can do good here. I already figured out the astrological connection, and now I found this red wax. If it’s not just some cheap candle drippings, it might help us understand what’s going on.”
As they approached Canal Street, Donovan spied a homeless man rummaging through a cardboard box. Father Carroll reached into his sweatpants pocket and took out a dollar, which he dropped at the man’s feet as they passed. The man glanced down and gratefully snatched it.
“As long as they have souls they deserve help,” the priest said.
Donovan’s gym was downtown by City Hall, one of the old-time boxing ones that had existed before “fitness centers” with chrome barbells and juice bars in the lobby. Every so often a local paper would do a feature on its “colorfulness” and “authenticity” and the membership rolls would swell, but when people found out you had to work hard on the heavy bags and in the professional-sized ring, things would die back down.
“Austere,” Father Carroll commented. “But powerful.”
The gym was deserted this time of day but heat and dried sweat filled the air up to the thirty-foot ceiling. If the attendant thought they made a strange pair—Donovan thought it sounded like the beginning of a joke: “A priest and a bartender walk into a gym…”—he made no comment.
When he was warmed up he moved to one of the heavy bags. He tugged his boxing gloves on, allowing the priest to tie the laces, and started right in, pummeling the bag with combinations and occasional kicks. While he did, Father Carroll jumped rope. Three rounds elapsed. When the clock buzzed the third time Donovan stopped and put his hands on his hips, gasping for air. Sweat rolled down his face and back.
“Man, people have no idea how hard it is to just stand and hit something.”
The priest was barely winded. “I recognize the boxing, but never in conjunction with kicks and some of those other moves. What were you doing?”
“ Krav maga . An Israeli system of street fighting. I studied it for a couple of years. Basically, it’s controlled brawling; you fight as hard as you can with whatever you have at hand, and try to do as much damage as quickly as possible to your opponent. The way my instructor described it, it trains you how to fight in a situation where if you lose, you die. It’s helped when I’ve been a bouncer.”
“I see.”
“I started going to classes after I got my head opened up in a bar fight by a long-necked bottle of beer—never did see what kind. Wouldn’t drink it anymore if I knew what it was.”
“A prudent attitude.”
“But not our focus just now.”
“No.” Father Carroll turned professorial. “We are facing a man without limit on his thoughts and deeds, a man intent on traveling the darkest of paths to obtain what he wants. What does such a man want?”
“What does any man want? Money? Power? A hot girlfriend? Maybe the wax will tell us something.”
“Perhaps.” Father Carroll set the jump rope aside and went to an elliptical machine. He set the timer and climbed on backwards. “A pity the Sigil of Baphomet is so generic a symbol of Satanism. If only we had something more specific to reference, we might identify the ritual. I can’t imagine there’s a great number of satanic astrological rituals of this sort.”
Donovan sucked in air and held up one boxing glove. “Let’s grant it’s satanic; what if it isn’t an astrological ritual?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think astrology might just be a theme for the murders.” He went to a wall-mounted bag and began to work hooks and uppercuts. The bag jerked and popped. “Each zodiac sign has specific colors, right? But the wax at both murder sites was the same color.”
“In candle magic, every zodiac sign has its own hue,” Father Carroll agreed. “Sagittarius is purple or royal blue, Capricorn black. Red is wrong for both.” He paused, intrigued. “Go on.”
“You pointed out that most astrological
As they approached Canal Street, Donovan spied a homeless man rummaging through a cardboard box. Father Carroll reached into his sweatpants pocket and took out a dollar, which he dropped at the man’s feet as they passed. The man glanced down and gratefully snatched it.
“As long as they have souls they deserve help,” the priest said.
Donovan’s gym was downtown by City Hall, one of the old-time boxing ones that had existed before “fitness centers” with chrome barbells and juice bars in the lobby. Every so often a local paper would do a feature on its “colorfulness” and “authenticity” and the membership rolls would swell, but when people found out you had to work hard on the heavy bags and in the professional-sized ring, things would die back down.
“Austere,” Father Carroll commented. “But powerful.”
The gym was deserted this time of day but heat and dried sweat filled the air up to the thirty-foot ceiling. If the attendant thought they made a strange pair—Donovan thought it sounded like the beginning of a joke: “A priest and a bartender walk into a gym…”—he made no comment.
When he was warmed up he moved to one of the heavy bags. He tugged his boxing gloves on, allowing the priest to tie the laces, and started right in, pummeling the bag with combinations and occasional kicks. While he did, Father Carroll jumped rope. Three rounds elapsed. When the clock buzzed the third time Donovan stopped and put his hands on his hips, gasping for air. Sweat rolled down his face and back.
“Man, people have no idea how hard it is to just stand and hit something.”
The priest was barely winded. “I recognize the boxing, but never in conjunction with kicks and some of those other moves. What were you doing?”
“ Krav maga . An Israeli system of street fighting. I studied it for a couple of years. Basically, it’s controlled brawling; you fight as hard as you can with whatever you have at hand, and try to do as much damage as quickly as possible to your opponent. The way my instructor described it, it trains you how to fight in a situation where if you lose, you die. It’s helped when I’ve been a bouncer.”
“I see.”
“I started going to classes after I got my head opened up in a bar fight by a long-necked bottle of beer—never did see what kind. Wouldn’t drink it anymore if I knew what it was.”
“A prudent attitude.”
“But not our focus just now.”
“No.” Father Carroll turned professorial. “We are facing a man without limit on his thoughts and deeds, a man intent on traveling the darkest of paths to obtain what he wants. What does such a man want?”
“What does any man want? Money? Power? A hot girlfriend? Maybe the wax will tell us something.”
“Perhaps.” Father Carroll set the jump rope aside and went to an elliptical machine. He set the timer and climbed on backwards. “A pity the Sigil of Baphomet is so generic a symbol of Satanism. If only we had something more specific to reference, we might identify the ritual. I can’t imagine there’s a great number of satanic astrological rituals of this sort.”
Donovan sucked in air and held up one boxing glove. “Let’s grant it’s satanic; what if it isn’t an astrological ritual?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think astrology might just be a theme for the murders.” He went to a wall-mounted bag and began to work hooks and uppercuts. The bag jerked and popped. “Each zodiac sign has specific colors, right? But the wax at both murder sites was the same color.”
“In candle magic, every zodiac sign has its own hue,” Father Carroll agreed. “Sagittarius is purple or royal blue, Capricorn black. Red is wrong for both.” He paused, intrigued. “Go on.”
“You pointed out that most astrological
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