At least most people would have considered it a tragedy. But the death of Rodney's parents in a car accidenteven though, ironically, it was on his own 21st birthdayseemed to barely phase the young star now known to the world as Rye Cowl. Rodney had never felt close to his parents and now, fully entrenched in his new persona, he almost felt as if he was not related to them at all. Jason, Rick and Billy couldn't quite comprehend his callous att.i.tude about the whole thing. Then again, understanding Rye Cowl was something they didn't spend a lot of time trying to do anymore. As long as he kept churning out hit songs and as long as the CDs kept selling and the money continued to roll in, that was good enough for them. Nothing, it seemed, could stop Mega Therion from scorching its way across the musical landscape. It was as if the fires of h.e.l.l were blazing the trail and all the band had to do was follow in its wake.

CD sales reached the one million mark. The boys were up to their necks in a river of money that seemed like it would flow forever. Jason bought himself a cla.s.sic, red, '57 Thunderbird convertible and moved out of his parent's house into an elaborately appointed high-rise condo overlooking the Seattle skyline. He was on top of the world.

Rick was sitting pretty in a new 'Beamer' convertible and Billy bought a Porche. They both purchased homes relatively close to one another inside one of the city's upscale, gated communities. They were living the life of millionaire party animals even if it was much to the chagrin of several of their more conservative neighbors.

Cowl, oddly enough, didn't seem all that interested in the money. He did buy a glossy black, completely restored-to-mint, 1959 Cadillac with tinted windows, and a custom-installed stereo. From the deadly sharp tail fins to the enormous front chrome b.u.mper, the cla.s.sic rolling land yacht was only slightly shorter in length than an aircraft carrier, a perfect size for hauling around his expanding ego. He named the car, Maybellene, after a cla.s.sic of another kind, his favorite old Chuck Berry song. As far as major purchases, however, that was about it for him.

Standing alone now in the kitchen of his parent's home, staring blankly out the window over the sink, Cowl watched the sun going down behind the trees. The money meant little to him. He was satisfied to bask in the glory of his success, the freedom from his parents and, perhaps most of all, in having finally broken the restraints which, for so long, had kept him chained to that loser, the n.o.body that n.o.body ever really knew. Rodney f.u.c.kworth-Not-Worth-a-f.u.c.k was, indeed, now worth a f.u.c.k. A million of them.

A tiny smile formed at the corners of his mouth. His someday was near. He didn't know how it would happen, what it would be like, or even when it would happen. All he knew was that he could feel it coming.

He turned away from the window and moved into the living room. The old curtains, the old carpet, the old furniture, the old paint on the walls. It all seemed so foreign to his newly acquired persona and yet it was uncomfortably all too familiar. There wasn't a place in the house where he couldn't still smell the alcohol on his father's breath or hear the preachy, nagging voice of his overbearing mother.

He walked across the room and sat in the overstuffed chair where his father used to park his lazy a.s.s and drink his cheap booze until he pa.s.sed out. Cowl raised a hand and gently smacked the big, soft, round arm of the chair. A plume of dust rose and settled. He looked around and nodded. It was time to move.

Rye Cowl could have had any house in the city. There were plenty of mansions available in a metropolis the size of Seattle. h.e.l.l, he could have purchased a beauty on the sh.o.r.es of Lake Washington, just down the road from Bill Gates if he'd wanted to. But those homes didn't feel right to him. He wanted something different. Something more suitable to the dark and heavy persona he'd come to embraceor which had come to embrace him. He took his time. Weeks pa.s.sed. Then, one dark, bl.u.s.tery, rainy afternoon, he found it.

After touring around the city for hours in the rolled-and-pleated comfort of Maybellene, he'd somehow unintentionally ended up on Seattle's old Capitol Hill, driving down the tree-lined avenue of Millionaire's Row.

As Maybellene's wipers swished back and forth, battling in vain against the driving rain, he pa.s.sedalmost without noticethe well-kept estates and meticulously manicured lawns. Squinting to see through the torrential downpour, his attention zeroed in on somethingsomething large and darkat the far end of the avenue. He approached slowly and pulled Maybellene over to the curb directly in front of a disheveled, and apparently abandoned old mansion.

He switched off the engine and sat silently, staring at the place. Something about it was familiar. Then it hit him. Oh, man. It's Moorehouse Manor. He recalled reading an article about it just a few years earlier. A photo had accompanied the article and he could see now the great home had not changed at all. The theme of the article focused on historically prominent people from Seattle's past. In addition to the information about William Bentley Moorehouse, it also mentioned the rather disturbing rumors about William's son, Michael Moorehouse, who had inherited the home when the elder Moorehouse died. According to the rumors, the article revealed, the younger Moorehouse had a bizarre fascination with black magick and a rather unhealthy obsession with the infamous Aleister Crowley.

