The Showstone Page 9

  Talbot was nodding like an eager student. ‘Rapture is indeed a word I might use to describe my inner joy when I practice my scrying, Doctor Dee.’

  ‘My personal efforts at scrying have been disappointing, I’m afraid,’ Dee said. ‘I do not seem to possess a gift. Early on I made brief contact with a spirit, Prince Befafes, but my interactions, while interesting, did not bear the desired fruit. That is why, in recent years, I have employed able scryers who have greatly facilitated my spiritual dialogues with angelic beings. My desire has been to entice the spirits to impart their language unto me.’

  ‘Towards what end?’

  ‘I am convinced that the angelic tongue is God’s own. Knowing it will place me at the gateway of understanding God’s universal plan.’

  Talbot had some more water and offered to refill Dee’s glass. ‘Have the angels revealed their language to you?’

  ‘Although I have had untold spiritual actions over the years and have communicated most freely in Latin with several spirits, especially the angel Anael, they have not deemed me worthy to receive the prize.’

  ‘Perhaps it is not you who are unworthy, sir. Perhaps it is your scryers. May I ask which gentlemen you have employed?’

  ‘Bartholomew Hickman for many years but of late, Barnabus Saul. Do you know them by acquaintance, or know of them?’

  Talbot scratched at his beard. ‘The names are familiar.’

  ‘Have you an opinion as to their skills?’

  ‘I have no direct knowledge and I am not one to engage in hearsay.’

  ‘Very well. I do have direct knowledge, as you put it, and therefore will share my observations. Mr Hickman had some skill but Mr Saul, in particular, was very able and I was making good progress with him, when to my surprise, only a fortnight ago, he announced that he had utterly lost his spiritual insight. We parted ways as a result.’

  The fire was faltering and without being asked, Talbot tended to it, much to Dee’s satisfaction.

  Retaking his seat, the young man said, ‘And thus you have summoned me.’

  ‘Via Mr Clerkson, who has vouched for you, yes.’

  ‘You seek to perfect your dialogue with spirits and coax them to reveal the secrets of God’s realm.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘These gentlemen, your scryers, did they possess their own showstones?’

  ‘An interesting question, Mr Talbot. No, they did not. They utilized mine. Would you like to see it?’

  Dee had a beautifully carved wooden box upon his desk. Inside was a perfectly round and clear crystal ball, the diameter of half the length of a thumb. It rested on a squat tripod of brass.

  ‘May I?’ Talbot asked, and Dee let him take it up for inspection. The young man held it up to the light from the fireplace and stared into it intently.

  ‘What say you?’ Dee asked.

  ‘It is a fine stone,’ he said, ‘with nary an imperfection. I do believe it is serviceable.’

  ‘Serviceable? Is that all? I have put it to much good use and the archemaster from whom I obtained it in Paris did likewise find it to be a laudable instrument.’

  ‘I believe I might offer up one that is even finer, my good Doctor.’

  With that, Talbot reached into the largest pocket of his gown and produced a thin pouch made of supple leather. He uncinched it and pulled out a round black mirror. It was fashioned of shiny stone, about the size of a smaller supper plate. The thickness was no more than thirty pages of one of Doctor Dee’s books. It had a short handle chiseled of the same black stone in which a hole had been drilled so that one might dangle the object by a leather thong or silk string. The surface of the stone had been meticulously polished into a brilliant gloss. Dee feasted his eyes on it and eagerly held out his hands to receive it. He moved it around to catch the reflection of the fire, the window, his own face.

  ‘Its refractive properties are most excellent,’ he murmured. ‘What is its origin? I have heard of these mirror stones but have never seen one. Is it from the conquistador expeditions to New Spain?’

  ‘I worked for a time in Cheshire as a tutor to a nobleman’s son. He had the stone kept in a curio cabinet. I believe it had been in his family for some time, so I imagine it came to England well before the Spanish conquests in New Spain. I believe that similar stones come from the Holy Lands. In any event, when first I examined the mirror, I immediately did incur a spiritual action – and a powerful one, at that – and cognizant that it would make a potent showstone, I asked my good lord whether he might give me the mirror in lieu of a portion of my wages. He readily agreed.’

