Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #1: Books 1-4 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (best thriller books to read .txt) 📕

and bring us to manhood, nothing more. You start treating them with respect, they fucking eat you alive. Like the man said, if you’re going to women, don’t forget the whip.”

“Spare me your philosophy, Zak. What happened?”

“Nothing. I tried to make him see sense. She was fucking all over me. He gave her a choice, him or me. She made the wrong fucking choice. She chose me. That’s women, man. Fucking stupid. He left. I never heard from him again. Somebody told me he went out west.”

“What about Lynda?”

“I fucked her, used her for a day or two, and told her to get lost. It was what she deserved. It was a shame about Hank. He was stupid, but he was a bro. He couldn’t see I was trying to help him.”

“Yeah. You’re a stand-up guy.”

He surprised me by giggling.

“Where did she go?”

“The party broke up on the fourth day. She probably got a ride with somebody. I don’t know, man.”

I looked at the murals on the wall, stared at Crowley’s big, bald head with his bulging eyes. “You’re a devotee of Crowley, huh?”

He smiled. “He’s the man.”

“You practice his rituals?”

He watched me for a bit before answering. “Some.”

It was growing dark outside. The rain had settled into a steady downpour. I stood. “He died in poverty, in a boarding house in Brighton, you know.”

“Yeah, and his followers are some of the richest, most powerful men in the world.”

There was a heavy footfall on the stairs. A large man with long hair and a long beard stepped into the room. It was hard to make out his features in the dusk. He stared at me for a long moment, then turned to Zak. “They’re ready.”

Zak smiled at me. “We’re having a ritual, Detective Stone. We found a virgin, and we’re going to cut out her heart and eat it while it’s still quivering with life. You want to stay and join in?”

“Maybe next time.”

“Drive careful, Stone.”

I stepped back out into the wet dusk and ran to my car. I climbed in and slammed the door. I had a pack of tissues in the glove compartment and used a couple to dry my hair and my face. I switched on the wipers and looked through the windshield at the house. The windows on the third floor were glowing with a flickering, limpid orange light. Candles.

I looked at my watch. Four p.m. I fired up the engine and headed back toward New York. I felt tired, but I knew it would be at least ten before I got home.

Do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.

I thought about that as I crawled through the narrow lanes toward Raymond. The orange cones of my headlights made a moving tunnel in the blackness. It was Rabelais, not Crowley, and it was inscribed over the great gate of Theleme. More things crept into my memory.

Sir Francis Dashwood, in the eighteenth century, established several Hellfire Clubs in London and Dublin. Their motto was “Do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the law,” borrowed from Rabelais. Ben Franklin had been an occasional visitor to those clubs. The patrons were eminent and powerful.

Then, a hundred years later, Aleister Crowley established the Abbey of Thelema on Cefalù, on the north coast of Sicily, and adopted the motto used by Dashwood for his clubs. He called it the law of Thelema.

Ritual magic. Ritual murder. It was certainly the province of the serial killer. I tried to visualize Zak murdering and dismembering a woman. It wasn’t difficult. Did those arms, then, belong to Lynda?

Six

In the end I got home at one, had a hot shower, and fell into bed. I’d been driving for over twelve hours, and every part of me ached. I ached in places I didn’t even know I had.

I had dark dreams about dark houses with black doorways that led to even blacker places, down ever darker narrower passages. I surfaced slowly as it dawned on me that the doorbell was buzzing, dragging me out of sleep. I didn’t know if I was grateful or not. It was still dark, I still ached, and I was still tired. I looked at my watch. It was seven. I groaned and leaned out the window.

Dehan was standing in front of my door doing a weird bouncing thing.

“Why are you bouncing?”

She looked up at me. A cold wind was blowing her hair across her face. “Because it’s cold and wet. Let me in. Why are you still in your pajamas?”

I pulled my keys out of my pants on the chair and threw them down to her. “Make some coffee and don’t ask dumb-ass questions.”

I showered cold, hot, cold, dressed, and went downstairs. She’d made a big pot of coffee and also pancakes and bacon.

“If my mother were here, she’d tell me to marry you.”

“If my dad were here, he’d tell me to stay clear of you. ‘Don’t make the same mistake I made. Marry a nice Jewish boy.’”

I sat down and she poured coffee and put bacon on my plate.

“You told me your parents were crazy about each other.”

“They were. He loved annoying her, and she loved being annoyed by him. She’d end up throwing her havayanas at him, and they’d crack up laughing.”

“Cute.”

“It was. How’d you get on?”

“This means you’re itching to tell me how you got on.”

“You first.”

I ran through my conversation with Zak. About halfway through, she stopped eating and just stared at me. By the time I came to the whole Aleister Crowley, Abbey of Thelema bit, she was neglecting her coffee. I told her what I saw when I left and said, “He definitely ticks some of the boxes.”

She drizzled maple syrup on a pancake.