More police officers had arrived on the roof. They positioned themselves, their .38s levered over their forearms. Muzzles flashed.
Bullets whipped by Houdini’s head; one scorched his shirt-sleeve. Houdini just roared with triumph. “Outstanding! Ha-ha. Surely this rivals the barrel over Niagara Falls, eh? Surely?” Houdini took Lovecraft by the shoulders.
“Don’t shake,” Lovecraft pleaded.
“Did you see
Man of Mystery,
Howard? Remember the barrel over the falls?” Houdini rotated their legs, gliding their feet along the wobbling wires.
“Will you shut up, man, and concentrate?”
As Houdini and Lovecraft crossed the tree line, halfway to their goal, the police below opened fire.
“Aaaah! Put me back. Just put me back where you found me.” Lovecraft jerked his head to avoid the hissing bullets.
“Balls, man. And ruin a perfectly nice stroll? Full speed ahead, ha-ha!” Houdini turned back and saw Morris heft the ax into the air for one last swing. “Hmm.” He glanced down at the two remaining wires. “Hmm.”
“Help me,” Lovecraft shouted to the police.
Houdini frowned. “Now, that’s not being a good sport.” It wasn’t clear what gave him more pleasure: Lovecraft’s torment, or staring death squarely in the eye. “You know, we really should spend more time together, Howard. Ha-ha!”
“They locked me up, and you’re the mad one,” Lovecraft gasped.
“Indeed, yes.”
A wire exploded ten feet in front of them, cleaved by a bullet.
Houdini waved his arms to balance them. Lovecraft screamed at a deafening pitch.
Down on the grass, the elderly security guard paused to reload his shotgun. As he dug in his pockets for shells, his head turned to the sound of galloping horses and squeaking wheels. Closer. Getting closer. The security guard’s eyes widened and he dove out of the way. “Oh Lord!”
With a driver’s “Yah! Yah!” the Bellevue fences swung open under the fury of stampeding horses pulling a taxi carriage. Doyle whipped the reins with one arm and brandished his walking stick with the other. Wielding the cane like a polo mallet, he knocked the gold sphere into the heads of dumbfounded policemen. Guns fired and bodies fell. The horses kicked up dirt as the carriage pulled a wide turn and rumbled toward the last of the police.
Up above, Morris’s ax sliced through the last of the telephone wires.
Houdini wrapped his arm around Lovecraft’s waist and snatched the wire as it plummeted away from their feet. Their bodies plunged toward the ground, accompanied by Lovecraft’s shriek. Houdini held fast to the wire as Doyle wrenched the carriage around to parallel their fall. Their legs skimmed the ground, then the wire yanked them back up. Houdini released it. They soared through the air before crashing through the thin roof of the hijacked carriage, landing beside a terrified couple clearly on their first date.
The man’s moustache twitched and he lifted a finger to Houdini. “Aren’t you—?”
OUTSIDE, DOYLE SLOWED the carriage and extended an arm to Marie, who vaulted onto the driver’s seat. “To Crow’s Head, then?” he said.
The doors opened, and the man and woman were ejected. And in a spray of mud and galloping hooves, the carriage stormed into the night.
19
CROW’S HEAD—KONSTANTIN Duvall’s North American estate—was located on a wooded hill in Tarrytown, only forty minutes outside Manhattan. It was more a castle than a house—a magnificent gothic Victorian of quarried marble designed to rival Walpole’s house in Strawberry Hill. Set against the night sky, all one could see were the soaring medieval towers, and the gleam of moonlight reflecting off leaded glass windows.
Paved roads in Tarrytown were the exception rather than the rule, and everyone in the carriage was bruised and aching by the time the horses reached the vine-swallowed gates of the estate.
For the first time in twelve years, the Arcanum again stood at the threshold of Crow’s Head. There was an unexpected sanctity to the moment, and no one spoke as the double doors groaned open.
Doyle thought he could hear the excited whispers of ghosts as he took the first step inside, with the others following his lead. He lit a match and the spark ignited a spider’s web. They all watched the ember burn up to the high ceiling like a tiny orange comet.
