self-indulgence. "Smooth" loved fast women and fast cars, and he kept himself well supplied in both.

  His only son, Ernie "Rolls" Royce, earned his nickname from his taste in cars. He drove around the toughest sections of the city in a Rolls Royce Silver Phantom. Like his father, Ernie claimed he worked as an "investment counselor."

  It surprised no one when Ernie and his fine automobile vanished one crisp spring morning. Nor was anyone particularly shocked when his bullet-riddled body was found a few weeks later, stuffed in the trunk of his otherwise pristine mint Rolls Royce. Gangland killings rarely made the front page of the papers in Chicago.

  His funeral attracted plenty of media attention, though. They buried Ernie sitting up, carefully propped up behind the steering wheel of his beloved automobile. The wake lasted four days, and when the liquor finally stopped flowing, they lowered the Silver Phantom and its driver into the ground using a derrick and hoist.

  Shortly after the funeral, Smooth Royce made the headlines again. Renouncing his earlier lifestyle, the numbers kingpin turned to religion. The death of his son had opened his eyes. With much fanfare, Royce embraced voodoo. According to his press releases, it was the only true religion for Afro-Americans. He immediately launched a one-man crusade to save other young men and women from the evils of crime. Royce called his new cult the Children of Danballah and took for himself the title Bocar.

  The mayor, anxious to take advantage of any positive news from the inner city, immediately praised Royce's "miraculous" conversion. Federal officials, accused for years of ignoring blacks, seized the opportunity to make themselves look good. A very generous amount of government community development funds made its way to the Children's treasury.

  Almost overnight, Royce became a leading spokesman for black youth. His conservative message of self-help and financial independence played well with the rich and powerful. While other groups struggled to make ends meet, the Children of Danballah continued to thrive. Only a few doubters expressed concern about the growing influence of the organization. They were ignored by a press more interested in style than substance. The media counted on the fast-talking Bocar for controversial quotes on otherwise slow news days. He never disappointed them.

  Taine suspected that Royce's tumble from grace would be equally swift. These brutal killings by the Dark Man had exposed disturbing ties linking the Children to the crack trade. The future of the voodoo cult appeared extremely uncertain. Meanwhile, the Dark Man posed a more immediate threat for the Bocar and his followers.

  "In Hebrew, the language of these five letters, you read from right to left," said Taine. "Mem, men, shin, pe, pe," he pronounced solemnly, progressively pointing to each symbol in the photo.

  "Taken together, they represent four Hebrew words. Each mem stands for mene. Shin becomes shekel, or as it was originally called, tekel. The two pe's taken together form a plural version of the word peres, which translates as upharsin."

  "So what?" said Royce, obviously unimpressed.

  "I know those words," said Ape Largo unexpectedly from the corner. "When I was a kid, my mother read me stories from the Bible." His face crinkled into what Taine guessed to be a smile. "I loved the real dramatic ones. That's why I still remember the Handwriting on the Wall."

  Taine nodded. His opinion of the bodyguard went up several notches. Not many people remembered the Book of Daniel. "Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin," he continued. "The Handwriting on the Wall revealed God's judgment of Belshazzar, king of Babylon."

  "Go on, go on," Royce demanded impatiently.

  "In a minute," said Taine. "I've demonstrated my good faith. Now it's time for you to do a little talking."

  "Ape, you take Morris and Boris in the other room and wait till I call," said Royce, grimly.

  The Bocar watched his three bodyguards leave before saying another word. "What they don't know won't hurt me. Especially that freak, Ape. I'm having second thoughts about him." Royce's fingers beat a nervous tattoo on the tabletop. "Ask your damn questions. You seem to know an awful lot already."

  "What's your relationship with the Knights of Antioch?"

  Royce's eyes narrowed into tiny slits, focused only on Taine. "I belong to the Order."

  "I thought so," said Taine, hard pressed to keep the satisfaction from his voice. "Did they supply you with the capital to start the Children of Danballah?"

  "Most of it," said Royce, clipping his words short. "The idea came from me but the Black Lodge put up the necessary cash. And they skim twenty-five percent off the top of each month's take."

  "How does Victor Caldwell fit in?"

  "He deals directly with the Bogota Syndicate. Fat Boy pays for the stuff through stock transfers arranged by his company."

  "What about Sangmeister?"

  "That old snake?" Royce spit on the floor. "He doesn't do nothing, but he still gets his cut as Grand Master."

  The Bocar's hands knotted into fists. "Caldwell phoned me earlier tonight. He told me all about your visit. It sounded awfully strange to me."

  "Too bad," said Taine, a ruthless edge to his voice. "See my tears. I don't give a damn what you think, Royce. Not a damn."

  "Enough small talk," said the Bocar, licking dry lips nervously. "I told you what you wanted. Finish your story.

  "Ape—get back in here with the boys," he called loudly, as if suddenly afraid of being alone. "And bring me another bottle of gin."

