Chapter 23
Eddie Bellinowski’s viewing was the next evening, with his funeral scheduled for the following morning.
The other hexworkers had been allowed to leave early so they could pay their respects, and the guards were taking it in shifts.
After the viewing, there was supposed to be a wake at one of Sullivan’s clubs, though Sam couldn’t remember the name of it.
He hadn’t brought up LA with Alistair after the argument between Holly and Wanda. There was no point; neither of them were going anywhere. Maybe Sam could have used the resurrection hex to bargain for his freedom, but only at the cost of The Pride.
No, they were stuck here. Sullivan wouldn’t let him go, unless he failed to recreate the resurrection hex. Which he had to succeed at, since it was the only way he could make things right with his family at last.
“Here,” Doc said. “Take a look at this.”
He’d been poring over a small sheet of papyrus inscribed in what he said was hieratic—a sort of everyday script used in place of hieroglyphs.
As with the rest of the scrolls and papers, the ancient preservation hexes had done wonders keeping it intact, the ink still as clear as the day it had been placed in the tomb.
Sam put down the photo of the Aten Disc he’d been working from and went to peer over Doc’s shoulder. In addition to the hieratic, this papyrus had long columns of hex symbols. “What is it?”
Doc sat back with a grin. “This, my friend, is a key. It was rolled up in the same jar as the designs for the Aten Disc, which I assume were used in its casting. I don’t know if it was meant to be destroyed to keep the secret, but got overlooked, or if Tutankhamun wanted it hidden but still accessible if he decided to use it.
Either way, it doesn’t matter—this will tell us the order in which to read the symbols on the disc. ”
Shock went through Sam. After so much time spent staring at the disc, for Doc to so casually say they now held its key felt anticlimactic.
Assuming he was right. And assuming the hex, once assembled, would even work.
“Show me,” he said.
Less than an hour later, Sam stood over the completed hex. Even though the intricate nest of symbols was inscribed on a flat sheet of paper, to his witch’s sense it felt like a deep well begging to be filled with magic.
They’d done it.
“Well?” Doc asked. “Can you tell if it does anything?”
Sam nodded slowly. “Yes. It almost feels…alive.”
“Really?” He seemed nonplussed. “I hadn’t expected that. Is that normal?”
It wasn’t, but that was neither here nor there. “How do we use it? You’ve put the entire ritual together?”
“And translated it to English, yes.” Doc picked up a sheet of paper with neatly printed instructions on it.
“The hex should be painted on linen shrouds and placed atop the bodies. And the Aten Disc isn’t just an instruction manual for the hex—it must be the focus of magic, and needs to catch the sun’s rays as it rises.
” He hesitated, glancing at Sam. “But this is all just theoretical, right? It couldn’t possibly work. ”
Sam should be feeling triumphant, but instead his chest was tight, his breath shallow. The hex felt different than any other he’d worked on. Most were simply inert containers; this one seemed almost as if it wanted to be filled.
He was tired, that was all. “I think it might,” he told Doc, because why not be honest? “I need to go tell Mr. Sullivan. He’ll be at the viewing for Eddie Bellinowski, or maybe at the wake.”
“Oh.” Doc looked around, unsure. “So we’re done here?”
Sam nodded. “You’re free to go.”
“Right.” Still he hesitated. “Listen, I assume Mr. Sullivan will do something with all this stuff, probably melt it down or sell it. I don’t want to contemplate it, frankly.
Do you think…can I stay here a bit longer?
I want to open Neferneferuaten’s coffin.
Just…just see her face, even if I can never actually study her mummy. ”
Sam recalled Doc’s expression of longing the day they’d opened the crate holding the pharaoh’s earthly remains. “Of course. I’ll have Mr. Paladino let the guards know.”
“Thanks. And you don’t have to worry about me making off with anything—it would be more than my life’s worth to cross Sullivan like that.”
It hadn’t even occurred to Sam, though it probably should have, especially after Luke’s betrayal. Maybe he really wasn’t cut out for the criminal life.
Too late now. “They’ll probably ask to search you anyway,” he said. “So don’t take it personally.”
“I won’t.” Doc hesitated. “So, I suppose this is goodbye. I won’t be seeing you again.”
“Right.” It was a shame—in other, better circumstances they might have become friends. Sam stuck out his hand. “It was a pleasure working with you.”
Doc shook it. “If I had to do this, I’m glad it was with you. Good luck, Sam. I think you’re going to need it.”
* * *
The viewing of Bellinowski’s body was still going on when Paladino pulled the car up.
