Bewitched and Betrothed Page 15

I wondered whether the headphones kept them from hearing sinister, otherworldly sounds I kept picking up on: Unintelligible whispering, the clanging of cell doors, the mournful notes of a harmonica.

  Someone sobbing, calling out for help.

  In one large, open room were larger-than-life posters of those who used to live on the island: the prisoners, the wardens, and the guards and their families. The most interesting were the photos of little girls with dolls and boys playing baseball—the children of the guards—against the backdrop of razor wire–topped fences. There were snapshots of young people using a bowling alley and sipping milkshakes at a soda fountain in a bizarre juxtaposition of 1950s normality within the notorious federal prison.

  I froze in front of a life-sized black-and-white photo of Ray Perry, prisoner number 258.

  This was the vision I’d seen in Emmy Lou Archer’s attic. Not Perry’s mug shot, but this full-length photo. In a plexiglass display beside it were some of his personal effects, including a stack of unopened letters addressed to a woman in Oklahoma.

  “Can you tell me about this prisoner, Ray Perry?” I asked Forrest.

  “Oh, yeah,” Forrest said. “That shirt you found supposedly belonged to him. The numbers were handed out as the men arrived on the island; so Ray Perry was the two-hundred-and-fifty-eighth man to arrive.”

  “Lily Ivory!” a man’s voice called out. I turned to see the fellow with the bushy white mustache, Ralph Gordon, whom I had met at Pier 33 yesterday. “You made it over after all. Good for you.”

  Forrest introduced Carlos and explained that we were on “official business” due to the “commotion” in the cellar.

  “Oh, I heard about that. Terrible thing.”

  “I have a question,” I said, gesturing to Ray Perry’s display. “Why weren’t the letters Perry wrote sent to Oklahoma?”

  “That’s anybody’s guess,” Gordon said. “They were only recently discovered by an archivist working here at the museum. We thought they looked good in the display like that.”

  “And no one ever opened them?” I asked.

  “Isn’t it a federal offense to open someone else’s mail?” Forrest said, glancing at Carlos as if looking for backup.

  “Not if they’re prisoners, it’s not. Besides, he’s long since deceased. Anyway, it’s good to meet you, Ralph. And this private tour’s great and all, Forrest,” said Carlos. “But we’re here to look at a crime scene, remember?”

  Forrest gestured with his head. “You’re just like Elena, you know that? Impatient. We in the NPS are proud of what we’ve done here.”

  “It’s a very well-executed exhibit,” I said. “But I think Carlos is right; we need to get down to business. That’s what we’re here for, after all.”

  “This little lady is here to see the crime scene?” Ralph Gordon asked the two men flanking me.

  “I am, yes,” I answered for myself.

  “Well, I’ll be danged,” he said. “Good luck with that.”

  Forrest seemed to be delaying our descent into the bowels of Alcatraz as long as possible. But after another moment of hesitation, he nodded.

  “This way.”

  Forrest led the way down a narrow set of concrete steps, opened a locked metal door, and waved us into the dungeon.

  Chapter 15

  Dungeons, it turns out, are often described as cold, dark, and dank for good reason. I shivered as we descended to the windowless tunnels of the nineteenth-century cellar beneath Alcatraz, the darkness broken only by occasional pools of anemic light from sporadic lightbulbs overhead. The concrete under our feet was slick and damp, with water puddling in the corners, and the air held a distinct musty odor. Old brick walls and arched ceilings had been whitewashed at some point, but now were coated in layers of grime and decorated with cobwebs. Small rooms flanked the corridor; Forrest used his flashlight to point them out. Not all the rooms were cells for holding prisoners, he explained; several had been used to store weapons and supplies.

  “Like I said, this part of the building dates back to the Civil War, and some portions may be even older,” Forrest said as we proceeded down the corridor. Our footsteps rang out on the concrete floors. “The Spanish built a military fort and put a bunch of cannons out here, just in case, I guess.”

  “Hence the name, the Spanish dungeon?” Carlos said.