Cowl grinned.

Two weeks later, on a cold winter afternoon in the year of 2007, Rye Cowl became the newest resident on Millionaire's Row. He settled into the dank, dreary mansion as comfortably as one slides one's tired feet into a pair of old slippers. He was home at last.

On Cowl's first night in his new surroundings he smoked a bowl of his best weed and unpacked his few belongings which included two boxes of his favorite books. He began the task of placing the books on a shelf in the library, a room with which he had felt an immediate and intimate kinship. The room seemed to welcome him as if it had been waiting all those years for his arrival.

The final book to be shelved was a hefty volume, the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe. As he was about to place the book on the shelf, it slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. He tried to catch it but he fumbled in the attempt. It tumbled around to the side of the bookcase.

He stooped to retrieve the book and found it had fallen open, quite serendipitously, to his favorite of Poe's tales of terror, The Fall Of The House Of Usher. Situated comfortably, cross-legged, on the exquisite Persian carpet covering the floor, he took a moment to browse the opening lines of the story. But the hour was late, he was tired, the effects of the marijuana were doing their job and there was a chill in the air of the old library. I'll take it upstairs, he thought, and read it in bed. Indeed, it seemed like a fitting way to end the day.

He closed the book and started to stand but, feeling the full impact of the weed by this time, his legs were unsteady. Light-headed and wobbly, he stumbled backward against the bookcase causing the structure to slide sideways. It moved not more than half an inch but it was enough to reveal an otherwise nearly invisible and hair-thin seam in the wall.

Upon closer inspection, he noticed it was not so much a seam in the wall as it was a very narrow gap. It extended from the floor upward to about eight feet, at which point it made a 90-degree turn and continued on behind the bookcase. Curious now, he leaned against the bookcase and slid it another couple of feet along the wall. Well, well, he mused. What have we here?

He was convinced it must be some sort of a door. But how to open it? There were no visible hinges and no door latch of any kind. He pushed against it. Nothing budged. He tried again, harder. Still no movement. What the h.e.l.l? He was about to lay into it with more force when he noticed a small flat b.u.t.ton, flush against the wall, just off to the side. He pushed the b.u.t.ton and heard what sounded like the click of a latch inside the wall. The section of wall sprang open, just slightly, apparently on a vertical hinge at the center. He pushed it a little more and it pivoted on its center axis, opening like a revolving door.

He peeked his head into the dark s.p.a.ce. The slightly musty smell of abandonment wafted into his nostrils. He reached in with one arm and felt around for a light switch but found none. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and gave it a flick. It provided enough light to see a few feet into the room.

He stepped in, scanned the wall for a light switch, found it and flipped it on. The result was a dim, but adequate light from the one working bulb in a large chandelier suspended from the middle of the ceiling. He stood at the door and surveyed the room.

Empty bookcases lined the walls to the left and right of the door. A few feet directly in front of the door was a brown leather couch. Near the far wall sat a large, dark, Victorian style desk facing out into the room. Atop the desk were three objects, two of which he could not discern from where he stood. The one that he could identify was an old bra.s.s desk lamp. He moved closer for a better look.

At first he thought one of the objects must be a flower vase. But why did it have a lid? He picked up the odd relic, blew off the dust and ran his fingers over the strangely faceted, deep red gemstone attached to it. Then he noticed the name and dates inscribed into the black ceramic finish. What the?

He turned on the desk lamp, brought the object into the light and looked again. What? Aleister-f.u.c.king-Crowley? No way! He realized then that the object was a funerary urn. Gooseb.u.mps rolled across his flesh. He lifted the lid and tipped the urn. A small amount of ash slid forward. Startled, he tipped the urn back upright and replaced the lid. He felt a flutter in his chest. This can't be real. Then his eyes fell upon the third object, a dust-covered diary.

He lowered himself into the chair behind the great desk, picked up the diary and brushed the dust off the leather covering. He turned it over and back again. What in the world do we have here?

He leaned back in the chair and opened the book. The solitary light in the chandelier suddenly flickered and went out. Surrounded by darknesssave for the small dim circle of light from the desk lamphis body tensed. He could no longer see the door on the other side of the room. The old house had become disturbingly quiet. The usual creaks and groans of the aging timbers had fallen silent. He held his breath. Time ceased. He wondered for a moment if even the world outside had vanished.

