Martin closed his apartment door quietly, then crept downstairs and knocked at Mrs Capelli’s door. Mrs Capelli crossed herself when she saw who it was.
‘Mrs Capelli, can you keep an eye on the boy for me … just for an hour or two?’
‘Hmh! I should keep a watch on the devil’s own? The one who stole my Emilio?’
‘Mrs Capelli, please. The chances are that he’s completely innocent.’
Mrs Capelli pointed fiercely upstairs. ‘If that child is innocent, then God has abandoned this world altogether!’
Eventually, however, Mrs Capelli agreed to keep an ear open for Boofuls, no more. ‘If he cries, he cries. I don’t like that child. I don’t trust him.’ Martin gave her two quick kisses, one on each cheek, and galloped downstairs. He U-turned his Mustang on Franklin Avenue and headed westward. He didn’t want to waste any more time. Father Lucas had sounded as if he expected the Apocalypse at any moment, or worse.
St Patrick’s Theological College was one of those extraordinary 1930s structures that give Hollywood the appearance of being somewhere you remembered from a dream. It had been designed in the style of an English Tudor mansion, with latticed windows and red-brick battlements. It was easy to imagine Errol Flynn in doublet and pantaloons, rapier-fighting up and down the staircases.
Martin parked at the side, where Father Lucas had instructed him, and went up to the illuminated porch marked History Dept/Maintenance. He rang the doorbell and waited. A distant electrical storm flickered like snakes’ tongues over the Hollywood Reservoir.
A young priest with a gray tweed sports coat and a shaven head answered the door. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve come to see Father Quinlan. He said it was urgent.’
‘Urgent?’ the young priest asked. Nothing
urgent
ever happened at St Patrick’s Theological College. The faculty had been discussing the implications of verses 20 and 21 of the first chapter of St Peter’s second letter for the past seventeen years, ‘no prophecy was ever made by an act of human will’, and were still no nearer to an agreement on what they meant.
Martin followed the young priest along a narrow corridor with paneled walls and a highly waxed floor. At the very end of the corridor was a table with a flower arrangement on it; and above the flower arrangement, a painting of St Peter with a radiant gilded halo. Martin’s shoes squeaked busily on the floor.
The young priest knocked at the second-to-last door. Martin didn’t hear anybody inviting him to come in, but the young priest opened it and admitted Martin to a large untidy study, with leather sofas, side tables stacked with books, and a desk crowded with files and Bibles and framed photographs and dirty coffee cups.
Father Lucas was sitting next to the fireplace, although there was nothing in the hearth but an arrangement of dried flowers. Beside him stood a thin tall priest with a pinched face and long white hair and dark expressive eyes. He came forward to greet Martin with all the easy, stylized movements of a ballet dancer.
‘I appreciate your promptness, Mr Williams,’ he said, smiling. ‘I am Father Quinlan, the head of historical studies here at St Patrick’s.’
The young priest had been standing in the doorway, obviously hoping to pick up some gist of what they were going to discuss; but Father Quinlan, still smiling, waved him away. ‘Do sit down,’ he said to Martin. ‘Perhaps you’d care for a glass of wine.’
‘Don’t mind if I do, thanks,’ Martin told him, and sat down on one of the leather sofas. The seat cushion let out a loud exhalation of dusty air. Martin gave Father Lucas an embarrassed smirk. On the low coffee table between them, the black-tissue package had been opened out and the horny claws neatly laid out in a line. The fragment of hair had been laid to one side, along with the key.
Father Quinlan went to his bureau and stood with his back to Martin, carefully pouring out a glass of red wine from a Baccarat decanter.
‘Mr Williams,’ he said, ‘it seems that you have managed to open up what you might call a Pandora’s box.’
‘You said it was urgent,’ Martin commented.
Father Quinlan came over and handed him his glass. The wine smelled strong and aromatic. ‘“Urgent” was actually an understatement.’ He smiled. ‘Actually, it’s critical.’
He watched as Martin sipped the wine and then beamed. ‘Stag’s Leap, 1976. I thought you’d enjoy it.’