As Doyle turned, the light spilled over a clawing raptor. He flinched, but it was only a bronze statue of a predatory owl, descending upon a rabbit whose eyes bulged with fear.
In the entry hall, grand staircases flowed east and west like terraced waterfalls, inviting the brave onto the gloomy upper floors, where a ballroom waited silent as a tomb, and bedrooms numbering in the dozens lay empty.
In the downstairs dining room and parlor, hidden within the shadows, the hand-carved rosewood chairs and tables were set for company beneath Tiffany chandeliers.
No living thing but the prolific spiders had walked the halls in years, and their handiwork hung in musty folds from every corner and crevice. In the vast library, a sheet of cobwebs reached, unbroken, the length of the room, while a blanket of dust the color of dirty snow, a quarter of an inch thick, coated both shelves, book jackets, and floors.
Lovecraft wobbled, but Doyle caught hold of him. To the others, he said, “Try to light a fire. I’ll attend to Howard. There’s a well out back. Perhaps we can draw a bath for him.”
TWO HOURS LATER, the Arcanum gathered in the library, though Lovecraft had not yet joined them. A roaring fire provided a tiny circle of light. They huddled within it, feeling dwarfed by the gigantic curtain of webs reaching floor to ceiling, and the towering bookshelves.
Doyle puffed on his pipe, finishing his story. “In the press of time, I realize I may have only made matters worse.”
Marie stared into the shadows, listening intently. Houdini, meanwhile, gazed up thirty feet of shelving, an envious look plain on his face. Nevertheless, he said, “No, you’ve done wonderfully, Doyle. I especially liked the fact that you assaulted the police officers after making sure they knew your name. That’s splendid. No point working the boys too hard.”
“He know what he did. Now, hush up,” Marie scolded.
Doyle ignored Houdini and dangled the Roman coin before the flickering fire. “They were about to let me go, but this seemed to change their minds. I wonder why.”
“Who would want to frame Howard?” Marie demanded.
“Enemies of Duvall, perhaps, or the Arcanum?” Doyle answered.
“Or maybe,” Houdini said, “Howard finally went off. We all know it’s possible. Maybe the wheels came off the wagon. Maybe the pigeons flew the coop.” Houdini rounded on Doyle. “And, just maybe, Duvall died in an accident, after all.”
“But what about the Book?” Doyle demanded.
“What about it? Who knows? And who cares?”
“And what about Marie’s vision?”
“Marie sees things all the time. She thinks evil spirits live in the telephone, for goodness’ sake.”
Marie raised her eyebrows and shrugged.
Doyle smiled. “Must you always be the skeptic, Houdini?”
“In this crowd, I’d say it’s essential.”
“Herry could be right,” Marie said, to Doyle’s surprise. “Of course, he isn’t, but I just wanted to say it’s within the realm of possibility.”
“Thank you,” Houdini deadpanned.
“See, even if Howard is crazy as a swamp rat,” Marie continued, “he ain’t got the power to kill people when he locked up in jail. An’ thas jus’ what happened. Somebody else got killed. And it weren’t no Howard Lovecraft that did it.”
“How do you know this?” Doyle asked, relighting his pipe.
Marie chuckled. “You be surprised how many people practice wit’ the spirits, Arthur. People you’d never expect. And word spreads.”
“Well, if it is some specter from our past, why don’t they simply show themselves and be done with it?” Houdini groused.
“Be careful what you wish for,” a voice said.
They all turned to the door.
Lovecraft stood under the archway, wearing glasses with oval lenses. A towel was draped over his head and tied into a knot under his chin. His usually pale face was patched pink where he had scrubbed at his skin with steel wool, bleach, and soap. After a moment, he added, “I feel better now.”
A log snapped in the fireplace.
Doyle glanced uneasily at the others. “That’s splendid, Howard.”
“And no matter what you might think of me, I’m no murderer,” Lovecraft added defensively.
Houdini crossed his arms. “I was merely theorizing, Howard. Don’t take everything so personally.”
Marie chuckled.
“We know that, my boy. But what we don’t know is why. Why were you accused?” Doyle gestured for Lovecraft to join them.
