Dreaming In Darkness Read online

  The Hortus Palatinus—the Palace Gardens—encroached on the foreground in grand geometric shapes of topiary, finely cropped hedges, concentric circles, interconnected rectangles and squares, vast courtyards, fountains and statues, and even miniature labyrinths formed by vertical shrubs.

  Carl fished in his pocket and withdrew another cigarette, but Jennifer stayed his hand.

  “Not in here. It could contaminate the crime scene.”

  Carl nodded and replaced the cigarette. “Of course.”

  I’m a bit rustier than I thought.

  “Since you know something of this castle,” Jennifer said, “why not give us a brief history? The information we got from the curator is piecemeal at best. That’s him over there.” She indicated a short, bald fellow with horn-rimmed glasses who was mingling with the business suits.

  Carl cleared his throat. “Well, the painting is by the artist Jacques Fouquières, sometime before 1620. I know a lot about the Masonic influence in the government, not just from populist novels such as The Da Vinci Code, but from more academic sources that discuss the Western Mystery Tradition. I also confess to watching the History and Discovery channels.

  “Anyway, I find it fascinating. When I began the research for my ‘retirement book project’—that’s what I’m calling it—I started naturally with the Scottish Rite Freemasons. But I soon learned that while Freemasons did swing some control with respect to world power, in reality they were subsidiary to another organization known as the Rosicrucians. It was while studying the Rosicrucians that I learned of Castle Heidelberg.”

  “You certainly talk like a Dan Brown book,” Jennifer said, laughing.

  “Carl has a way with words,” Denis said. “When he was training me he used to go off on tangents about Aristotle, metaphysics, and God knows what else. If he wasn’t such a fine detective, he would’ve made a finer teacher.”

  Carl shrugged. “What can I say? I did my undergraduate work in philosophy at Northwest Missouri State University before I went into law enforcement.”

  “Why’d you change your mind?” Jennifer asked.

  “That’s a long story. Back to Castle Heidelberg and Rosicrucianism. The Order’s members constitute a unique brand of Christian mystics—magicians, really—whose principals were founded on the philosophy of a semi-fabled individual named Christian Rosenkreuz in medieval Germany. They are spiritually superior to the Freemasons, though the two organizations work hand-in-hand along with many others. This started out in Europe but was later transported to the United States.”

  “What’s it got to do with the painting?” Denis said.

  “The castle attracted princes, princesses, counts and kings, and many writers and artists of the time. The Rosicrucian Order—and I use that term loosely, for many fraternities claim they are the true Rosicrucian brotherhood—started in Germany, and some of its members frequented the Heidelberg Palace, using it as a secret meeting place. There is speculation that certain Rosicrucian symbols were built into the structure of the castle, especially into the Hortus Palatinus, the Palace Gardens.”

  Carl traced a finger along the gardens without touching the canvas.

  “This impressive Baroque garden in the Italian Renaissance style was dubbed the Eighth Wonder of the World by its contemporaries. Constructed by the famed French engineer, Salomon de Caus, himself a Rosicrucian.

  “The Hortus Palatinus contained automated statues, clockwork-driven musical birds that could sing as nightingales and cuckoos, strange mirrors that turned and aimed ever toward the sun. The entire gardens were meant to represent the cosmos in miniature, as well as a symbolic, unitary vision of the combined power of science, religion, and art. Of course, none of this has been proven. But after everything I learned during my occult research, I’m a believer.”

  “You forgot about the numerous fountains and statuary tableaus that depict mythological images and allegories of Ageless Wisdom.”

  They turned and saw the museum curator standing behind them.

  “You know about the castle?” Carl said.

  The curator grinned. Carl thought he looked like a serpent.

  “I know a little,” he said, “thanks to the Hortus Palatinus painting. It’s a magnificent work of art. Up until now I only had the privilege of viewing it in art books. Who knew I’d get to lay my eyes on the real thing?”

  Carl introduced himself.

  “Paul,” the curator said. His wide pupils behind his eyeglasses gave the impression of a rabid weasel, despite his moderate demeanor.

  “What were you telling those men?” Carl asked.

  Paul glanced at the disbanding group of business suits. “I told them I’d finally gotten hold of the Kurpfälzisches museum in Heidelberg.” He pronounced his German with practiced aplomb. “It’s the middle of the night there, you know.”

  “What’d they say?” Jennifer asked.

  “They told me that the Hortus Palatinus painting disappeared last night—I believe that’s two nights now, for us in the States. No signs of break-in. They’ve been working with the local police to find out what happened, but nothing so far. He was extremely happy to hear the painting is safe in Manhattan. Shocked, too. The first thing he asked was when it could be shipped back. It’s an important piece of Heidelberg history.”

  “Not until it’s run the gamut of testing and documentation, I’m afraid,” Jennifer said.

  Carl whispered into Denis’s ear, “Are those men he was talking to federal agents?”

  “Some are,” Denis replied softly. “Not sure about the others. Maybe some customs guys. The FBI hasn’t taken over the case yet, but their presence here seems a threat of that sort.”

