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  siding stAr

  ChristoPher BryAn

  Siding Star

  Christopher Bryan © 2012 Christopher Bryan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Printed in the United States of America. The Diamond Press

  Proctors Hall Road

  Sewanee, Tennessee

  For more information about this book, visit: www.christopherbryanonline.com Edition ISBNs

  Trade Paperback 978-0-9853911-0-2 e-book 978-0-9853911-1-9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available upon request.

  First Edition 2012 This edition was prepared for printing by The Editorial Department 7650 E. Broadway, #308, Tucson, Arizona 85710

  www.editorialdepartment.com

  Cover design by Pete Garceau

  Book design by Christopher Fisher

  Diamond Press logo by Richard Posan for Two Ps

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Wendy, with love

  siding

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  Prologue

  T

  wenty seven thousand years ago, at the center of a barred spiral galaxy now known on earth as the Milky Way, a star was growing old. All stars grow old: but this one grew old before its time. Hydrogen that should have burned in glory for another hundred thousand years was failing, and without it the star would die. Nuclear fusion held it a little longer—held it until there was nothing left to fuse, nothing to defy the gravity that pulled the star in upon itself. Then, in a hundred billion degrees of heat, the core collapsed. In less than a second, ten times the mass and gravity of earth’s sun were compacted to a pinhead—and so compacted, recoiled and exploded.

  The shockwave burst into the galaxy, plunging outward, spreading, widening, for twenty seven thousand years, until at last its edge drew near to a modest solar system on the Orion Spur. And so to a small, moist planet that was a part of that system—a blue and silver planet, with a single moon.

  one

  Tuesday, October 7, 2008. 5:35 p.m. Exeter Cathedral Close, Devon, England.

  Atall, bearded figure in a rough black habit stood on the lawns to the north of the cathedral and gazed. Nikos Kakoyannis was not gazing at the statue of Richard Hooker to his right, nor at the few late-season tourists who were scattered about the grass. Several people stared at him and a couple of small boys giggled, but he had eyes for nothing but the cathedral.

  At last he picked up an old carpetbag that lay beside him on the grass and began to walk along the path towards the north door. His eyes never left it.

  He entered.

  Coolness and gray-green light, pierced by the sweetness of treble and counter-tenor exchanging the awful solemnities of the Nunc Dimittis:

  … a light to lighten the Gentiles,

  And to be the glory of thy people Israel.

  For a moment he stopped. Glory, the choir sang, Glory be… Glory…Glory… echoing and teasing. Then in response came a single voice, the spoken word sounding with somber power after the revelry of organ and choir—

  4

  ChristoPher BryAn I believe in God…

  —and Kakoyannis moved on.

  He walked slowly along the north ambulatory, past tombs

  and chantry chapels, on into the east ambulatory and so to the Lady Chapel. Lights burned before the icon of the Virgin of Tenderness, but the chapel was deserted, as he had hoped it would be. The worshippers were all at Evensong. He approached the side of the altar, glanced around, then slipped behind it and waited, crouching.

  Evensong ended. The grace was invoked. The final cry for peace was sung. Now there was fumbling for coats and the gentle murmur of Anglican piety ready for its supper.

  Gradually the murmur died. A portly verger glanced into the Lady Chapel and walked around to check the lights in front of the icon. His footsteps died away. A door slammed. Silence. The rich stained glass of the east window was almost dark.

  Kakoyannis was alone.

  Emerging from his crouch, he walked to the center of the Lady Chapel. There was still light enough for him to see the icon of the Virgin, her gentle eyes fixed upon him. He would like to have broken it, but what he was about to do must be done in a sacred place and perhaps that desecration would impair the deeper desecration he planned. So he let the icon be and walked on, crossing to the north ambulatory and down to the north door. It was locked, but within minutes gave way to his probing. He shot back the bolts, and it opened. He left it ajar. It would be hidden from outside by the shadow of the porch: and it was a means of escape.

  Now for quire and sanctuary.

  He removed the gold and scarlet crucifix from its stand and placed it face down on the ground. On the high altar he put a single black candle, setting it midway between the golden candlesticks normally lit to welcome the Presence. On the sanctuary floor in front of the altar he spray-painted symbols of

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  power—circle, pentangle, tetragrammaton, and secret names in Hebrew and four other tongues of the black art. He then took his stand before the altar in the midst of these symbols, and by the light of a small LED flashlight read aloud from a black book, words upon words that denied words, until they died into cackle and finally to an easeless silence.

  It was done.

  And now he waited, his gaze fixed on the altar.

  He had dared the rite. The dark flame was burning, and

  before it was the place where the demon should appear. And before them both, himself, directing upon the flame the eye- beams of his mind, summoning.

  Something was moving, something breathing, something stirring on the fringes of his consciousness.