Lovecraft walked stiffly to one of the rosewood chairs. The last few days—the last few hours, in particular—had clearly taken their toll. He untied the towel from his head, folded it slowly, and draped it over the arm of the chair. Then he tried to flatten his mussed hair into its familiar part.
Doyle tapped his pipe ash into the fireplace as they all waited for Lovecraft to speak.
“I don’t know who,” Lovecraft said at last. “But I think I know why.”
“We’re adrift, Howard, without your insight. Help us to understand.” Doyle crossed from the fireplace and laid a hand on Lovecraft’s shoulder.
“Just get to it,” Houdini said tartly.
Lovecraft bit a fingernail. “Where to start? I suppose the beginning is as good a place as any. In this case, however, we must journey far back in time, to the days of Enoch the prophet.” Lovecraft encountered nothing but blank stares. He went on, patiently. “Enoch was the great-great-great-great-grandchild of Seth, and the father of Noah. He was also specially chosen by God to interpret His Word. The result of their collaboration was a book—a very controversial book. A book that, for some time, formed the third testament in the Biblical triad. In numerology, three—the triangle—is quite potent, indeed. And three and three equals nine, of course, which is the most—”
“Don’t start with the numbers. I can’t bear it,” Houdini snapped.
“Mathematics is the universal language,” Lovecraft countered.
“Yes, well, none of us speak it, so try English.”
“Houdini, please,” Doyle said. “Howard, we know the Book is important. We know it was instrumental in provoking the Great War, and I think we’re all convinced that Duvall was killed for it. What we still don’t know is why.”
“I’m not a scholar on the subject,” Lovecraft stammered. “There are gaps in my knowledge, but . . . On its surface, you see, the Book of Enoch documents the Fall of Lucifer. The War of Darkness and Light. A show of hands now for the cause of this war?”
Houdini looked at Doyle, who turned to Lovecraft. “Pride?”
“Yes, pride, vanity, and all that—but I’m speaking as literally as one can about such things.” For all his youth, Lovecraft suddenly looked like a man of eighty, hardened and aged by the weight of his knowledge. “When God created man, according to early scripture, he required armies of angels to guide and teach mankind how to live, how to interact with our new world. Yet the closer these angels grew to the material world, the more they were tempted by it. Until, eventually—quite unexpectedly—they succumbed to their desires.”
Lovecraft placed a chewed-off fingernail on the arm of the chair for safekeeping. “The angels succumbed to human lusts, and this merging of the spiritual and the material was seen as an abomination in the eyes of God. And to these parents were born offspring of a most hideous nature: grotesque giants given the name of Nephilim. In the story of David and Goliath, for example, Goliath was of the Nephilim. But perhaps even worse were the secrets imparted to mankind by these . . . let’s call them falling angels. Secrets of technology. And magic. And weapons-craft. And war-making. And leading this charge was Lucifer, God’s most trusted servant. The betrayal was just too great. God’s great experiment was being destroyed, and he chose to set it right. Armies of angels were sent to destroy the Nephilim and Lucifer’s corrupted legion, and the world descended into chaos. Yet Lucifer’s forces were strong, and Lucifer decided that he— and he alone—should rule the kingdom of Heaven. God realized there could be no negotiation, no peaceful surrender, for his beloved Lucifer. No return to the fold. And in that realization Satan was born.” Lovecraft paused, and the only sound that filled the room was the crackling of the fire.
Finally, Lovecraft sighed. “You see, Lucifer was winning the war. He had temptation on his side. And the closer the armies of angels came to earth, the more they hungered for it. For the spirit longed for the material just as the material did for the spirit. God’s creation was spinning out of control. Free will was ruining everything. Now God had to reckon with His mistakes.”
Doyle remembered the phrase from that fateful night in Bavaria. “God’s mistakes,” he whispered.
“As long as Lucifer was an angel,” Lovecraft continued, “he threatened the throne of God. As long as he possessed a connection to the spiritual plane, he was a danger. So God, in His fury, cast him out. In a sense, cut his cord to the divine, and henceforth Lucifer was known as the Great Adversary—Satan. The same fate was visited upon the other fallen angels, for fear they would return to corrupt the Heavenly Host and challenge God’s kingdom. But even with Lucifer sent away, there were still problems left for God to contend with. As we all know, temptation is a disease, and it was spreading. The Nephilim were multiplying, threatening to overwhelm mankind. The entire experiment of Creation was threatened. A single, terrible remedy was called for.” A thin smile curved Lovecraft’s lips. “But in that fog of war, even God could not see all the dangers.”