  Carl nodded solemnly. He turned and watched the busy SOC team a moment, considering everything that was going on, fitting the pieces together in his mind. The young officer who had been documenting the scene ambled across the dodecahedron, nodding to them.

  “Officer Reynolds,” Jennifer said.

  “Howdy.” Reynolds had a Southern drawl and the face of a newborn baby. “I found something.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s on the back of the painting.” He still held his digital camera with the long zoom lens, but now he secured the strap around his neck and let it dangle upon his chest. He led them around the edge of the wood frame, pointing to a folded flap of paper hanging from the corner.

  Jennifer made a noise of excitement, then waved them not to touch anything. She took a pair of latex gloves from her pantsuit pockets, stretched them up her wrists, and used tweezers to extract the paper.

  “Looks like a note,” Denis said.

  “Maybe a suicide note,” Carl added.

  The curator blinked his eyes. “Suicide? But I thought…”

  “Just a moment.” Jennifer cautiously pulled apart the creased folds in the paper. Carl knew she was being very careful in case of powdery substances contained within it. But all the note contained was a few sentences written in black, felt-tip pen. She adjusted her eyeglasses then read them aloud:

  “When the stars are right

  And the planets are aligned

  The universe will be reflected in mankind.

  Then the gateway shall be opened

  And the Next Age will pass through

  And the Old One will again move among us.”

  She inspected the writing closely, then folded the note back up and motioned to one of the passing SOC team members, who subserviently placed the paper into an evidence baggie.

  “Certainly not a suicide note,” the curator remarked. “Doesn’t even seem to have anything to do with the Hortus Palatinus. What is an ‘Old One’, anyway?”

  Jennifer glanced at Carl.

  “Not sure,” he said. “But I can do some research. That first part about the universe being reflected in mankind sounds like some of the Rosicrucian ideals incorporated into the Palace Gardens. Would you email me the text?”

  She nodded.

  Denis pointed to the
museum lobby, where a group of men were entering through the glass doors. “Uh-oh. Looks like the morgue boys are here. Time we cut it down and let the SOC team finish their documentation.”

  Paul sighed. “Poor Adam. What a shame.”

  “Could I ask you some questions about him?” Carl said. “If you’d be willing to meet me outside, I’d like to grab a smoke. My nerves are killing me.”

  “Sure thing. Let me get my coat.”

  They went their separate ways. Denis and Jennifer followed Carl to the front doors, and the county morgue men instantly bombarded Jennifer with questions.

  “I’ll catch up with you later,” she said. And then: “Nice to finally meet you, Carl. See what you can get out of the curator and maybe do some research into the phrases on that note.”

  “Be happy to,” Carl said.

  She nodded, turned back to the morgue men, and followed them toward the crime scene.

  “Ah, orders,” he said. “Now the world is making sense again.”

  Denis laughed. “I knew you couldn’t give this up. Face it, man. You’re hooked. Might as well join the force again.”

  “And what? Work cases till I’m seventy, when I’m in a wheelchair and have to wheel about the crime scene with a blanket over my knees?”

  “Padauk and Riley are doing it.”

  “I’d rather stick to my writing, thanks. Besides, why re-enter the Bureau when I can have you pull me onto any case? That way I avoid all the paperwork.”

  “The Chief doesn’t actually know yet,” Denis said.

  Carl mimed slapping his forehead. “Smart.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s under control.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “I really look up to you,” Denis said. “For one thing you’re stupidly smart. You managed to tally more convictions with the Bureau than almost any other active detective. Not to mention you taught me everything I know.”

  “Stop it. You’re making me cry.”

  “Do I need you on this case? Most certainly. Do I really, really need you? Probably not. But I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to give you something to sink your teeth into again.”

  “Thanks… I think.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Denis stretched his arms, sighed, and glanced back to the crime scene. “Well, suicide or murder? That is the question.”

  “Perhaps it’s both.”

  Carl flicked his hand into his coat, searching for his smokes.

  Denis looked at him.

  Carl gave him an amiable smile, then headed out the building.

  ***

  “I don’t see how suicide is a possibility,” Paul said. The museum curator grimaced in disgust when Carl offered him a cigarette, as if he’d been offered rancid meat.

  Carl fired up and quenched his storm of thoughts and feelings with the nicotine, taking the smoke deep into his lungs, where it burned a little. He exhaled, watching the cars and pedestrians move in a throng up Fifth Avenue. A few pigeons and scraps of paper flew through the gray air.

  “Why not?” he said.

  Paul scratched his bald scalp, troubled. “Adam was a good man. A trifle eccentric, maybe, but who isn’t? He and I talked all the time. He was smart. Knew a thing or two about art, even. Cut above the other people sporting a badge around here. He was always in high spirits, and he never indicated being suicidal. Somebody must’ve done this to him.”

  “Tell me about your interactions with him.”

  Paul thought about it. “It’s one of those cases of knowing a person but not actually knowing them. What I mean is—I never met Adam outside of the museum. Ours was a strictly professional relationship.

