Tess Gerritsen - The Mephisto Club

“Because you think I’m less of a skeptic than she is? Don’t bet on it.”

“What did you think about the death scene today? What did it tell you about the killer?”

“I saw evidence of a severely disturbed mind.”

“That’s one possibility.”

“What’s your interpretation?”

“That there’s real intelligence behind this. Not just some nutcase getting his jollies by torturing women. This is someone with a focused and logical motive.”

“Your mythical demons, again.”

“I know you don’t accept their existence. But you saw that news article, about the barn that was defaced twelve years ago. Did anything else in that report stand out for you?”

“You mean, aside from the crosses carved in the barn?”

“The missing goat. There were four goats released from the barn, and the farmer recovered only three of them. What happened to the fourth?”

“Maybe it escaped. Maybe it got lost in the woods.”

“In Leviticus, chapter sixteen, another name for Azazel is ‘the scapegoat.’ He who assumes all the sins, all the evils, of mankind. By tradition, the chosen animal is led into the wilderness, taking humanity’s sins with it. And there it’s released.”

“We’re back to your symbol of Azazel again.”

“A drawing of his head appeared on your door. You can’t have forgotten that.”

No, I haven’t. How could I forget that my door bears the mark of a killer?

“I know you’re skeptical,” he said. “I know you think this will turn out to be like so many other investigations. That it will lead to some rather ordinary, even pitiful character who lives quietly alone. Another Jeffrey Dahmer, or another Son of Sam. Maybe this killer hears voices. Maybe he’s read Anton LaVey’s Satanic Bible a few too many times and taken it to heart. But consider another possibility, something far more frightening.” He looked at her. “That Nephilim-the Watchers-really exist. That they’ve always existed, and they still live among us.”

“The children of fallen angels?”

“That’s merely the biblical interpretation.”

“This is all biblical. And you know I don’t believe.”

“The Old Testament is not the only place where these creatures are mentioned. They appear in the myths of earlier cultures.”

“Every civilization has its mythical evil spirits.”

“I’m not talking about spirits, but flesh and blood, with human faces. A parallel species of predators who’ve evolved right alongside us. Interbred with us.”

“Wouldn’t we know of their existence by now?”

“We know them by the evil they commit. But we don’t recognize them for what they really are. We call them sociopaths or tyrants. Or Vlad the Impaler. They charm and seduce their way into positions of power and authority. They thrive on war, on revolution, on disorder. And we never realize they’re different from the rest of us. Different in a fundamental way that goes right to our genetic codes. They’re born predators, and the whole world is their hunting ground.”

“Is this what the Mephisto Foundation is all about? A search for these mythical creatures?” She laughed. “You might as well hunt for unicorns.”

“There are many of us who believe.”

“And what will you do when you actually find one? Shoot him and mount his head as a trophy?”

“We’re purely a research group. Our role is to identify and study. And advise.”

“Advise whom?”

“Law enforcement. We provide them with information and analysis. And they use what we give them.”

“Law enforcement agencies actually care what you have to say?” she asked, with an unmistakable note of disbelief.

“Yes. We are listened to” was all he said. The calm statement of a man so sure of his claims, he saw no need to defend them.

She considered how easily he had accessed confidential details of the investigation. Thought of how Jane’s inquiries about Sansone had met with silence from the FBI and Interpol and the Department of Justice. They are all protecting him.

“Our work has not gone unnoticed,” he said, and added softly, “unfortunately.”

“I thought that was the point. To have your work noticed.”

“Not by the wrong people. Somehow, they’ve discovered us. They know who we are, and what we do.” He paused. “And they think you’re one of us.”

“I don’t even believe they exist.”

“They’ve marked your door. They’ve identified you.”

She gazed out at moonlit snow, its whiteness startling in the night. It was almost as bright as day. No cover, no darkness. A prey’s every movement would be seen in that merciless landscape. “I’m not a member of your club,” she said.

“You might as well be. You’ve been seen at my home. You’ve been seen with me.”

“I’ve also visited all three crime scenes. I’ve only been doing my job. The killer could have spotted me on any one of those nights.”

“That’s what I thought at first. That you just happened to cross his line of vision, as incidental prey. It’s what I thought about Eve Kassovitz as well-that maybe he spotted her at the first crime scene on Christmas Eve, and she attracted his interest.”

“You no longer think that’s what happened?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“The seashell. If I’d known about it earlier, we all would have taken precautions. And Joyce might still be alive.”

“You think that seashell was a message meant for you?”

“For centuries, Sansone men have marched into battle under the banner of the seashell. This was a taunt, a challenge aimed at the foundation. A warning of what’s to come.”

“What would that be?”

“Our extermination.” He said it quietly, as though just speaking those two words aloud would bring the sword down on his neck. But she heard no fear in his voice, only resignation that this was the fate he’d been dealt. She could think of nothing to say in response. This conversation had strayed into alien territory, and she could not find her bearings. His universe was such a bleak landscape of nightmares that just sitting with him, in his car, altered her view of the world. Changed it to an unfamiliar country where monsters walked. Daniel, she thought, I need you now. I need your touch and your hope and your faith in the world. This man is all darkness, and you are the light.

“Do you know how my father died?” he asked.

She frowned at him, startled by the question. “I’m sorry?”

“Believe me, it’s relevant. My whole family history is relevant. I tried to walk away from it. I spent thirteen years teaching at Boston College, thinking I could live a normal life like everyone else, convinced that my father was just a cranky eccentric, like his father, that all the bizarre stories he told me when I was growing up were quaint family lore.” He glanced at her. “I believed it about as much as you do right now, which is to say, not at all.”

He sounds so rational. Yet he isn’t. He can’t be.

“I taught history, so I’m familiar with the ancient myths,” he said. “But you’ll never convince me that there were once satyrs or mermaids or flying horses. Why should I believe my father’s stories about Nephilim?”

“What changed your mind?”

“Oh, I knew some of what he told me was true. The death of Isabella, for instance. In Venice, I was able to find the record of her imprisonment and death in church documents. She was burned alive. She did give birth to a son, just prior to her execution. Not everything that was passed down in Sansone family lore was fantasy.”

“And the part about your ancestors being demon hunters?”