  Dee reluctantly parted with the mirror. ‘If you were to come into my employ, Mr Talbot, would you propose using your showstone?’

  ‘Indeed I would.’

  Dee gazed out the window. The rain had stopped and the sky was lightening considerably. ‘And if I were to employ you, what would you require as a stipend?’

  The answer was crisp and emphatic. ‘Fifty pounds sterling per annum.’

  ‘A great deal of money, Mr Talbot.’

  ‘I would prefer you think of it as a great deal of value, sir. I assure you, you will not be disappointed with my abilities.’

  At supper that night John Dee led his young family in prayer before tucking into a meal of roasted venison and a spread of root and leafy vegetables. Two of the children were old enough to sit at the table. The baby was up in the nursery with the wet-nurse. Jane, newly pregnant, was expecting their fourth child in as many years. She was Dee’s third wife and was as fecund as his first two had been barren. Arthur, the three-year-old, was fidgeting in his chair and fussing noisily, prompting his father to point his spearing knife at him and warn him to remain silent at the table.

  ‘What did you think of Mr Talbot?’ Dee asked his wife.

  ‘An honest opinion, husband?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I did not like his manner.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I detected an insincerity.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘And a forwardness.’

  ‘I believe he found you beautiful, as do I.’

  ‘It is not his place to express such opinions.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Anything else?’

  She put down her knife and said softly, ‘Did you notice his ears?’

  ‘I did, actually.’

  ‘They were cropped, John. Do you know whose ears are cropped?’

  ‘Forgers, counterfeiters to name a few,’ Dee said.

  ‘Did you seek an explanation?’

  ‘I did not. I was more interested in his skills as a scryer, my dear. I have asked him to return in two days’ time to assist me in a spiritual action. With the departure of Mr Saul, I am bereft of a spirit guide. My work has suffered in the interim. If he proves able, I will take him into my employ.’

  Her face flushed with anger. ‘You would have a forger or counterfeiter in our house?’

  ‘Some men are falsely accused of crimes, my dear wife,’ he said tartly. ‘I, for one, spent a lamentable time within the Tower of London at Queen Mary’s pleasure, falsely charged with conjuring. I beg you not to forget this.’

  NINE

  They didn’t stick to a set schedule, but Cal and Jessica tried to manage sleepover dates as frequently as their calendars allowed. Busy as they were – she the CEO of a high-profile company, he a star professor sought after for conferences and speaking engagements – their dates were somewhat irregular. Nevertheless, they tried to alternate between her condo in Boston and his house in Cambridge and this night they were at his place, after a dinner in Harvard Square at a favorite spot. Though they played at domesticity they weren’t much good at the game. Neither had been married and their past relationships, though multitudinous, tended to be measured in months rather than years. And neither was the type to graciously bend to the whims of another, a function perhaps of two pampered, only-children who never had to learn to make nice with siblings who grew up to become willful adults.r />
  After a brief, animated argument over which film to watch, they abandoned the idea and parked themselves under the two best reading lamps in the living room. Ordinarily, Jessica would have happily escalated a trivial spat into World War Three, but she had been sensitive to all he had been through recently and let it go. She quietly tucked into the half-read spy thriller she’d brought with her, while Cal picked up one of the books he’d purchased from the doomed Irish bookseller.

