The Occupied Page 9

  “I have a suggestion,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s called risperidone. A newer-generation, generally effective medication . . .”

  “I’m familiar. Good approach to treat psychosis. A few of my clients suffering from mental illness have experienced real improvement on those meds. But not a good prescription for me. At least for what ails me.”

  “And what is it, exactly, that ails you?”

  I stood up to leave. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

  It was Wednesday, late afternoon, when I cut short the “therapy” session and trotted out of the medical building where Dr. Dumfrey had his office. I never returned. My exit from his treatment was AMA, as they say—against medical advice. After doing that, my chances of reviving my license to practice law were, to continue with the medical jargon, DOA, and I knew it.

  My stomach was rumbling. I would grab a pastrami sandwich at the deli on that same block. Then I needed to pay a visit to somebody.

  It’s funny the things you forget in the middle of chaos. When Courtney died, and I picked up her personal belongings from the coroner’s office, her iPhone was among them. In retrospect, I was a little surprised that Detective Valentine hadn’t seized it, seeing as he was supposedly investigating Courtney’s death. But I never thought to check her device until after that court hearing when Judge Cavendish yanked me off the Dunning Kamera case. When I got around to digging out her smartphone, I checked the incoming numbers for the day or two before her death.

  One telephone number in particular leaped into sight like a scared rabbit. My world was getting exponentially stranger, with no ending point in sight. But if my suspicions about the cell number were correct, tragedy was about to be compounded. I would have to confront Elijah White.

  17

  Behind the pulpit in the Church of Christ the Holy King in Harlem, Rev. Jason Jambly stood dressed in a blue suit in front of a large lighted cross. Off to the side was a young man who had been playing licks on an electric guitar and who had some real talent. Another black teen was on the drums. Jambly was wrapping up with a song, his arms flung wide.

  It was Wednesday night service, and I knew Elijah White would probably be there, so I had slipped into the back, behind the crowd of forty or so standing in the pews, swaying and head-bobbing and hand-raising. No one seemed to care that a stranger had joined them. An elderly lady with a hat who was in my row smiled and nodded in my direction when I stepped in.

  I had to make sure that I could spot Elijah. Sure enough, he was in the front row.

  Toward the end of the service, two folks stepped into the aisle and helped bring it to a close with some sanctified dancing. While people started to mingle, and before Rev. Jambly could descend on me as the newcomer in the crowd, I trotted down the side aisle and grabbed Elijah by the arm. “Got to talk. Outside. This is urgent.”

  He looked surprised. “Okay. Okay,” he shouted back. “Good to see you. Let’s go out to the parking lot.”

  When we were alone, I stuck Courtney’s iPhone up to Elijah’s face and started to shout. “Your number is on Courtney’s cell. You called her the day before she died. I want to know why. And it so happens that your call to Courtney was just a few hours before you called me and delivered your doomsday prophecy.” Elijah started to respond, but I cut him off, still yelling. “I want to know if you supplied her with the coke. The stuff that killed her. Or whether you dealt the cocaine to that worthless scum Bradley Yelsin, who then gave it to Courtney.”

  Elijah started waving his hands in front of me. “Hold on.”

  “I won’t hold on. I’ve got a dead wife. And some sick, really weird stuff has been happening to me. So you’re going to give me some answers. Right now.”

  By then a couple of Elijah’s fellow parishioners were in the parking lot, staring at us, sensing trouble. A big guy in the group started toward us. But Elijah told him it was okay, and not to interfere.

  “Answers,” I repeated.

  “Okay,” Elijah said. He plucked Courtney’s iPhone out of my hand and looked at the number. “Yeah,” he said. “That was the day. My last phone call to her. About group.”

  “What group?”

  “Rehab group,” he said. “I had been trying to get her into treatment. She called our drug rehab center a while ago but kept backing out. So I suggested maybe she just sit in on one of our addiction group meetings. Get a feel for it. Maybe change her mind.”