  “Exactly. It was originally part of a three-point triangle to defend the bay. On the San Francisco side of the Golden Gate was Fort Point, on the Marin side there was Lime Point, and Alcatraz formed the third point. Kyle Cheney has been instrumental in restoring some of those buildings as well. He’s a godsend.”

  “I didn’t realize concrete was invented so long ago,” I said.

  Forrest nodded. “Oh, sure. It dates back to the Romans, actually. But reinforced concrete—held up by rebar—was introduced to the US building trades in 1849.”

  “Wait, you’re saying Alcatraz was used as a fort during the Civil War?” I glanced at Carlos. I was no historical scholar, true, but I had never heard of California being involved militarily in that struggle. “Was there fighting in San Francisco during the Civil War?”

  “No,” said Forrest. “But they were prepared, just in case. Remember, San Francisco was an incredibly strategic port, with gold and other valuable minerals shipped down the inland rivers and through San Pablo Bay. California was an important resource for the Union. Also, they held some prisoners of war down here.”

  “How recently was this area used?” I asked. “Once the federal prison was built, they had other cells for punishment, right?”

  Forrest nodded. “They used this area occasionally, especially in the early years. No doubt it was considered the ultimate threat. According to the stories, they would make the prisoner strip first, put him down in here, then throw his clothes to him.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “To dehumanize him, I suppose. Carlos might know more about that sort of thing than I,” said Forrest. “A big part of punishment within a prison, as far as I can tell, is psychological.”

  “Ever since we outlawed beatings,” muttered Carlos.

  Forrest opened another door, revealing a barred gate within. He pointed the beam of his flashlight into the cell, and something scurried away, disappearing into a crack in the walls.

  “Once the doors were closed it was pitch-black in there. The only sounds would have been the rats scuttling along, or the guard passing by on rounds. Maybe water dripping from the cisterns. That was about it. . . . If there was another prisoner, there might be some singing or crying, but they weren’t allowed to communicate because of the rule of silence.”

  “No beds, or anything like that?”

  He shook his head. “The prisoners slept on the floor, or sat against the wall. They survived on bread and water; maybe some soup every few days. Not an easy road.”

  “I guess not.”

  “If the guards wanted to punish the prisoners even more, they would throw cold water on them, which was called putting him ‘on the water.’ They say a lot of men went crazy down here.”

  “Is that true?” Carlos asked.

  “Can’t say for sure. But that’s what folks said.”

  “Do you smell cigarettes?” I asked.

  Carlos sniffed, then shook his head.

  “Not likely,” Forrest said. “No smoking in the national park system. Federal law.”

  “Maybe it’s residue from the past,” Carlos said. “The smell of smoke can linger a long time, especially when there’s not much ventilation.”

  “They say . . . sometimes the guards would smoke to taunt the prisoners.” Forrest kept his eyes on me, puzzled. “A lot of times the ghost hunter people say they smell cigarette smoke down here.”

  I nodded. The apparition of Ray Perry in Emmy Lou Archer’s attic was the first time I’d seen a ghost with my eyes, but
I had certainly caught scent of them before.

  “How long did the prison use these cells?” I asked.

  “In the early 1940s the director of the Bureau of Prisons decided the dungeons were cruel and unusual, so from then on, disciplinary cases were sent to the hole instead. That’s up on D-Block, right over our heads.”

  Forrest paused in front of another iron door, this one crossed by bright yellow crime scene tape. “Okay, so, here’s where we found the victim. I must warn you: It’s pretty gruesome. The body was removed but there’s still . . . you know.”

  “We know,” said Carlos. He looked at me. “You ready?”

  I stroked my medicine bundle and nodded.

  The clanking of the iron door reverberated off the brick walls. I walked in first, with Carlos close behind me.

  The metallic, shiny scent of blood filled the space, mingling with the dank mustiness of the closed-off cell and the acrid aroma of despair.

  I’d seen many homicide scenes since moving to San Francisco, but this one was particularly gruesome. Smears of dark blood, long since dried, stained the concrete. Salts, herbs, and incense had been kicked and crushed underfoot by whoever had collected the body, so it was hard to tell how they had originally been laid out. Chalk marks peeked out from under the smeared blood.