  He redoubled his concentration. Who knew what discarnate entities might ride the storm he was creating? He must concentrate only on the center, the focus of power. His eyes burned into the flame. Faintly, faintly, faintly, it was changing. Something was answering. Slowly. Slowly. The more concentration. The more stillness. The utter direction. The air above the flame was darkening. Now, steadily, there emerged a coun- tenance: almond eyes gleaming in the faint light. It was that which he had willed to encounter. It was the face of the Beast. And now was the time.

  He called.

  He called with a cry that had once been heard in the court of Solomon: words of power that uttered their command and were what they commanded. And the Beast came, shimmying around the flame and crashing against one of the unlit candle- sticks so that it lurched in an arc of gold and struck the sanctuary floor with a clatter that echoed and re-echoed until it died.

  two

  Exeter. The home of DI Cecilia Cavaliere. A little later the same evening.

  Detective Inspector Cecilia Anna Maria Cavaliere of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary turned the key in the front door lock and pushed. The door opened with its usual peculiar shudder, enveloping her in yellow light.

  It had been a frustrating day. The frustration had begun that morning: the light on her internal line started flashing before she got her coat off.

  It was Sergeant Wyatt, on the desk.

  “We’ve got a dangerous animal at large, ma’am, and Superintendent Hanlon wants you take charge of the Incident Room. You’ve got 5B.”

  “We’ve got a what?”

  “Dangerous animal, ma’am.”

  “Isn’t that a job for the environmental officer?” DI Cavaliere was officially “serious crimes.” “Where’s DS Col
es?”

  “Off sick, ma’am.”

  “DS Wills?”

  “He’s off sick, ma’am.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake—isn’t there anyone who isn’t off sick?”

  8

  ChristoPher BryAn “Yes, ma’am. You.”

  “Huh! All right, then. What kind of animal?”

  “A wolf, ma’am. Escaped from the local fair sometime before

  dawn. Cage wasn’t locked, apparently. There’s some stuff— hard copy that’s not on the computer yet. I’ll bring it now. Just wanted to make sure where you were. Thought you might be off sick.”

  “Ha, ha.” So she’d spent the rest of the day in the Incident Room, coordinating grids, checking maps, organizing volunteer groups from Animal Rescue, putting experts with nets and tranquillizing darts in charge of them, and drinking tea.

  The experts, she’d been assured by both the fair and the university (who provided most of them), would have no difficulty at all tracking and finding an inexperienced young female wolf who’d been born and raised in captivity, answered to the name of Katie, and had never spent a day fending for herself in her life.

  So she should be back to the delights of Serious Crime by midday. “What are you doing today, bella?” Papa said when he telephoned her mid-morning.

  “Looking for a wolf, actually.”

  “Oh—the one on telegiornale? The one the fair has lost?”

  “That one.”

  “It sounds energetic.”

  “Well, I’m not actually doing the looking, Papa. I’m just sitting here telling other people to do it and drinking tea.”

  “They cannot find you un buon caffè?” She chuckled. He always said that. Even though the coffee at the university was just as bad as it was here.

  “Here, Papa, we drink tea.” Come to think of it, she always said that.

  siding stAr 9 “Oh. That’s all right then. Well, I know you’ll be kind to the wolf when you find her. Remember San Francesco. Ti amo, bella.”

  “Ti amo, Papa.”

  As it turned out, she’d had no chance to be either kind or cruel.

  For the inexperienced young female obviously knew something the experts didn’t. And when six o’clock passed and the darkness began to draw on, they were obliged to pack up and go home, their nets un-cast and their tranquillizing darts un-darted.

  And DI Cavaliere had begun to form a sneaking admiration for Katie the inexperienced wolf.

  But still, it had been frustrating.

  And it was good to be home.

  Yelps and clattering paws on the parquet signaled that Figaro (her dog) and Tocco and Pu (her parents’ dogs) were coming to welcome her.

  Here they came! She never understood how three not-particularly-large mongrels could form a tide, but they did. She bent down so as to distribute favors as evenly as possible between three heads, one black (Figaro), one white with black patches (Tocco), and one brown (Pu).

  “Thank you! Thank you! Yes, I’m glad to see you too! I’ve thought of nothing else all day!”

  Mama appeared at the study door, holding the telephone handset.

  “They’ve been trying to reach you,” she said in Italian. “I think they found your wolf. But they don’t sound too happy about it.”

  “Grazie, Mama.” Cecilia took the phone, wondering what was wrong with her mobile. “DI Cavaliere here… All right… If she’s done it, she’s done it. Who’s there? … I take it you’ve called the people from the fair? … Scene of Crime Officers on their way? … Good. Well, so am I. I should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  She put down the phone. Mama was watching her.

  “The wolf’s all right, more or less. She’s in the cathedral. She knocked something over and set off the alarms at the station. That’s how they found her. That’s the good news…. The bad news is, she seems to have killed someone.” She sighed. “Mama, I’m sorry. You heard. I’ll have to go.”

  “When will you eat? You have to eat.”

  “When I come back. I promise.”

  “I made lasagne this afternoon. See, I’ll cover this and put it on the side here. You can warm it slowly when you get back.”