  It took a couple of seconds to process all of that. Then more anger bubbled up. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? Why’d you leave me in the dark?”

  “We’ve got this confidentiality thing. Couldn’t do it, man. Even with you. Really sorry about that.”

  Elijah’s explanation was so obvious and so logical I wondered how I could have missed it. “So, you were trying to get her into rehab?”

  “Of course, man. And I know you’ve been dealing with some major heartbreak since she died. That’s why I didn’t tell you before now. Even so, maybe I should have let you in on it after she was gone. That’s my fault.”

  A weight had been lifted, even though I felt like an idiot and had to admit it. “No. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions about you still dealing drugs. You’re a good man, Elijah.”

  His face brightened. “Thanks. You know, I’ve known you awhile, Trevor, but never heard you say that before.”

  “You’re going to be hearing a lot of things from me that you’ve never heard before.”

  He studied me close. Then he said, “Something’s going on with you . . .”

  “I’ve witnessed some wicked stuff. Not sure what it means.”

  “Wicked? Like what?”

  “Some kind of . . . don’t know exactly. Dark, evil force.”

  Now he was getting hyped. “You saw it? Actually saw it?”

  “Not just that. I smelled it.”

  Elijah did a half twirl where he stood. “What? Oh, man, what are you saying?”

  “I know it sounds nuts.”

  “No, that’s not it. Not nuts at all. This is what I’ve tried to warn you about. The Spirit has been telling me this was coming. And here it is.” He kept staring at me as if I had a Post-it note message stuck to my forehead and he was trying to read it. Finally he said, “You’ve had a Christ Jesus meeting.”

  “I’m not sure what I had.”

  “Don’t deny it, man. You got to tell it proudly.”

  “All I know is that I was at rock bottom. I was desperate. Believe it or not, I remembered a few things you told me way back when. So I reached out, praying. Or up, actually. But then, not too long after that, bam, I find myself being dropped into something that’s like a scene from Beetlejuice.”

  The look on Elijah’s face told me he never saw the film. He skipped over my allusion and delivered a mini-sermon in a slow cadence. “What’s of the flesh is flesh. And what’s born of the Spirit is spirit. And I am of the belief that you, my man, have traveled through the spiritual birth canal. And as a result thereof, you are now seeing and smelling certain things—things of the unseen world, the world of the spirit—because you have been given something from on high. Never heard of anything just like this. Not exactly. You’ve been given a gift.”

  “It feels like a curse.”

  “Yeah, I got you. But the Lord don’t make mistakes. You’ve been chosen. Given sanctuary. Of course, now you’re a marked man. That means they’re going to come after you. Only, you’ve this weapon. It’s the sword of the Spirit. Don’t forget.”

  It was dark, and the church was in a bad neighborhood, so I said a quick good-bye. Elijah made me promise that I would stay in contact with him. Then I jumped into my Aston Martin.

  For all the good things about Elijah White, I didn’t take him to be an expert on supernatural cosmology. For that, I was thinking about someone else.

  18

  At home that evening, I scrolled through my contacts, hoping I’d kept the number for
Dr. Harlow Tentsky, one of the curators at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. No luck, so I called the museum’s main number and connected through the employee directory. I expected to get his voice mail, so it caught me off guard when Tentsky picked up the call.

  “Dr. Tentsky, this is Trevor Black. We met at the gala last year, and there’s a matter I’m hoping to discuss with you.”

  No response. Maybe I needed to grease the wheels a bit more.

  “Our law firm, Tobit, Black, Dandridge & Swartz, was one of the major donors at the event, and I remember your presentation about occult mythology of the ancient Near East. You mentioned a few ghoulish relics you uncovered, and that detail stuck with me.”

  “Of course. Mr. Black. I remember now. You attended with Hal Tobit that night, if memory serves me.”

  Impressive. The man was sharp. “That’s right.” I decided not to mention that I was no longer with Hal. That information might not get me in the door.

  “There was something you wished to discuss?”

  “I’m looking for information on demonology. And it’s rather time-sensitive, so I was hoping to meet soon.”

