He set out before sunset, touching ground at nightfall. His target was a huddle of tired apartment blocks clinging to the Spurgen River's eastern bank and nestled in Robbinsville. It was there that Frankie Fuentes had a single-bedroom on the first floor.
The front door wore a strip of evidence tape. He picked the lock and slipped through without breaking it. Tobacco and marijuana rolled out to meet him, it lived in the cushions and carpeting.
The living room held a sagging brown couch facing a coffee table and bulky TV. Two nightstands flanked it, each with a plain lamp. He pressed along the couch cushions. Just soft give. Knocked the frame, no hollow sound.
Unlike Pham, Fuentes had tried for personality, movie and band posters leaned against the walls. Forensics probably pulled them down, checking for stashes.
"What makes you so sure Fuentes was the other officer?" said Alfred.
"He and Pham were the youngest. Early twenties. The kind you send to bait girls. Fuentes also had a record before the academy."
Alfred typed, then stopped. "I see. Domestic violence. I guess GCPD will hire just about anyone."
The kitchen was a tiny nook in the corner. He opened every cabinet, ran his gloved fingers along the walls. Nothing. A round table with two chairs stood jammed into one corner. Above it, a lone air vent.
"They probably checked the vents," he muttered. He still dragged a chair under, climbed, and glanced inside. Empty.
"I take it you've ruled out the possibility of space beneath the floorboards?"
"It's carpeting over the concrete subfloor."
"Perhaps Iverson and Westcox have taken it—whatever it is."
"They didn't."
"What makes you so certain?"
"They were planning to hit Fuentes' place, if they had stopped by, there'd be a mess behind. Whatever they wanted is still here."
He moved to the bedroom. The closet walls yielded nothing. Under the bed: socks, shoes, dust. His eyes went to the headboard, cloth-bound in gray fabric. He thought of the symbol.
"It has to be religious."
"You already searched Christian iconography—saints, Crusades—no match."
"Haven't searched everything yet."
"Yes, I see you've pulled occult references. Your next project?"
He pressed a hand into the mattress. It was a long shot, but he lifted it. Nothing. Dropped it back. The thudding sound was off. Heavier and clunkier, not like two mattresses touching down.
He frowned. "That's not a mattress."
"Come again?"
He heaved the top mattress against the wall. The second was wrapped in cloth. His hand read the shape beneath, it was rigid.
"It's a box."
He snapped open a blade, used the wing to slice the cloth, then tore it open. Underneath, cheap particle board and a small square panel at its center, held shut by a hook latch. He put a knee to the wood, popped the latch, and lifted the lid. A velvet bag waited inside.
"Found it."
He sat on the box spring, loosened the drawstring, and pulled out three items.
First, a set of glass vials. He lined them up beside him.
Next, a book. Black leather, stamped with a thin, antlered, demon-like creature with a boar's tail crouched beside a circle of sigils. He read the name aloud.
"Grimorium Verum."
"A grimoire. Explains why you couldn't match the symbol," Alfred said.
He flipped through until the symbol stared back.
"Bael."
"And he is?"
"Not much of a description." He snapped the book shut. "A demon commanding sixty-six legions of infernal spirits." His voice held a trace of annoyance.
The last item, a stack of Polaroids.
He peeled off the rubber band and shuffled through the images. They should have turned his stomach. He forced that down. Rage clouded his better judgment. Made him miss details. But a few frames cracked his calm.
He stopped at Lan Nguyen's long face and black hair. She was bound at the wrists and ankles, nude with blood trailing down her thighs. She laid on her side beside a shirtless man in black trousers wearing a hood over his head. He pulled at her hair like she was his trophy.
The next set were similar, but different girls. He felt rage in his chest, he slowed his breathing, clearing the heat from his chest.
Alfred's voice cut in. "Bael—a three-headed demon with the appearance of a toad, man, and cat."
"Where is that from?"
"One of the books you have yet to flip through. The Lesser Key of Solomon, Ars Goetia. He grants invisibility and wisdom. Known for cunning and trickery. What else did you find?"
He flipped through them again. " About fifteen Photos. Each one worse than the last. Girls—bound, cuffed. Men with their heads covered—some shirtless, some in robes—doing awful things."
"Ngyuen is among them," he said, glancing at the photo again. "She's on the ground—right where a symbol for Bael is painted in black."
He brought the image closer, squinting. "That's odd. The room they're in…it's strange. Looks like it's made of rock. Looks familiar."
"Odd indeed."
Something about the background clawed at memory, but the mask's grayscale filter flattened the details. He set the photos down on the bare box spring and touched his fingers beneath the eyes.
One of the perks he'd borrowed from Wayne Enterprises: electrostatic adhesion, unreleased to the public. A thin, flexible strip of conductive material traced the mask's edge, generating a charge that locked it to skin. To deactivate it, he pressed just below the eyes. The seal gave with a faint hiss.
He yanked it off, tossing the mask onto the box spring beside the vials.
Cool air licked the sweat from his skin. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of a streetlight outside, bleeding through the plastic blinds. He rose, crossed to the nightstand, and flicked on the lamp. The light stabbed his eyes. He winced, blinked, gave it a moment then held the photos up to the glare.
He immediately knew why the terrain looked familiar. The dusty, chalk-colored stone. Cave walls.
"The catacombs."