A throng of people were coming and going from the Panek Funeral Home even at almost ten o’clock.
Either Bellinowski had a lot of friends, or people were putting in an appearance because they knew Sullivan would be there. Probably a bit of both.
Sam silently cursed when he realized he wasn’t really dressed for such a solemn occasion. He’d been so eager to go straight to Sullivan with the news, he hadn’t even thought to stop by the house first to change.
Well, at least he looked respectable—no ink stains on his shoes, and if he kept his coat buttoned up it would hide the comfortable old sweater he had on underneath. He brushed lint off his cap as they climbed out of the car, then settled it on his curls.
“I’d like to pay my respects,” Paladino said as they walked to the entrance.
“Of course.” Sam hesitated, unsure if he should ask. “Were you close?”
Paladino contemplated for a long moment. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said at last. “But he was a good boss. Never risked a man’s life without need.”
Which was probably about as much as you could hope for when it came to someone in Bellinowski’s line of work. “He seemed like a good man,” Sam lied, and got a nod of what seemed like genuine agreement from Paladino.
The viewing room was just inside the entrance; both it and the hall outside were jammed with people. A man in a dark suit that was just a touch more formal than everyone else’s hovered just inside the door; when they entered, he said, “The Bellinowski viewing? My condolences on your loss.”
“Uh, thanks,” Sam said. “Do you know if Mr. Sullivan is here? I need to speak with him.”
“Down the hall to the right, in the chapel.”
While Paladino got in the viewing line, Sam eased through the crowd, which petered out the farther down the hall he went.
Several large men loitered outside the chapel entrance, no doubt to keep away anyone who didn’t have a legitimate reason to talk to Sullivan tonight.
They seemed to recognize him, as they simply tipped their hats and let him pass through and into the chapel.
Sullivan and Turner sat alone in one of the front pews. As Sam approached, Turner craned his head around. “Choirboy—I’m glad you could make it. Have you seen Eddie yet?”
“Not yet.”
“They did a real good job on him. Top-notch.”
Bellinowski had been shot three times in the head—no doubt there had been a lot of repair work needed to have an open casket. “I’m going to pay my respects as soon as I talk to Mr. Sullivan.”
Turner frowned. “This isn’t a time for business,” he started, but Sullivan held up his hand.
“This isn’t business the way you’re thinking, Lenny,” he said. “Can you step out for a moment? I’d like to talk to Sam alone.”
“Sure thing.” Turner rose, though he looked troubled, and departed without protest.
Sam took his place; the pew was warm from Turner’s body heat.
Sullivan didn’t look at him, but kept his image fixed on the cross on the wall.
It was a simple thing of polished wood, inoffensive to the various Christian denominations that might use the funeral home’s services.
It was no comfort to Sam; he’d heard too much preaching about damnation in his life.
The God of the church he’d been raised in was his own parents writ large, constantly on the alert for the slightest slip to justify an eternity in hell.
Sullivan didn’t seem to feel the same way; maybe his church had been different. Perhaps God was kinder when you had the Holy Familiar of Christ to intercede on your behalf.
“We’re done,” he said, when Sullivan didn’t speak. “Doc and I, I mean.”
“And you have what we need?” Was there a slight tremble in Sullivan’s voice, breaking through his control?
Sam couldn’t imagine how he felt, with the possibility of restoring his child to life dangling in front of him. The despair that would come crashing down if it turned out to be impossible.
“Yes.”
At that simple word, Sullivan closed his eyes. When he opened them again, tears shimmered in the candlelight, though they didn’t fall. “I want everything in place and ready to go the moment I give the word. What do you need?”
“A bolt of linen to draw the hexes on. And enough familiars to power it, once the time comes. And the…the body, of course.”
Sullivan nodded. “I remember. The cloth will be waiting for you first thing in the morning at the hexworks. Say your good-byes to Eddie tonight, because I want you at work as early as possible.”
Sam hadn’t particularly wanted to go to the funeral anyway. “Yes, sir.”
“And Sam…” Sullivan turned to him at last, holding out his hand.
When Sam went to shake it, Sullivan clasped his hand in both of his own instead.
“Thank you,” he said with feeling. “You’re doing me a greater service than anyone else ever has.
I’ll never forget it. And don’t worry—I haven’t forgotten your family. Make three hexes to begin with.”
Sam’s throat tightened. It was happening—he was on the precipice of fixing everything. Sullivan would be happy, his family would be happy.
He had to focus on that. Nothing else mattered.