The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗

the one fresh out of the Academy. He wasn’t watching me, he was staring into the room,

grinning, and as I walked by, I was able to snatch a snapshot glimpse of Jake. He sat bolstered

by pillows in bed, his face bruised, his head bandaged. He was laughing. The room seemed

full of people. There was an older man in a navy cardigan standing with his arm around a

woman with a young face and gray hair. A young woman with red hair sat beside the raised

bed holding Jake’s hand. She was sort of laughing and sort of crying.

The cop who looked like a younger version of Jake glanced my way. The

uncomfortably familiar hazel eyes met mine. I kept walking.

I walked all the way down the hall, stopped by the drinking fountain. It felt like the

longest walk of my life. I bent over the fountain and drank ice-cold metallic water. I pressed

the button again, splashed my face. My hand was shaking.

Satisfied? I asked myself. Feel better now?

* * * * *

The body dug up in the park turned out to be a missing teenager named Tony Zellig.

He had been nineteen, a freshman at UCLA. He had disappeared a year ago, in October.

Classmates described him as quiet and a bit of a loner who worked hard and took his studies

seriously. There was a photo of Zellig, a nice ordinary-looking kid. Not the kind of kid who

gets himself carved into pieces during occult rituals.

I spent a couple of hours working on the computer, seeing what I could come up with

on Blade Sable. I found plenty of info on blades and sable, but nothing on any organization

called Blade Sable.

I’d have to dig deeper. I noted the titles of a number of occult “classics” that kept

popping up on various recommended reading lists. I decided to skip those not written in the

past century. At the top of my TBR list was Anton LaVey’s The Satanic Bible. LaVey was the

founder and high priest of the Church of Satan. He was credited with creating the official

religion of Satanism. A guy named Peter H. Gilmore had been appointed High Priest

following LaVey’s death, but he wasn’t much for the written word. The reigning expert in

the field seemed to be an Oliver Garibaldi.

Unlike the flamboyant Anton LaVey or the other occult showmen, Garibaldi kept a

low profile. I tried surfing for biographical information, but no joy. I figured he had to be in

his sixties, given the copyright info on his bibliography

So I looked for what I could find on Guy Snowden – and was surprised when all kinds

of info sprang up. He had a Web site, for chrissake. I had to admit he photographed well. I

studied a moody and dramatic photo of him and then read the bio. He had been born in

Seattle. Wasn’t that a well-known haven for Satanists? He had traveled extensively, spending

several years in Great Britain.

So the English accent was fake. I suppose it said something about his character, but I

wasn’t sure what. A love of theatrics?

He was a Rhodes Scholar, accumulating a nice batch of impressive-sounding academic

accolades. He had published a slew of articles with titles like “The Feminist Witch,” “The

Politics of Twentieth-century Witchcraft,” and “Witch Hunt: An American Tradition.” And

he had written two weighty-looking tomes: Modern Magick and The Craft in Conflict.

Both were out of print. Instead, I ordered a copy of the Cop’s Guide to Occult

Investigations, telling myself I could always give it to Jake for Christmas. (I mean, how much

fishing tackle does any guy truly need – especially a guy who never takes vacations?)

Back to prowling the Internet, I found mention of Snowden in a couple of gossipy

student blogs. For what it was worth, a male student, “Spelwerx,” felt he was an arrogant ass.

“Devil-Dog” had been taking him every semester apparently since time began and could be

listed under the Fan column. Over several months of blogs, “Destiny’s Child” weighed the

pros and cons of “bearing his precious seed” (I couldn’t help flashing on a Rosemary’s Baby

moment) and frequently speculated on his age (I bet he was in his forties, myself).

All very readable, if not germane. I finally powered down the computer, went through

the shop, turning off the Christmas lights twinkling gently in the gloom.

Upstairs, I caught the last minutes of Pirates of the Caribbean on TV, which cheered

me a little. There’s nothing like rolling seas, buried treasure, and handsome pirates as an

antidote to whatever ails ye. In my expert opinion – a fortune in video rentals should carry

weight – Pirates was the finest swashbuckler of the last two decades.

I read in bed for awhile, treating myself to award-winning Anthony Bidulka’s amusing

Tapas on the Ramblas, but found my thoughts wandering to Gabriel Savant and his missing

disk. I wondered again about his relationship with Bob Friedlander. There was something

there, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t a romantic partnership. Not that you can always tell.

I’ve had gay friends who felt I acted too straight, and straight friends who’ve told me they

knew I was gay the minute they met me.

I’d asked Jake once if, in his admittedly warped opinion, there was anything

particularly gay in my appearance or demeanor.

He’d replied, “You’re…too graceful.”

Too graceful? What did that mean?

“Physically, intellectually, or spiritually?”

“All of the above,” he’d said wryly.

I’d considered this. “It’s probably the tai chi,” I’d answered seriously. He’d laughed.

“It’s probably the ballet lessons.”

Jake had never recovered from learning that Lisa enrolled me in ballet from age seven

to nine. It made sense; Lisa had been a ballerina with the Royal Ballet before she met my

father.

But Jake was always trying to find an explanation for my homosexuality: my father’s

death when I was a small child, being raised without a strong male role model, being raised

by Lisa – hell, knowing Lisa. The one theory he never wanted to consider was that I might

have been born with a genetic predisposition.

I usually didn’t bother debating him, because I knew he was smart enough to realize

that none of the above explained him.

* * * * *

The phone rang about ten-thirty. I almost didn’t pick it up, then on the third ring,

fumbled it off the hook.

It sounded like a TV was playing in the background, then Jake’s voice was in my ear,