He sat motionless, gathering the courage to get up and feel his way to the door. But as he rose from the chair the light in the chandelier flickered again and came back on. He fell back into the chair and froze. Moving only his eyes, afraid to breathe, he scanned the room. He heard the familiar sound of an old timber creaking somewhere deep in the bowels of the house. Listening closely, he detected the faint whisper of the wind outside. He released his breath, his tension eased. He took another look around. No ghosts. No demons. A nervous chuckle involuntarily rattled up from his churning gut. Just a faulty f.u.c.king light bulb.

Convinced that all was once again right with the world, he eased back in the chair, flipped open the diary and began to read.

CHAPTER 1.

Three Months Later...

It was hotsweaty hotespecially for Seattle in the middle of June.

Detective Lieutenant, Brian Kane, took the day off from his duties at the homicide unit in the West Precinct to celebrate his 47th birthday. He set the electric fan on the coffee table and pushed the high-speed b.u.t.ton. His thick black hair fluttered in the refreshing breeze. The fact that he was only now beginning to show a slight touch of gray at the temples belied the daily stress of his years as a big-city cop. The creva.s.ses that defined the contours of his broad face, however, told the real story like a gritty, pulp crime novel written in Braille. His six-foot, one-inch frame still carried his 185 pounds quite well considering he hadn't set foot in a gym in five years and he'd had to let his belt out a couple more notches. One of these days, he kept promising himself, I'll get me one of those treadmills. But this wouldn't be the day. This was a day for relaxing.

It was exactly the kind of birthday celebration he preferred: alone in his downtown apartment, slouched back in his old recliner, comfortably attired in his t-shirt and skivvies with a bottle of Scotch, a bag of corn chips and a Sat.u.r.day afternoon ball game on TV. It was perfect. That is until the top of the seventh inning when the Mariners came to bat and the phone rang. With a disgruntled effort he reached over and took the call.

"Kane here. What is it? Oh, for Christ's sake, Mitch. Get Davis to handle it, will ya? I'm celebrating here. Oh, for the love of... all right. Where?" He grabbed a pen and jotted down an address on the palm of his hand. "Yeah, yeah. I'm on my way."

The crime scene was a Presbyterian church in a semi-residential district just north of the downtown area. Kane ducked under the yellow police tape that cordoned off the front entrance of the church and walked in. A couple of CSI guys were snapping photos of the body that was lying face down on the floor at the foot of the altar. Mitch Wheeler, a relatively new detective with the division, was busy taking notes and didn't notice Kane approaching.

Kane announced his presence with the standard opening line from every similar scene on every cop show on TV. "Okay, what've we got?"

Mitch looked up. "Hey, Lieutenant. I'm sorry about"

"Forget it. The Mariners were losing anyway. So what do we have here?" Without waiting for an answer he knelt down beside the body to see for himself. He grimaced. "Oh, Jesus. You gotta be kidding me."

"Yeah. Just like that other one nine days ago."

The first victim, nine days ago, was Reverend Paul Nichols. His body, branded with strange symbols on the forehead and the chest, had been found in an alley near the waterfront. The body Kane was staring at now was marked in a similar manner. The symbol on the forehead was the same on both victims. The symbol on the chest, however, was different from the one on the chest of the previous victim.

In the previous case from nine days ago, the Medical Examiner had determined the cause of death was a heart attack. He was puzzled, however, by the strange symbolsnot so much by what they might mean but by how they were applied. He first thought they appeared to be the result of branding by a heated metal implement applied to the surface of the skin. Or possiblyeven more likely, given the flowing lines and complexity of the symbolsthe perpetrator employed the more advanced method: electro-cautery pencils. One way or the other, the welted skin seemed to be a dead giveaway that it was a case of human branding. However, much to the M.E.'s surprise, a closer examination back at the lab had suggested something more bizarre, disturbingly so. The markings had not been the result of something applied to the surface of the skin. They were the result of something that happened under the skin. Nothing in his medical training or in his twenty-three years of practice could offer even a hint as to what mechanismbiological or otherwisecould cause such a thing to occur. So, although he hadn't been able to come up with an explanation for the 'how', he was reasonably certain about the 'when'.

"It was done while the victim was still alive," he told Kane. "And the pain had to have been excruciating. Look here, how the nerve endings..."

"That's okay, doc. I'll take your word for it. What else you got?"

"Well, as you already surmised, the victim was apparently sodomized."

"Apparently?"

