“For sure,” said One.
“Bet your ass. A lot of pomp. A lot of circumstance, a lot of theater. And nothing will go wrong.”
At 9 p.m., all six Watchmen, Hess, and every member of the Raven Society’s Executive Committee, including prominent businessmen, judges, lawyers, TV and radio personalities, and wannabe celebrities, congregated in the Great Room wearing elegant gowns. Their ceremonial garb—only used on special occasions—looked something like Ku Klux Klan robes of old, but black rather than white, and far more expensive, exquisitely tailored, and exclusively fabricated of 150-point worsted wool and cashmere. Their matching hats weren’t cone shaped, but oval, flatter in front. The tops were sliced near the head, at forty-five-degree angles, higher in back. The crown itself looked like a ski slope, Hess thought, or a shorter, stylized-version of Cardinal hats in the Roman Catholic Church. Whatever. He loved the robes, the hats, the ceremony. Everything.
At one end of the huge, dark room stood the Great Fireplace, big enough to walk into, and where a roaring, crackling fire was now going strong. Soft orange glows flickered, bounced and danced around the room. Three-foot candles on giant pedestals surrounded an altar in front of the fireplace, and large wooden tables along the surrounding stone walls were laden with fine red wines, loaves of crusted bread, exotic cheeses, and a favorite—raw beef tartare, draped in egg yolks. The aroma of food, especially the soft French cheeses and fresh baguettes, blended perfectly with the smokey oaken notes of the fire. The din of the conversations, with its ebbs and flows, heightened the energy in the room. Everyone was having a grand time, as usual.
At exactly 9:30, One and Three ushered the Golden-Haired Boy, clad only in a dark silk robe, into the room. He stumbled a bit—the drugs always put initiates in a slight stupor—and his teeth worked against the thick, black braided cord tied around his head and stuck in his mouth. On Hess’ command, they lifted him onto the altar and strapped him down. The boy turned his head toward the small table next to the altar where an array of twinkling knives and other sparkling tools sat on black velvet, then he looked up at the ceiling He lay motionless, silent, but his now wide-eyed stare disappointed Hess.
An instrumental version of “God Bless America” began playing softly over the speakers. The participants stood. His Eminence entered, dressed like the others, except in blood red rather than black. When the music stopped, he sat in a throne-like chair behind the altar, raised his hands, and addressed the group. “This evening, this young man will join the elite. The few chosen to train, defend, and sacrifice their lives, if necessary, to perpetuate what we build. Let God be our witness. Begin.”
At that command, Hess slowly rose and approached the altar. Using large sheers, he cut the boy’s hair. Two scooped the locks from the floor, surreptitiously mixed them with fine powder of iron filings and aluminum and magnesium shavings to cause gold and silver sparks to flare when he threw them into the Great Fireplace. Several let out impressed oohs and ahhs as everyone clapped. Then, at the nearby table, Hess selected a two-foot razor knife and sharpened it on a leather strop with long, graceful strokes. With knife in hand, he slowly approached the boy. The flames from the Great Fireplace reflected off the blade. In the tension of the moment, it seemed magical. Alive. Hess leaned over and ceremoniously shaved off what was left of the boy’s hair. Then he slipped on a heavy glove and walked slowly to the fireplace. He smiled, drew a red-hot branding iron from the flames and walked back to the boy. On cue, Two threw more powder into the Great Fireplace, causing huge flames to erupt. His Eminence nodded to Hess. “Let it be done.”
Relying on local anesthetic administered earlier through injection, Hess opened the boy’s robe and pressed the branding iron into his skin, just below the navel, until the sizzling stopped. It was perfect. A profile of a glorious raven’s head, the brand was a smaller version of the Society’s emblem engraved on the stonework of the Great Fireplace. Lifting the iron high above his head with both hands, Hess intoned, “It is done. Another soldier borne to the Raven Society.” At that point he pulled the cord from around the boy’s mouth, and everyone in the room shouted and clapped—except the boy. Instead, he turned his head slowly to the side, toward His Eminence, and threw up.
Moments later, for just an instant, Hess caught the boy watching His Eminence with a fierce, hateful, burning stare. A stare he had only seen once before, during a combat interrogation. Just before the tortured son of a bitch died.
CHAPTER 28
Just back from his Goleta trip, Terry was in his apartment on the Esplanade in South Redondo, an area known as Hollywood Riviera. He was cooking pasta and putting notes about the Goleta trip on a yellow pad. It was around 9 p.m. when the doorbell rang. He stepped to the door and peered out the peephole. Ava Best. Wow. They hadn’t spoken in over six months.
Terry threw open the door and pulled her in for a hug. “Ava, my God. How are you? Everything OK? What are you doing here?”
“What do you think? I’m here to see you.”