  Cecilia kissed her mother, picked up a fork, and helped herself to a small mouthful. Lasagne con i funghi. Cecilia stood still, lips closed, carefully savoring the morsel between tongue and palette.

  “Mmm,” she said at last. “It’s good—but… porcini? Or not?”

  Mama smiled. “I used a few, but it’s mostly English field mushrooms. They’re very good.”

  “It works, Mama! Much too good to rush. Let’s do as you say. I’ll enjoy it with a glass of wine when I get back.”

  Mama sighed. “I shall leave you half a bottle of a decent red. Now go and do what you have to do!”

  three

  London. Sussex Gardens.

  The home of Charlie Brown. The same evening.

  C

  harlie Brown, sometime Woodward Scholar of Wadham College, Oxford, and presently Sir Isaac Newton Professor of Astronomy in the University of London, couldn’t breathe. He gasped and choked. Something was pressing down on him. Gritting his teeth—or at least trying to grit his teeth, since nothing he did seemed really to work—he managed at last, like forcing himself through mud, to stand upright.

  Looming over him was the tower. The domed tower, with sun on it. He knew that tower. Where had he seen it? He couldn’t recall, and as always there was no time for thought. Gusts of wind swept him forward like a stray leaf, past the domed tower toward a lofty door that opened as he approached, and the wind carried him through.

  Into a hall. White and gold. White and gold everywhere. Floor black and white marble, like a chessboard. And pillars so huge he couldn’t see around them. A painted ceiling, pale green and gold, so lofty he could only catch glimpses of it through mists that swirled over his head.

  He’d been here before, of course. He knew what was coming. Here he was: the man in the long black robe, waiting for him. Mist swirled round the robe as the man turned, and now Charlie saw his face, a kind face, with lines of sorrow. But behind the man there was something else, something dark.

  “You must,” the man said, his voice quiet but perfectly clear. “You must!”

  “Must what?” Charlie tried to shout, but not a sound came from his throat. He was feeble, a shade, a ghost. He—

  Woke up.

  He had a crick in his neck, a dry mouth, and a splitting

  headache.

  And the television was babbling at him. He’d fallen asleep

  in front of it.

  But as always, what relief to be awake!

  At least the Dream was gone.

  It definitely had a capital D. When he was very little it came

  every two or three nights. Then the intervals had stretched to

  a week, then two weeks, then, when he was ten, to five or six.

  That was when Mickey the cat arrived. After that, the dream

  came rarely. Whether this had anything to do with Mickey the

  cat, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it did. But in any case, even rare

  appearances of the Dream were tormenting, and always he

  woke with relief.

  As now.

  Except that this time there was something else wrong.

  Something that wasn’t the Dream.

  Mickey the cat was dead.

  He went to the bathroom, winced at the glimpse of his spiky

  hair in the mirror but didn’t comb it. Put on his glasses. Went to

  the kitchen and drank some milk.

  For over twenty years—amazing, really—Mickey the cat

  had been the one continuing presence in his life. First, through

  the death of his parents on November 14, 1990. They had been

  on the Alitalia Flight 404 that flew into a mountain, killing

  siding stAr 13 everyone on board and leaving him an eleven-year-old orphan. Then through various aunts and uncles w
ith whom he’d stayed at various times. Through adolescence and growing up, getting and losing girlfriends, discovering that he was quite clever at some things and not at all clever at others. Through grammar school and university and academic successes and accolades. Through thoughts and theories of galaxies and suns. Through it all, whenever he came home, wherever home happened to be, there was Mickey the cat, trotting to meet him with tail upright like a black poker, purring on his lap, gazing at him with whiskery good will while he ate his dinner or watched television or read a book, jumping on his bed and patting his face to wake him up if he overslept.

  Then, a week ago, Mickey the cat had some sort of stroke. For seven days they struggled against it. The vet tried everything he knew, everything. But Mickey was old and finally the vet—a good man who knew his job and cared about his patients—said there was nothing more they could do for Mickey other than end his misery.

  So they did.

  The hypodermic was swift and, one supposed, merciful. Within a few seconds his old friend was just… a dead black cat. Charlie brought the body home and buried it in the back garden under the plane tree where Mickey liked to sit in the summer.

  And that, it seemed, was that.

  A dead black cat.

  Ridiculous. Of all the miseries in the world, surely this ranked pretty low in the catalogue? One of his colleagues at the University had just lost his son to a roadside bomb in Afghanistan.

  He looked at his watch. It was only eight. Much too early to go to bed.

  He was cold.

  He went to his bedroom to get a sweater.

  There was Mickey’s little bed by the dressing table, just like always. He hadn’t had the heart to move it yet.

  Four

  Exeter. A few minutes later.

  Cecilia drove into the Cathedral Close to find an assembly of police cars and flashing blue and white lights. “This way, ma’am. We can go through the north door.”

  It was young Wilkins, who’d arrived fresh from the Police Training College on Monday. He seemed to be enjoying the excitement.