Джим Батчер - Weird Detectives - Recent Investigations

“Evil,” said Gold. For the first time, I saw not defiance but astonishment cross Gold’s features. “Is that what you think? You think that’s my baby?”

Actually, until that moment, that’s exactly what I’d thought. All I’d seen her in were baggy clothes, for one. And pieces of her story didn’t fit. But Gold’s reaction was genuine. You can’t do a hundred million hours of interrogations and not know when someone’s honestly amazed.

Gold gave a mirthless laugh. “I can’t believe this. There are tests, right? To prove maternity?”

“Yes,” I said, knowing already what we’d find. “DNA that we—”

“Fine.” Gold held out her arms. “Which one?”

She wasn’t the mother.

My condo’s off Lee Highway, in Arlington. I grew up in DC and now I work it. I can’t live there. On the way home, I bought Thai takeout and then picked up a six-pack of icy-cold Bangkok beer. I ate my pad Thai out of the carton, had a beer. Then I popped a second beer, put on Mingus, and settled into my favorite—my only—recliner. I sleep there a lot. I don’t know any single guy sleeps in his bed. We sleep on couches, chairs. Never the bed. And in our clothes, usually.

Rabbi Dietterich had given me a book on Kabbalah. Then, as we had shaken hands, he said, “I have often thought about Detective Lennox. His death, such a tragedy. You and I both know there are demons and monsters everywhere. Nazis, murderers. But what are not so easy are the monsters that are hidden.” Dietterich bunched his fists and brought them to his chest. “The ones in here, in the dark chambers of the heart. Detective Lennox was a Jew, but he had no faith, and he found his monsters. Or they found him. Hashem can help, but a man must have faith, and he must work. We Jews are not like you Christians. We don’t believe that Hashem makes everything better. Hashem can be harsh. Life is sometimes unfair. But we believe that Hashem gives us a fighting chance.”

He clapped a hand to my right shoulder. “You’re a good man, Detective Saunders. An honest man. Please take care not to let your monsters destroy you.”

Now, thumbing to the index, I found a section on demons and paged there. The Kabbalists were big believers in an unseen spirit world, with some rabbis claiming that demons are consigned to a dark netherworld, and others stating that demons are born from sex between humans and demonic spirits. The rabbis agreed on six demonic attributes. In common with angels, demons have wings, can fly from one end of the earth to another, and tell the future. Like humans, however, they need food and water. They have sex. And, unlike the angels, they’re mortal.

I flipped to a section on regional beliefs. I found North Africa, the Near East. But this leapt off the page:

One of the most comprehensive works is the Zefunei Ziyyoni. Written in the late fourteenth century by Menachem Zion of Cologne, this book has the most extensive list of important demons and how they functioned. This German-born Kabbalist was influential in disseminating Arabic thought amongst the practical Kabbalists concentrated in Eastern Europe and Germany.

There it was: the practical Kabbalists. Translation: the witches. And Germany.

Something sparked in my brain. Quickly, I went to my coat and pulled out the packet of autopsy photos Kay had given me, flipping until I found the one of the tattoo.

To this day, I don’t know how I got there. There was no logic. The sensation truly was a flash: like a bare bulb flaring to life in a dark basement. And then I knew.

I checked the index. But what I was looking for wasn’t under R. It was under G : for “ gilgul. ”

I spent the rest of the night reading, thinking. I went online and did a search. It took time, but I found what I was looking for. Compared the information to what I had. As soon as the museums opened, I made a couple calls. The employment stuff was easy, even the call to Sydney, though it was evening there and the director a little grumpy until I went over what I wanted and why.

Then I called the Holocaust Museum. The information clerk funneled me to an archivist. When I explained, there was a moment’s silence. Then the archivist said, “Not many people know about that. Unfortunately, those early records are lost. I’m sorry.”

Then I made one last call. She picked up on the third ring. “Hello, Detective. No magic: caller ID. What do you want?”

I told her where to meet me. “Should I bring my lawyer?” she asked.

“No. I just want to talk.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, and hung up.

My office away from the office: the bar’s across the street from the Shakespeare Theatre on 7th and diagonal to Jaleo’s, a Spanish tapas place where the beautiful people eat before going to the theatre. So I never go there.

I saw her come in, look around, start toward me. Her coat was open, and she wore a beige skirt that came to her knees, a cream linen blouse, and linen pumps. She had the pendant. When she’d slid onto the cushioned bench opposite mine and shrugged out of her coat, we did the waitress thing—bourbon for me, white wine for her.

Then she asked, “What did you want to see me about, Detective?”

“I want to tell you a story.”

“Story?”

“Yeah, bear with me. See, there was once a terrible war. The people who suffered the most were the Jews.”

The corners of her mouth quirked. “That could be all of Jewish history.”

“But in this war, there was a demon. I believe devout Jews think of Hitler as Amalek, right?”

“That’s right. Amalek was the great-great-grandson of Abraham, and there are specific injunctions to beware of Amalekites. Amalek has come to symbolize all evil.”

“Okay. So Evil attacks the Jews. The Jews are expelled from their homes. Whole villages are destroyed; the Jews are killed, or sent to concentration camps. Some survive and they remember. But they’re worried others will forget. And some can’t let that past go. They wonder why they were spared. And they’re lonely.”

“This is,” she began, then stopped when the waitress came with our drinks. The waitress tacked a napkin to the table with Gold’s wine, slid one under my bourbon. When she’d gone, Gold said, “Do you have a point?”

I angled my glass toward a candle burning in a squat glass holder, liking the way the light shone gold through the liquor. “I’m getting to the best part. Isn’t it true that the reason Chassids dress the way they do is to preserve a piece of their past?”

“That’s one interpretation.”

“So what keeps someone from preserving other customs, rituals?”

“Such as?”

“Magic.”

She gave a very small half smile. She raised her glass, tipped wine into her mouth. “Jews don’t believe in magic.”

“Yes, they do.” I flicked a finger at her pendant. “That thing, that’s magic, right?”

“It’s just a necklace.”

“No. It’s very specific. I know, because I looked it up.” Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my notepad and flipped. “Yeah, here it is. That shin is a really interesting letter. It means the Eternal Flame, and it reflects the fact that God is changeless, forever. There are some other things about shin I don’t get.”

“The mystical meanings.”

“Right. And I have to admit I couldn’t figure the key until I read about this very important angel named Râzîêl. Râzîêl sits at God’s throne and takes notes, and he’s written a book in which he recorded all celestial and earthly secrets. I’ve seen a picture from the book. To the Kabbalists, the book is a key. In fact, Râzîêl’s book is supposed to hold the fifteen hundred keys to the secrets of the universe.” I closed my notebook. “And Râzîêl’s color is gold.”