  He asked the obvious question. “Is this about one of your legal cases?”

  “Partly, yes,” I responded.

  The fact was, even though I no longer represented Dunning Kamera, I still wanted answers about his dance with the devil.

  “It’s a bit late tonight, but I could spare a few minutes tomorrow morning, just after the museum opens, if that works for you. Gallery 403 would be apropos.”

  Promptly at 10:00, I strode through the Fifth Avenue entrance and navigated to Gallery 403, one of the exhibit rooms draped in dramatic mood lighting that illuminated the exhibits under glass but left shadows everywhere else. It appeared Tentsky was already waiting for me in the empty gallery when I arrived. He looked to be in his sixties, with long white hair pulled into a ponytail, and he was wearing a sport coat with jeans. I didn’t recognize him at first, but then again, it had been a year since my single contact with him. He must have been expecting to go out on a hot date later that day, because he reeked of men’s cologne. The cheap kind.

  The curator with the ponytail smiled, introduced himself, and then directed me to a relic inside a glass case within arm’s reach. “You are interested in demons?”

  I nodded, thinking that should have been obvious from our phone call.

  He motioned to the artifact in the case, an exotic piece of metalwork. It took me a few seconds to identify the three figures that were mounted on some kind of ceremonial ax head, which, according to the note on the glass case, was from the Bronze Age.

  Tentsky explained. “On the right side of this piece is a boar, charging. On the left is a dragon advancing. Both of them are being defeated by the demon in the middle.”

  The winged demon had the body of a muscular man. But instead of hands and feet, it was armed with sharp talons. It had a set of small wings, and there were double bird heads sprouting from its neck.

  He elaborated. “This is from around 2000 BC from the area of modern Uzbekistan. The common cultural consensus today, of course, is that demons are enemies. The Christian Bible rails against them. Movies like The Exorcist and countless other films and TV programs have reinforced that. Yet, in this beautifully preserved piece of metalwork, fashioned two thousand years before the birth of the Christian religion, we see something entirely different. The bird-demon as the hero. Protecting mankind. Isn’t that fascinating?”

  There are words in the English language that could describe the creature that I had seen rising out of Dunning Kamera. But fascinating isn’t one of them. In any event, Tentsky was beginning to sound like a typical academic.

  “I appreciate the insight, Doctor,” I said, “but can we get practical for a moment?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “How can demons be recognized?”

  Tentsky flashed his eyebrows. “That depends. They have taken on many manifestations over the ages. According to the anthropological data, that is.”

  “Like?”

  “Sometimes animal forms, like this bird-demon in the glass case. Then there is the ghost-demon, the udug, which is a Sumerian word, later appearing in the Akkadian language as the utukku, part woman and part demon. Those date back seven thousand years. Every culture is different.”

  It was time to cut to the chase. “How can they be defeated?”

  He laughed. I figured that by now he had pegged me for a nutcase. But his answer surprised me. “Defeated? According to established legend they can’t be defeated. Not by mere mortals, which is the whole point. They have supernatural powers.”

  Things were getting interesting so I kept the ball rolling. “But, to my question again: Who, then, can defeat them?”

  He spun around like he had just heard something; his eyes searched the room. Then he turned back. “Now what . . . ? Oh yes. Demons defeated? You mean that fairy tale.”

  “Which one?”

  “Silly mythology.”

  “Humor me.”

  “There’s an example, but it’s not here. It’s on display at the Chicago Art Institute.”

  “What is?”

  “The artifact, or at least one of them. A small statue from around the eighth century. The Tang dynasty. Called a lokapala in the Sanskrit rendering. But other cultures mention him too. A nasty, recurring theme. A lie, really. The Guardian King.” Then his face twisted up a bit, like he had just bitten his tongue. He added, “That there is somewhere a Guardian King, anointed to crush . . .” More facial contortions. “Crush the demons underfoot.”

  The professor suddenly looked ill. “Are you all right?” I asked.