‘Tell me what’s critical,’ said Martin. He wasn’t a wine connoisseur. As far as he was concerned, wine in itself was nothing important. It was the occasion on which you drank it, and whom you drank it with – that was what made an average wine into a memorable wine. Tonight he felt sour and edgy and any wine would have tasted the same.
Father Quinlan sat down at the opposite end of the sofa and elegantly crossed his legs. ‘Father Lucas came to me yesterday and told me how worried he was. He described his experience with the mirror. Quite frightening, yes? to say the least. And he told me that both you and Mr Capelli appeared to be extremely anxious about what had happened to Mr Capelli’s grandson.’
‘If you want to talk about understatements,’ Martin remarked, ‘ “extremely anxious” is an understatement. Emilio disappeared into that mirror and we still haven’t been able to get him out again.’
Father Quinlan nodded, to show that he understood, or – even if he didn’t understand – that he was willing to help. ‘Let’s talk about mirrors first,’ he suggested. ‘Mirrors in general, and then
your
particular mirror.’
Martin glanced toward Father Lucas; but Father Lucas took off his magnifying spectacles and nodded reassuringly. ‘All right,’ said Martin, ‘let’s talk about mirrors in general.’
‘There’s an old Yiddish story about mirrors,’ said Father Quinlan. ‘A rich man tells his rabbi that he sees no point in giving charity to the poor. So the rabbi takes him to the window and tells him to look out over the marketplace, and then says, “What do you see?” The rich man says, “People, of course.” So then the rabbi holds up a mirror in front of him and says, “What do you see now?” and he says “Myself.” Well, the rabbi smiles and says, “Window and mirror, two pieces of glass, that’s all. But it’s extraordinary how a little silver makes it impossible for a man to see anything through that glass but himself.”’
Father Quinlan sipped his wine, obviously conscious that he may have sounded too simplistic and patronizing; a fault with most priests, even when they mean it kindly. But then he said, ‘Mirrors capture the soul, Mr Williams. Not metaphorically, but literally. They really do. They capture living pieces of our lives and our characters whenever we pass in front of them. Sometimes, in moments of terrible stress, they can take almost all of us.’
Martin deliberately said nothing but waited for Father Quinlan to continue.
Father Quinlan looked at Martin keenly, as if he were challenging him not to believe in what he was saying. ‘A mirror is like a living camera, Mr Williams. It’s no coincidence that silver forms the backing for mirrors; and that silver salts are the light-sensitive medium which makes photography possible. Neither is it a coincidence that silver bullets kill those unfortunate afflicted people who are popularly known as werewolves. Like a mirror, like a photograph, a silver bullet instantaneously absorbs the wolf-image which has overwhelmed the human-image.’
‘Werewolves?’ asked Martin cautiously. He didn’t want to hurt Father Quinlan’s feelings, but really –
Father Quinlan said, ‘I’m afraid I’m getting ahead of myself, Mr Williams. You can mock me if you like. But the historical records concerning the appearance of werewolves are quite clear. And so are the records concerning the extraordinary properties of mirrors.’
He paused, and sipped his wine, and watched Martin closely. Then he said, ‘Your mirror – do you know anything at all about it?’
Martin shrugged. ‘I’m not sure that it’s a good idea to tell you.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘I bought it from a woman up on Hillrise Avenue, near the Reservoir.’
‘And was she the original owner?’
Martin shook his head.
Father Quinlan waited for a moment in the hope that Martin was going to tell him who the original owner was, but when Martin stayed silent, he said, ‘Let me give you some background, Martin. Then perhaps you and I can come to some arrangement and do what we can to deal with this situation.’
‘I’m listening,’ Martin told him.
‘These claws,’ said Father Quinlan, picking up one of the black hooked nails that was laid out on the table. ‘These are the claws of Satan himself, do you understand what I’m saying? The
real
claws of Satan himself, in the dragon manifestation that was clearly predicted in the Book of Revelation.’
He went across to his desk and picked up one of his Bibles. ‘Here it is.