  “You ask me, that’s some satanic shi—s’cuse me,” said Forrest. “Some satanic stuff, there.”

  “Is that a pentacle?” Carlos asked me, pointing to the chalk marks.

  “It could be . . . or it could be a Baphomet. It depends on how the body was oriented within it.” A pentacle is a five-pointed star that stands on two points. Despite its popular association with evil, the pentacle is an ancient sign of protection; I used it often in my own spellcasting. The Baphomet used the same star but rotated it so that the primary point faced down, and it incorporated the symbol of a horned goat’s head. The Baphomet wasn’t exclusive to negative magic, but its presence did raise questions. “I wish I could have seen this before everything was disturbed, with all the blood and everything. I assume photos were taken?”

  Forrest stared at me, aghast.

  “It’s her process,” Carlos told Forrest. “Don’t let the vintage dress fool you: This ain’t her first rodeo.”

  “The, uh, FBI took photos; you’d have to ask them. Listen, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll wait outside,” said Forrest. “Take your time. This is too creepy for me.”

  I barely registered his words. Carefully, I walked around the gruesome tableau, holding my hands out at my sides, palms down, feeling the vibrations. They pulsed in rhythm to the throbbing bass of the island.

  I understood why a casual observer would conclude what had happened here was a satanic ritual, but in my experience, Satanists were more about the drama and the playacting than they were genuinely devoted to the dark lord. They loved the shock value. And looking more closely, I recognized a broken Solomon’s Triangle and the remnants of sulfur. This didn’t strike me as satanic as much as demonic.

  This had been a deliberate effort to conjure a demon.

  And not just any demon. Not one of the other thousands of demons cataloged by those industrious monks so long ago, or by the Tibetans or the Aztecs or by the scholars from any of the other cultures who had written down their various names and signs and characteristics. No, I was almost sure . . . this was a demon I had met before.

  He wasn’t here now, thank the goddess. But even so, I could feel his vibrations, his seductiveness reaching out to me.

  Sitri.

  I knew Sitri, and he knew me. He was the twelfth spirit, named a Great Prince in the hierarchy laid out in the Ars Goetia. He commanded legions of underlings.

  I could be wrong, I reminded myself. It might be another, similar, demon. There were so many to keep track of.

  Still, Sailor’s words rang in my head: Once you’ve met a demon, they never forget you. Even with my guard up and my medicine bag humming at my waist, I was glad I had begun the MoonWish spell. I invoked a vision of that black candle burning in my apartment, helping to ground me, to keep me firmly tethered to this world.

  Last time I had encountered Sitri was in a closet at the San Francisco School of Fine Arts, which just goes to show a witch can’t let her guard down, even when poking her nose into caches of old clothes in closets. That was where I first met Sailor, as a matter of fact.

  At the time I thought I had closed—and sealed—Sitri’s portal. But I had been fooling myself; it’s never as easy as that. Demons are indifferent to the designs of humans and are not easily put to rest. Other portals can be opened, and demons can be summoned or conjured almost by accident.

  And this, I thought as I looked at the remnants of the scene laid before me, was no accident.

  “Carlos, do you think you could get copies of the FBI’s photos, or at least a list of what was taken into evidence?” I asked.

  “One step ahead of you.” Carlos reached into his jacket pocket and handed me an envelope of photos.

  The body had been oriented within the pentacle in the shape of a Baphomet. The elderly man had sparse, white hair, but the broad plains of his face were still rugged-looking and smooth. He was ashen from lack of blood, but even so I would have pegged him for his midsixties, not mideighties. I thought of Bronwyn’s comment that Cole Albright was a “historical hottie”—he had, indeed, been an attractive young man, and he had been a good-looking old man as well.

  Hard to imagine what he had gone through in his last moments.