  “But we were friends of a sort. He used to take the night shifts specifically because he knew I’d be in my office. And I took regular breaks so we could play cards at the front desk. I’m a lonely man, Detective Sanford. All I have is my work and aesthetics. So I appreciated our conversations.”

  Being referred to as detective again sounded strange to Carl’s ears. Like an old part of him had suddenly been resurrected.

  “What did you and Adam talk about?” he asked.

  “Oh, everything except sports. Politics, literature, current events, art appreciation. Adam also liked talking about spirituality. He wasn’t a New Ager, but he wasn’t a fundamentalist either. He was somewhere in the middle.”

  “A Christian?”

  Paul nodded. “Of the purest sort. He sometimes talked about the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, though he did it in a way that was real, that was unthreatening. I know he didn’t go to church. If anything he was a Gnostic.”

  “Did your religious conversations ever get contentious?”

  Pail smirked. “Clever. You’re trying to catch me.”

  Carl said nothing.

  “Adam and I never argued: such behavior was beneath us. He kept his spiritual views to himself, but shared them with me because he trusted me. He never told me everything. He only divulged what he thought I could ‘handle,’ I suspect.”

  “There are many religious symbols attached to the crime scene.”

  Paul nodded and grinned. It struck Carl that the curator seemed too calm and well-spoken given the present situation—not really shook up—which meant he was either being totally honest or hiding something.

  “I’ve encountered the geometric shape in many spiritual writings,” Carl continued. “Castle Heidelberg also has a rich spiritual history.”

  “And he was hanged like St. Peter,” Paul added.

  Carl knit his brows. “I’m not familiar with that.”

  “St. Peter died the death of a martyr in Rome, crucified with his head downwards. I think it was meant to show how St. Peter desired to suffer and felt unworthy of a regular crucifixion—as was given Christ. That is why an inverted cross is generally accepted as a symbol of St. Peter.”

  “I thought the upside-down cross was a satanic symbol?”

  Paul shrugged. “I’m not sure of the specifics. You’d have to look it up.”

  Carl nodded and flicked his cigarette into oncoming traffic. He pulled his pen and notepad out of his pocket and jotted some things down. Then he flipped it closed and said, “Thank you for your time, Paul. If you think of anything else, give me a call.” He handed the museum curator one of his old cards, which he still carried out of habit.

  “Good luck, detective,” the small man said, then, laughing, added: “And one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t forget to say your prayers at night.”

  ***

  When he was married to Lorraine, they’d lived in a two-story Colonial style house in Oyster Bay, Long Island, not far from the Long Island Sound. A quiet community of dense maple and pine trees, lush green lawns, and neatly manicured hedges. Whenever it rained in Oyster Bay, the narrow roads glowed with a dim spectral light.

  Lorraine had provided the balance for those gritty, hard-edged environments he traversed in the City. Every day they woke up at the same time (except on weekends when they made love and slept in), ate breakfast, drank coffee, then he would rush off to catch the LIRR to Penn Station, snatching a final kiss on his way out the door. She left a while later to her job at one of the Montessori schools, where she taught a classroom of thirty kids.

  God, I don’t remember the school’s name anymore. Ridgemont? Rightworth? Remington? Something like that.

  Life went on this way for twenty years. Twenty years and no children. Twenty grand years of marriage, boat trips on the Sound, walks in the park, dinner parties at the country club, martinis, champagne, laughing and romance, making love and passing out in a daze…

  Yet their focus was on career. Lorraine was passionate about her kids. She had a vision and wanted to make a difference in their lives. She often said that the best part of her job was seeing a light bulb go off over one of their heads after guiding them in making some discovery about learning. As opposed to most public schools, where the curriculum is standardized and the st
udents are usually told what to do instead of being encouraged to think for themselves.

  As for him, the Bureau consumed that part of his life not occupied by his marriage. Though it encroached upon the latter with sinister regularity. The fact that they never had a child allowed for this concentration on careers—which was how they wanted it.

  At least at the time.

  They were ambitious, so what? Perhaps unnaturally so… And yet this similarity was what facilitated their complementary situation. The detective work became his sole purpose apart from Lorraine. He still read a lot (especially books on esotericism) and kept track of the developments in academia, the philosophical digests and so forth, but his thoughts about philosophy and becoming a teacher were soon eclipsed by his law enforcement career.

  Until Rolf Adler showed up.

  Overwhelmed with memories, Carl got up and walked across the carpet to the nearby window of his twentieth-floor apartment. The Manhattan skyline stretched out. When he’d lived with Lorraine he always smoked outside on the wood deck, depositing his butts into a glass ashtray. Now he filled his small, book-choked apartment with smoke whenever possible, as if in protest of his new life. Christ, he wished he had her back.

  A small airplane glided over the Hudson, dragging behind it a sizable banner that bent and flapped in the wind. He squinted to make out the words:

  2013 is finally upon us! This is the year of the Galactic Alignment, when the stars and the planets will be aligned in a very special way! Are you ready for the intergalactic party?

  Beneath were the words join us and a website address. Carl shook his head, blew smoke through his nostrils. The world’s slowly going crazy. Then something darker: Good thing I went nuts ages ago.