“And I saw another beast coming up out of the earth; and he spoke as a dragon. And there was given to him to give breath to the image of the beast, that the image of the beast might even speak and cause as many who do not worship the image of the beast to be killed
.”’
Father Quinlan was silent for a moment, and then he read, ‘“
Let him who has understanding calculate the number of the beast; and his number is six hundred and sixty-six
.” ’
He closed the Bible. ‘The legend, Mr Williams, is that Satan was cast out of heaven by the angel Michael, and fell, and was shattered, so that the pieces of his body were strewn all over the earth. A claw here, a horn there, a hoof beyond the horizon.
‘But the legend also says that – seconds before he struck the earth – his image was momentarily reflected in a river, and that the image in the river became the spirit of Satan, although he had no body in the real material world. His
real
body was spread around everywhere … rather like the body of somebody who has died in an air disaster, except that Satan had fallen not from 23,000 feet, but from the vaults of heaven itself.
‘For thousands of years, Satan was trapped inside the reflected world. Behind glass, behind mirrors, in rivers and lakes. He was able to
influence
the events of the real world. He was able to enter it, in a limited way, by possessing the souls of children and gullible people who were prepared to give him admission. But he was never able to escape. To escape, he required his material body to be reassembled. He needed somebody else to put back together again the jigsaw of his shattered body. Hence these claws, Mr Williams; hence this scalp. Whoever used to own these was undoubtedly the agent of Satan – trying to reincarnate the devil himself in the modern world. In the second deposit box, you will probably find more pieces; and you may even find another key, which will lead you on to yet more pieces.’
Martin said, ‘Satan. I can’t believe it. You mean the real genuine Satan?’
Father Quinlan nodded. ‘The real genuine Satan, from the Bible.’
‘But if he ever gets back together again, what will he do?’
Father Quinlan gave a tight smile. ‘He has only one purpose in life, and that is to tear apart whatever God has created. That means us. He wants to bring the world to a spectacular and grisly end.’
Martin was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed any of this stuff. I wouldn’t have wasted my time.’
‘But now?’
‘Well – maybe it’s a little different. I’ve seen enough to understand that what you’re trying to say is true. Well,
partly
true; or
mostly
true. These bits of Satan, these claws and stuff – they were used by devil worshippers in Hollywood in the late 1930s. They used to meet once a month at the Hollywood Divine, and hold a what-d’you-call-it, don’t tell me, Sabbath.’
Father Quinlan smiled in admiration. ‘You know about the Hollywood Divine?’
Martin said, ‘Yes. That’s where we found these relics.’
‘Well,’ said Father Quinlan, ‘I congratulate you. I’ve been looking for them for years. It never occurred to me that they might still be there.’
‘In the basement,’ Martin told him, ‘in the safe-deposit boxes.’
Father Quinlan was silent for a moment; then he said, ‘As far as I can discover, it all started in the winter of 1935. There were so many stars in Hollywood who felt insecure. The studio system was tyrannical. One minute you were adored; the next minute you were sliding into oblivion. It was all alcohol and drugs and fast cars and promiscuity. You see those actors smiling and waving: my God, they lived on the very edge of their nerves. If there was any group of people who were ready for the promises of Satan, it was them.’
‘What happened?’ asked Martin.
Father Quinlan tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Father Lucas may have Coke-bottle eyeglasses, my friend, but he isn’t blind and he isn’t stupid. He saw all those pictures of Boofuls on your wall; and he found out that you’ve been trying to sell a musical of Boofuls for the past six months.’
‘Oh he did, did he?’ said Martin.
‘You’re offended?’ asked Father Quinlan.
‘I don’t know, a little.’
‘How can you be offended? Don’t you realize how
serious
this is? Don’t you realize how
dangerous
it is? Oh, we’re talking about Satan, are we? What a laugh! But my God, my friend, we’re talking about the very antithesis of peace and happiness; we’re talking about plague and war and famine and destruction. My dear Mr Williams, we’re talking about the world torn from pole to pole!’