“By what means were Lucifer and his fallen legion cast out?” Doyle asked.
“It’s a mystery,” Lovecraft answered, having anticipated the question. “The exact mechanism is unclear.”
“And you said Enoch was the father of Noah?” Doyle asked.
Houdini slumped on the sofa beside Marie. “Wake me up when it’s over,” he said.
Lovecraft ignored him. “Enoch was the favorite prophet, privy, in some cases, to God’s decisions. That is how Enoch was able to warn his son, Noah, that God was preparing a flood to cleanse the earth of His aberrations. And so Noah built a big ship for all the pretty animals.”
“And the Nephilim were destroyed,” Doyle concluded.
“Yes, they were. Oh, a few may have wiggled through the cracks, but the Israelites dispatched them a few hundred years later.” Lovecraft fell silent again, but that little smile still curved his lips.
Doyle was not fooled. He knew there were meanings in all Lovecraft’s silences. “I trust you realize that you’ve completely avoided answering our questions.”
“Have I?” Lovecraft asked innocently. “Well, maybe you’re not asking the right questions, then.”
“Let’s take him back to Bellevue,” Houdini suggested, his eyes still closed.
“You unsettlin’ all the spirits in this room, Howard, wit’ all your talk of evil. Wrap this up,
chère,
’less you want to hear them, too.”
Lovecraft frowned. “What is it you want me to say? The Book of Enoch is extremely dangerous. I told you I didn’t have all the answers.”
“But what is it, man? Is it the value of the Book itself? Or is there some hidden meaning in it that you’re not telling us?” Doyle said.
Lovecraft dabbed spittle from the corners of his lips with the corner of the towel. “The actual text disappeared around the death of Christ and stayed hidden until 1765, when James Bruce—”
“Yes, the Scotsman.”
“—journeyed into North Africa in search of the fabled Ark of the Covenant. What he ended up discovering in Ethiopia, known as Abyssinia at the time, was the Book of Enoch—far more powerful, and far more dangerous.”
Houdini opened his eyes. “Seventeen sixty-five?”
Lovecraft ignored him. “Reportedly, Bruce then gave the Book to a venerable translator, who adapted Enoch’s words into English from Hebrew. The Book of Enoch was then distributed in some elite occult circles. The Masons had a copy. Their quarrelsome brethren, the Rosicrucians, also had the information.”
“But Howard,” Doyle said, “that time line doesn’t follow. Duvall told me—”
“Ah, yes, Duvall. He got his hands on the Book of Enoch at some point, didn’t he? I wonder how that happened?”
“This doesn’t make sense.” Houdini, no longer feigning boredom, was actively scowling.
“Of course, there’s always the possibility—and I’m just supposing here—but maybe the Book never left Duvall’s hands at all,” Lovecraft added.
“Talk in circle and never say anyt’ing, that’s what he does. Like the Devil talk,” Marie said in disgust.
“Quit your squawking.” Lovecraft rose and crossed the room. He took hold of an ancient ladder, which had rusted into place, and, with a hard yank, dislodged it. Then he rolled the ladder some forty feet across the wall and climbed to the topmost shelf. He blew the dust from the books, then coughed and nearly slipped off the ladder.
“What the hell is he doing now?” Houdini muttered.
Doyle gave Lovecraft the benefit of the doubt. “So, if there were translations of the Book of Enoch . . .”
“Then what’s so damn special about it?” Houdini concluded.
Lovecraft pulled out a quarto-sized book and examined it. “Decent Grolier binding.” Lovecraft descended the ladder, talking as he went. “Oh, there were translations; dozens, at least. Very hard to come by. Of course, an elite group like the Arcanum had their own copy.” When his feet touched on the floor, he swept the dust off his sleeves and collar, coughing a little. Then he held up the Book. “Here it is. First edition. Fetch a pretty penny.” He offered it to Doyle. “Would you like to see?”