  As he flipped through the Ebersole book, Enochian Vision Magic – A Beginner’s Guide, Cal gritted his teeth at its breezy, almost juvenile style and went back to the introduction to see what kind of credentials this Ebersole had. The answer seemed to be, not many, and certainly nothing remotely academic or scholarly. He was a self-proclaimed expert best known in Enochian magic circles as the presenter of a series of YouTube videos on the subject. Cal briefly went online to check out amateurish productions where Ebersole offered pompous narrations over hokey PowerPoint slides and graphics. Cal was about to toss the book aside when he read the following in the acknowledgements section:

  Though half my age, Eve Riley has been my mentor in my quest to understand the complexities and promise of angel magic. No modern practitioner can match Eve’s skills as an expert scryer or her insights into the Elizabethan world of Dr Dee and Edward Kelley that she gained during her Master’s studies in history at the University of Arizona. I am forever grateful to her and will long and fondly remember my time spent with her in the Arizona desert.

  ‘Screw this guy,’ Cal said out loud, dropping the book onto the coffee table and picking up his glass of vodka.

  Jessica looked up and said, ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not going to read a book written by a jackass when I’ve got another one by a bona fide expert. I’d return it to the bookstore if the guy wasn’t dead.’

  ‘Did the police find out who did it?’ she asked over the top of her book.

  ‘Not that I’ve heard. I’m fried. Want to read in bed?’

  ‘Sure.’

  While she was taking off her makeup, Cal flopped onto the bed with the Riley book. He took to it right away. She wasn’t as good a writer as he was (in his own not-so-humble opinion) but she wasn’t bad and the first couple of chapters on the role of magic and its interplay with traditional religion in sixteenth-century England and the life of John Dee were credible and well-referenced. But any notion of making a dent in the book was sidelined when Jessica came in, wearing something short, new, and lacy.

  ‘Damn,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I guess we’re not going to read.’

  ‘Oh no?’ she said innocently. ‘Why ever not?’

  Cal’s house was on a side street. It only saw traffic during commuting hours and it was far enough away from Harvard Square to be free of nocturnal drunkenness and antics. In the wee hours it was about as silent as an urban street could be. The intruder broke the silence. Despite taking care to put masking tape on the window pane before breaking it, a piece of glass dislodged and hit the tiled kitchen floor. Jessica was a heavy sleeper who needed a jackhammer to wake her, but Cal slept lightly and his eyes blinked open. The sound didn’t register as a glass break, only something vaguely high-pitched. He’d had plenty to drink but now, in the middle of the night, he was mostly sober but awfully groggy. He listened hard for a few moments, reluctant to get out from under the soft duvet, then drifted back to sleep, only to be awakened again by a few indistinct but out-of-place sounds downstairs.

  He swore softly enough as not to bother Jessica, got up, and fumbled for his boxer shorts on the floor where Jessica had tossed them after pulling them off. Unlike most of his neighbors he’d never installed a security system. His insurance broker told him he was nuts to forego the discount on his homeowner’s policy, but it was something he’d never felt the need for. As far as he knew, for as long as he lived there, his street had never been hit by a burglary. Making his way cautiously down the stairs he wondered whether that might have been a poor decision.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he hit a light switch and tossed out a ‘Hey, anyone there?’

  He stopped to listen but didn’t hear anything.

  His hands felt uncomfortably empty. He thought about making a stop in the kitchen for a chef’s knife, but he felt silly and went into the dark living room instead.

  ‘Don’t move.’

  The voice came from the darkest part of the room near a corner bookcase. A hulking shape, black as the shadows, materialized as the intruder took a step forward. There was no face to latch onto, only a huge body and it took a few moments for Cal to understand that he was looking at a black balaclava. The fireplace, with its iron poker and shovel, was a few paces to Cal’s right.

  Barzani seemed to anticipate Cal’s instinct, took another step forward and said, ‘Don’t.’

  It was then that he saw the pistol in his hand. It was either a very large hand or a very small gun and when the man took another step toward the hall light, Cal had a better idea about the weapon. He wasn’t an expert, but he was knowledgeable about firearms. He didn’t own a gun – Massachusetts, putting it mildly, wasn’t the most accommodating state in the country for gun owners – but he’d been a good shot in the army and from time to time over the years he’d gone target-shooting with buddies. The pistol aimed at him was a compact 1911-style semi-automatic, capable of leaving a whopping exit wound at close range.