“Of course, of course, come on in. I was preparing pasta for dinner. I’ve got a salad. Wine. Want to share?”
“I’m hungry, but not for pasta.” She turned to lead him down the hall, toward where she knew his bedroom was.
“Wait. Let me turn off the stove.”
Ava Best was the girl next door, California style. Blonde, 5-foot 7, hazel eyes that turned green, blue, or brown depending on the light, and a trim, athletic body. Terry had known her for almost nineteen years. Met as undergrads at UCLA. Her name had been Ava Thompson then. It had been love at first sight. But then on again, off again. Ever since their first date. Most of the time, Terry was sure he loved her. Sometimes he was sure Ava loved him back. But all the time, he was sure they would never work. They were ying and yang. Oil and water. Bad medicine.
She was 41 now and working as a TV reporter for local Channel 5 News. She’d married once, but it lasted only two years. She and Terry had even been engaged once. But that ended in two months. Ava was, first and always, a career woman. Nothing got in the way of that.
She grabbed him by the hand, tugged him back to the bedroom, and started unbuttoning his shirt, kicking her shoes off at the same time. Then she paused and slowly, slowly, slipped her black dress over her head.
Terry, always cool and collected, nearly choked. “Jesus, Ava. You’ve got nothing on.”
“No need for anything else.” She slipped his shirt off his shoulders, pulled the sleeves over his wrists, and let it fall to the ground. Then she dropped to her knees and looked up at him, her hands on his belt. “Time to get you out of these pants.”
After shedding Terry’s clothes, she stood and walked him backward, then pushed him flat on the bed and crawled over him, straddling his hips. Her skin was warm. Roses and musk filled his senses. Leaning over him, she kissed up his body until she found his lips. Terry worked to catch up, pushing his hands through her hair and pulling her to him. Her body undulated above him. Slow. Then slower. Fast. Then faster. Then harder and deeper. Her skin gleamed with perspiration. Terry gasped for air, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he cried out as his mind went blank.
At midnight, he woke up and looked at Ava sleeping soundly beside him. She was in his bed. Again. Maybe his luck was changing. Then again, maybe not. He slid out of bed, trying not to disturb her, and then headed to the night-cloaked living room to pour himself a glass of red wine. He leaned against the kitchen counter, swirled the wine in his glass. He’d always loved her, but he’d never fully trusted her. Not then. Not now. He sipped his wine, stared out the window, and wondered what the hell she was up to.
CHAPTER 29
The ejection-seat hearing in Phoenix went much longer than Ridge expected. But as usual, because of all the issues involved, the judge didn’t make a decision on the spot. Instead, he took the matter under submission. Ridge figured the judge planned to dwell on it, a week or so, and then send out a written order explaining his decision.
When he arrived back in L.A. late Wednesday afternoon, Jayne picked him up. “What’s up with Terry,” he asked. “How’s he doing?”
“Good. Talked to him by phone this morning. Seemed in a great mood.”
“And how are you?”
“Tip top.”
Ridge smiled. “OK then. When can we see Pistol?”
“We can head over there now. The doc still thinks she can come home Friday to recuperate at home. But he emphasized that it was a close call and that she won’t be back to her same old tricks for quite a while.”
“All this is going to cost us. Big time. Mister too. Pistol will want to be fed first, pampered always.”
Jayne smiled that wonderful smile of hers. “Lucky we have Nurse Mister. He’ll stick to Pistol like glue.”
On the way to Hermosa Veterinary Hospital, Ridge made another call, this one to GringoMan, their favorite Mexican restaurant in the Beach Cities. He ordered take-out: a barbeque chicken quesadilla for himself, and machaca and eggs for Jayne and Mister. Mister loved the shredded beef scrambled in eggs. And no doubt he’d need his strength to ride herd on Pistol.
When they got to the hospital, Pistol was lying in a recuperation cage, still on medication. But when she heard Ridge’s voice, her head rose slightly, and she started a slow, loud pathetic panting. Pistol, the Drama Queen. Ridge responded to her act, stroking her head and slowly rubbing her belly. Then without a warning Pistol jerked her head and jumped up, almost out of the cage, into Ridge’s arms.
The vet tech rushed forward. “Take it easy! She still has stitches.”
Ridge eased Pistol back down, whispering, “Good girl, but no canon-balls for a while.”
Pistol seemed to understand, and laid back on her side, while Ridge continued to stroke her skin and whisper sweet nothings. Then, he and Jayne told Pistol they’d be back soon. As Ridge closed the cage, Pistol lifted her head, whimpered, and placed her head back on the pad, with a long, deep sigh. The vet tech stared up at Ridge.
“Not to worry. Drama Queen. I’m sure you’re taking good care of her, but she’s always gonna put on a show.” The tech smiled and made some distracting noise while Jayne and Ridge quietly made their getaway.