  "The original words referred to ancient measures of weight," continued Taine a few minutes later. "Taken together, they signified a deadly progression. The prophet Daniel interpreted their message as 'God hath numbered thy kingdom and finished it. Thou are weighed in the balances and found wanting.' Late that same night, Babylon fell to the Persians. The king and all his court died in bloody carnage."

  "That sounds an awful lot like a death sentence to me," said Ape Largo.

  "I don't care what you think," said Royce, angrily. "Keep talking, Taine. What does this mumbo jumbo have to do with the Dark Man?"

  "I'm getting to that," said Taine, a note of annoyance in his voice. "Give me a minute to explain." He paused, as if searching for the right words.

  "In the vast netherworld of humanity's shared subconscious exist powerful creatures of absolute darkness. Students of the Kabbalah refer to them as the Sheddim, chaotic beings created by Elohim before mankind. Most people think of them as demons and boogeymen. Elemental, nameless horrors, they normally touch our world only through dreams.

  "However, an extremely powerful sorcerer can summon one of these monsters from the outermost dark with certain words of power. Once here, he anchors the being to our world by the use of a True Name. Evidently, one of your enemies has done exactly that. The thing you call the Dark Man is the living embodiment of modern society's worst fears and nightmares. It exists only to destroy.

  "There are hundreds of different types of Sheddim. Together, they constitute the entire catalog of the supernatural horrors of legend. All of them draw their strength from human flesh and blood. However, only a few, such as vampires and werewolves, actually feed on physical sustenance. The rest feast on the vital force, the souls if you prefer, of their victims. Killing gives them life. Those symbols, drawn in human blood, channel the psychic energy of his prey to the Dark Man. With each death, he grows more powerful."

  Royce took a long, hard swallow from the gin bottle. "You ain't telling me a whole lot of useful information," he said, slurring his words together. "I need to know how to stop this thing. Do we shoot him with silver bullets or what?"

  "I doubt if that would work," said Taine. "The Dark Man himself is probably unkillable. Remember, he is a direct physical manifestation of the evil within us all. The best you can hope is to send him back to the outermost darkness."

  "Yeah," said Royce, morosely. "How do we manage that?"

  "An exorcism," said Ape Largo, his voice cold and grim.

  "My thought, too," said Taine. The ugly man continued to surprise him. "If we somehow cornered the Dark Man, an exorcism might banish him from our world."

  "I know a little about those ceremonies," said Royce unexpectedly. "After all, I am a Bocar. Two things I remember concerning these rituals. You need to know what type of demon you battle before you can imprison it. And you must name a demon before it will depart."

  "Quite correct," said Taine. "Unfortunately I have no clue as to what type of Sheddim the Dark Man actually is. We must learn that before he can be defeated. But I do know his name."

  "What the hell," said Royce, spilling some of his precious gin on the carpet. "What bullshit you pulling now, you smartass white boy?"

  "Now, now," said Taine, smoothly. "No racial slurs. Remember, we're trading information. I'll reveal what you want to know once you tell me how Roger Fremont fits into the plans of the Black Lodge."

  "Fremont," said Royce, his brow furled in thought. "I don't remember any novice named Fremont. What does this dude look like?"

  Taine described Janet's ex-husband the best he could, relying on her sketchy account of his features.

  "Nobody matching those specs belongs to the Order," said Royce. "Besides which, you said he's a crack head. We don't admit geeks into the Lodge."

  "He wore a ring with the seal," said Taine.

  "Jewelry can be stolen. Crack addicts rip off anything they can lay their hands on."

  Royce's tone grew desperate. "Listen, Taine. The secrets of the Black Lodge cannot be revealed to outsiders. No matter what the price, I can't talk about the inner workings of the Order. However, I'm not violating my oath when I swear to you that this Roger Fremont never attended any of our meetings. No matter what he claims, he doesn't belong to the Knights of Antioch."

  Taine recognized the truth when he heard it. He shook his head in annoyance. So much for easy answers.

  "To summon a Sheddim, a magician must give the creature a name of power. We already know the Dark Man uses the Handwriting on the Wall as a focus for its dark hunger. Logically, those same symbols are the ones that first summoned it to our world.

  "Continuing with that thought, in the Book of Daniel the text states "The fingers of a man's hand came forth and wrote upon the wall.' It seems quite unlikely that the Dark Man, by coincidence alone, uses a human hand for his bloody paintbrush."

  "What are you leading up to?" asked Royce.

  "According to the great Kabbalistic scholars, the Lord God, Elohim, never directly interferes with mankind. Instead, he works through agents, the Angelic Host. Thus, when the Bible refers to 'the finger of God,' it actually means a messenger of the Lord."

  "So what you're saying," continued Ape Largo, picking up the complex idea, "is that when Daniel wrote that a ghostly finger inscribed the Handwriting on the Wall, it was actually done by one of the Heavenly Host. And when summoning the Dark Man, the magician empowered this demon through use of the name of that powerful angel. It almost seems sacriligious."

  "Exactly why a black magician would do such a thing. Every clue ties the two supernatural beings together," said Taine.