  Tiny yellow A-frame evidence markers stood by bunches of herbs and salts and marked dozens of blood spatters on the brick walls and floor. In addition to a few metal bowls—which I imagined had been used in the conjuring ritual to capture the victim’s blood—were three diminutive glass bottles, slender and graceful in design.

  Lachrymatories. Victorian-era bottles that captured the tears of the bereaved. The tears evaporated, leaving only the salts of grief behind. Powerful salts. Renee-the-cupcake-lady had been collecting lachrymatories with a fervor that had led to violence. She wasn’t the only one who might have such a collection, but I needed to track her down, somehow, and speak with her. Soon.

  “Forensics has come and gone, yes?” I asked Carlos. “Could I set up a few things?”

  “Like what?”

  “I’d like to put out some candles, and . . . maybe a ring of salt?”

  “No, sorry. Forensics went over this place with a fine-tooth comb, but you never know who else might need to analyze the scene. We can’t introduce anything new.”

  “I understand,” I said, frustrated. Especially now that the Ashen Witch wasn’t showing up on a predictable basis, I yearned for the familiar support of my salts and herbs and candles. They would help me to get into the right frame of mind for something like this.

  Too bad I couldn’t have figured out a way to bring Oscar along. He was the best at helping me to open the portals.

  The thought of telling Carlos I wanted my pet pig made me smile.

  Carlos frowned. “Something funny? Albright was no Boy Scout, but he didn’t deserve . . .” He gestured to the bloodstains. “This.”

  Chastened, I said: “I would never laugh at a homicide scene, Carlos, you know that. I was thinking about my pig.”

  “Why don’t you concentrate on the crime scene?” Carlos snapped. “You’ll have plenty of time later to play with your pet pig.”

  Was he just out of sorts, frustrated by his inability to find his cousin? Testy from a lack of sleep? Not that I would blame him. But could it be more? Demons had a way of stirring up emotions, sparking arguments even among otherwise uninvolved bystanders. It was something about their energy spilling out and ratcheting up insecurities and anger—and they enjoyed the mayhem they inspired, of course.

  Fine. I didn’t need my magical effects; I was strong enough to do this.

&n
bsp; I began chanting, enhancing my powers by piggybacking on the potency of the already spilled blood. It shimmered around me, almost palpable, thrumming to the pulse of the island, of the human heart, of the primordial depths. I heard more ghostly sounds: cell doors clanging shut, fervent whispers and murmurings echoing off the brick walls.

  The image of Ray Perry appeared, once again a frustratingly silent holograph clutching that dang lily. Was it for me?

  What in blue blazes went on here? I asked him without saying a word.

  He put his finger to his lips, as he had in the attic, as though miming “shhhhh.”

  Talk to me.

  His lips parted as though to speak, but he said nothing. Instead, his mouth opened, wider and wider, until it became a gaping black void, emitting ravens, spiders, flies, all manner of horrid, scuttling things.

  I felt a blast of rampant anger and pure lust, encased in a violent energy.

  Ssssso nice to sssseeeeee you, Lily Ivory.

  There was a commotion in the hall, and I came out of my semitrance to the sound of angry men’s voices. Carlos had drawn his weapon, but before he could move, the iron door to the cell slammed and the lock clanged shut, plunging us into complete darkness.

  “What the hell?” Carlos said, banging on the door and yelling.

  I pulled my Hand of Glory out of my backpack and illuminated the cell.

  “What is that?” Carlos demanded, staring at the hand.

  “It’s useful, that’s what it is,” I said.

  Carlos checked his phone, moving it about and holding it high, then low. “No service. Dammit.”

  As we gazed at each other, I felt a mounting lust begin to overtake me. I’d always thought Carlos was an attractive man, but I’d never felt this. Not this.

  “Do you smell smoke?” I asked, sniffing the air.

  “Again with the cigarettes?” Looking relaxed now, Carlos smiled, a warm, sensual intensity in his eyes. He lifted a hand to my hair, cupped my head in his palm. “A cigarette comes after, not before, don’t you know that, querida?”

  This isn’t real, I told myself. This isn’t us. Sitri inspires anger, but he also inspires lust.