  But he wasn’t. Because by then, the cologne was wearing off, and something else, a pungent odor, was detectable. It was the underlying stench of burning decay, and it was beginning to cut through the room. I whipped my head back to check the entrance to the gallery, looking for an escape route. Where were the crowds? The security guards?

  I was prepared to sprint out of there. Until I looked back at Dr. Tentsky. And when I did, I saw something revolting.

  He had been engulfed by a giant phantasm. I looked closer, trying to comprehend it. A creature so bizarre that it sent me reeling. I was staring into reptilian eyes that belonged to something with the head of a prehistoric monster with jagged fangs, a set of wings on its back, six-inch-long talons instead of fingers. It was a predator bird from hell.

  And its voice was like the tectonic plates of an earthquake, groaning deep in the earth. “We are gods. Now you will die.”

  Then, in a blur of motion, it swiped its bird claw at me. There was an explosion of pain in my torso near my left ribs. I looked down. One of its razor talons had ripped into my body, and blood was spilling out through my shirt.

  As I reeled, my legs buckling, the beast spoke again. “Dead already?”

  I was still on my feet when it raised its claw again, getting ready to strike a deathblow. But the creature suddenly stopped and blinked its reptilian eyes. The slit irises of the beast were focused on the gallery entrance. I stumbled in that direction, where a man, a security guard, stood in the doorway, and his face was turned toward us like granite. The man looked miraculously calm while he held up his hand to the immense creature as if he were a traffic cop. I turned around clumsily to see if I was still being pursued.

  But by then the creature was gone. Only the white-haired man with the ponytail remained in the room with me, and he was holding a knife in his hand—a knife with my blood on it.

  There was a momentary thought. Run. But I took only two steps and then collapsed to my knees, clutching at the wound. I felt my attacker brush past me. Then a few seconds later—or a few minutes; I’m not sure which—someone knelt beside me as I lay on the floor. It wasn’t my assailant, but a bald man with black horn-rimmed glasses who said in a pleading voice, “Help is on the way. Hold on.”

  I moaned, “Security guard,” and tried to motion toward the d
oorway.

  “Yes, yes,” the bald man yelled. “The museum guard is on her way . . .”

  “But that man, the guard . . . back there.”

  He shook his head. “No, not here yet. But don’t worry, the security guard is on her way.”

  I was feeling woozy, but I managed to ask him a question. “Who are you?”

  The man said clearly, “I’m Dr. Harlow Tentsky. A curator here.”

  My chest was on fire with searing pain, and I looked down and saw the blood continue to flow into the cloth that the curator was pressing into the wound. I mumbled some cryptic words. My utterance must have seemed unintelligible to this man, the real Dr. Tentsky. But in retrospect, my ramblings had summed my journey into a supernatural realm that I was not prepared for and that I sensed no power to overcome.

  I later learned that I had been mumbling the same thing, over and over.

  “Behind the veil, horror . . .”

  19

  During the two days that I spent in the hospital for my stab wound, I collected eighteen stitches and two visitors.

  The first person to see me was Elijah White, who said that he had heard about the attack on the radio the day that it happened. I pulled up the news story on my iPhone and read the account.

  Disbarred attorney Trevor Black, the former lawyer for accused murderer Dunning Kamera, was stabbed by a knife-wielding assailant in the Metropolitan Museum of Art today. His attacker was identified as Hanz Delpha, an unemployed anthropologist. Delpha, who previously worked at the museum, fled the scene and is still at large. Trevor Black is listed in stable condition.

  Before Elijah left, he laid a Bible next to me on the bed and said that I needed to start reading it. “If you’re going to war, Trevor, then you need a battle plan.”

  I picked it up and leafed through it. Elijah laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Just that back when you represented me, a long time ago, getting me an early prison release, I offered you this same Bible. You wouldn’t touch it. Like it was going to bite you. Like it was a snake. But now, Trevor, think about it. Now you’re in the army of the Lord. And you’re the one going after the snake.” He laughed out loud at that.