"We only have what you might call surface evidence of a.n.a.l penetration. Minor tissue damage to the orifice shows"

"Like I said, I'll take your word for it. So you're telling me there was no s.e.m.e.n? Nothing? Hairs? Fibers? C'mon, doc. You gotta give me something. I could use a little help from a DNA sample. Y'know?"

"Sorry, Lieutenant. Nothing. Not under the fingernails, not on the clothing... nothing. This is definitely one for the books. It's like the poor guy was attacked by a d.a.m.ned ghost."

"A ghost. That's your expert medical opinion? He was attacked by a f.u.c.king ghost?"

The Medical Examiner shrugged. "Just telling you the way it is." He snapped off his surgical gloves. "Anyway, there you go. If I find anything more, you'll be the first to know."

Now, kneeling over the second victim, Kane shook his head and glanced up at Wheeler. "What kind of a sick f.u.c.k does something like this?"

"I don't know, but there's one more thing."

Kane got to his feet. "What is it?"

Wheeler held out a clear plastic evidence bag containing a small, thin, black object. He handed it to Kane.

Kane held it up to the light. "Son of a b.i.t.c.h. Another G.o.dd.a.m.n Batman coin."

"Yup. Stuffed into the mouth of the vic just like the other case."

"What the h.e.l.l is it with these Batman coins? Get it to the lab right away. The other coin didn't tell us anything but maybe we can get a print off this one." He glanced down at the body. "Any I.D. on this guy? Do we know who he is?"

Wheeler peeled back a page or two in his notes. "Thomas Morgan. Pastor here at the church."

"Preacher, huh? Same as that other poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Kane's brow crunched as he studied the body. "Doesn't look like a preacher."

Wheeler shrugged. "What should a preacher look like?"

"Black shirt, white collar. You know."

"Well, he was a Presbyterian minister. They don't always"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." He took another look at the dead preacher. "Those weird markings on the forehead, the chest. What the h.e.l.l are they, anyway?"

Wheeler shook his head. "Don't have a clue."

"Then what good are ya?" Kane said as he turned to leave.

The comment took Wheeler by surprise. "What?"

But Kane's footsteps were already echoing down the aisle between the pews toward the door. He'd entered the scene with a standard line and, true to form, he was exiting with a standard line. "Need a full report on my desk by morning," he hollered over his shoulder.

Just as Kane reached the door, Wheeler called after him. "By the way, Lieutenant! Happy birthday!"

The words 'f.u.c.k you'another line from Kane's voluminous lexicon of famous phraseswas barely audible as the large oak door slammed shut behind him.

CHAPTER 2.

The next morning Kane scanned through the pages of Wheeler's report. The results of the autopsy of the second victim were nearly identical to those of the first. The cause of death, in both cases, was heart attack even though both victims were in excellent health. And again there was not a trace of hair, skin, s.e.m.e.n or fingerprints.

Kane washed down the last bite of his morning donut with a swig of coffee. I don't like it. Doesn't make any sense. Two preachers, both die from heart attacks and then some creep comes along, does the nasty with the corpses, shoves a f.u.c.kin' Batman coin into their mouth and then somehow brands them with weird symbols? No fingerprints? No sign of a struggle? He shook his head. It's just G.o.dd.a.m.n weird.

Wheeler knocked on Kane's door and walked in. "I take it you've read the report?"

Kane looked up. "Hey, Mitch. Sorry about yesterday. I wasn't in my best mood."

"No problem. So what do you think?"

"I don't know what to think. The weird thingor at least one of the weird thingsis that it doesn't really look like we're dealing with a homicide. That's what I can't wrap my brain around. Doesn't look like anybody killed anybody. You know what I mean? We got two dead guys, both died from heart attacks, no sign of a struggle, nothing."

Mitch nodded. "Well, there is something. The Batman coins and the branded markings. Those were clearly applied by somebody. Somehow."

"Yeah. Crazy designs. Looks like something my daughter would have scribbled when she was little. Except for the one on their foreheads. That designwhatever the h.e.l.l it isit's pretty complex. Like there's some geometry to it."

"You have a daughter?"

"What?"

"You mentioned your daughter."

"Oh. Yeah. Sarah. She's ten, now. Still can't draw for c.r.a.p. Takes after her ol' man."

Mitch smiled. "I didn't know you were married."

"Divorced."

"Oh?" Mitch said, waiting for the rest of the story.

Kane gave a perturbed look. "Whatyou writing a book?"

Mitch held up his hands and backed off. "Sorry. Didn't mean to pry."

"Yeah, well..." Kane said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "Long, sad story and I'm fresh out of violins."