  ‘Whatever you say. How about I get you my wallet and you can leave the way you came? I’ll even wait a while to call the cops once you’re gone.’

  ‘I don’t want your wallet.’

  The man’s accent was distinctive. Low, thick, and Middle Eastern.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Barzani answered the question with one of his own. ‘Who else is here?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Two cars in the driveway.’

  ‘I’ve got two cars. You want one of them? I’ll get you the keys.’

  ‘You have one car. Someone’s here.’

  Cal tried to process that. Had he been watching the house? Was this more than a garden-variety burglary?

  ‘I’m telling you, I’m alone. Just tell me what you’re after and we can work something out, okay?’

  ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  Cal dug in. ‘No, listen.’

  ‘I’ll kill you. I don’t care. Upstairs.’

  Cal took a step toward the fireplace, but the intruder cut off the angle with his big body and his gun. Once more he demanded that Cal head up the stairs. Reluctantly, Cal began walking, slowly enough to try to think through his options. Once Jessica was in the mix, things might get really ugly. He could turn and engage the man in the hall. If he didn’t get shot right away, he could fight it out. He was still a good boxer and could probably get in some licks until he was overwhelmed by the brute’s physical size. He could wait until they were both on the stairs and launch himself backward. In the tumble, maybe he’d get lucky and the gunman would be hurt worse. He landed on a third.

  ‘Jess! Get up! Climb out the window and get the hell out! Now!’

  A sleepy voice came back, ‘What?’

  Cal felt the steel barrel poking him hard in the ribs.

  ‘Go,’ Barzani said.

  Jessica was in bed looking dazed when Cal appeared at the doorway. He switched on the light.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘What were you shouting?’

  ‘We’ve got a problem,’ Cal said before a hand shoved him into the room.

  When Jessica saw the man with the balaclava she said a quiet, ‘Oh my God,’ but didn’t freak out. She had the presence of mind to reach for her night dress at the foot of the bed and throw it over her head.

  ‘Stay there,’ Barzani said, waving his pistol. ‘You, Donovan, take these.’

  Cal turned toward him. There were a couple of long plastic zip ties in his free, gloved hand.

  ‘You know my name,’ Cal said.


  He ignored Cal’s statement and said, ‘Tie her to the bed.’

  Jessica looked hard at Cal and seemed to read his mind. He didn’t want to go along with the intruder. He wanted to chance it and lunge at him.

  ‘Do what he says, Cal,’ she said calmly.

  ‘Jess.’

  She repeated herself.

  The man tossed the plastic ties onto the bed and Cal zipped one of her hands to the bed board, then the second, leaving enough slack for her to wriggle free.

  ‘Tighter,’ the man said.

  ‘I don’t want to cut off her blood,’ Cal protested.

  ‘Tighter or I’ll shoot her.’ He picked a throw pillow off the floor and buried the barrel of his gun in it.

  ‘It’s okay, Cal,’ Jessica said.

  He pulled the slack out of the ties and moved to position himself between the gunman and Jessica.

  ‘Now tell me what you want,’ Cal said.

  ‘The black mirror. Where is it?’

  It hit Cal at the speed of light – not the why but the who. He didn’t know why the obsidian stone was so important but the huge man in his bedroom was surely the who – the instrument of death of the bookseller and quite possibly his mother too.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You do. You showed it to the man in the shop.’

  ‘You’re mistaking me for someone else.’

  ‘Look, Donovan, this is waste of time. It’s stupid to make me mad. Really stupid for a smart guy. Where is the mirror?’

  ‘I don’t have what you’re looking for.’

  Cal saw the black balaclava shaking back and forth. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ the man said. ‘You’re going to give it to me right now or I’m going to kill both of you and spend the rest of the night tearing your place apart. Maybe I’ll fuck her first. She looks good.’

  Jessica clamped her lips in anger and looked to Cal.

  ‘Okay,’ Cal said. ‘It’s downstairs. Come with me.’

  ‘Bring it to me here.’