Darkfall

exhilaration in the murder of the very young.
    He licked his lips.
    The sound issuing from the pit-the distant susurration that seemed to be composed of tens of thousands of hissing, whispering voices- grew slightly louder when the photographs were suspended where Lavelle wanted them. And there was a new, disquieting tone to the whispers, as well: not merely anger; not just a note of menace; it was an elusive quality that, somehow, spoke of monstrous needs, of a hideous voracity, of blood and perversion, the sound of a dark and insatiable hunger .
    Lavelle stripped out of his clothes.
    Fondling his genitals, he recited a short prayer.
    He was ready to begin.
    To the left of the shed door stood five large copper bowls. Each contained a different substance: white flour, corn meal, red brick powder, powdered charcoal, and powdered tannis root. Scooping up a handful of the red brick powder, allowing it to dribble in a measured flow from one end of his cupped hand, Lavelle began to draw an intricate design on the floor along the northern flank of the pit.
    This design was called a včvč , and it represented the figure and power of an astral force. There were hundreds of včvčs that a Houngon or a Bocor must know. Through the drawing of several appropriate včvčs prior to the start of a ritual, the priest was forcing the attention of the gods to the Oumphor , the temple, where the rites were to be conducted. The včvč had to be drawn freehand, without the assistance of a stencil and most certainly without the guidance of a preliminary sketch scratched in the earth; nevertheless, though done freehand, the včvč had to be symmetrical and properly proportioned if it were to have any effect. The creation of the včvčs required much practice, a sensitive and agile hand, and a keen eye.
    Lavelle scooped up a second handful of red brick powder and continued his work. In a few minutes he had drawn the včvč that represented Simbi Y-An-Kitha, one of the dark gods of Pétro :
    [Illustration #1]
    He scrubbed his hand on a clean dry towel, ridding himself of most of the brick dust. He scooped up a handful of flour and began to draw another včvč along the southern flank of the pit. This pattern was much different from the first.
    In all, he drew four intricate designs, one on each side of the pit. The third was rendered in charcoal powder. The fourth was done with powdered tannis root.
    Then, careful not to disturb the včvčs , he crouched, naked, at the edge of the pit.
    He stared down.
    Down…
    The floor of the pit shifted, boiled, changed, swirled, oozed, drew close, pulsed, receded. Lavelle had placed no fire or light of any kind inside the hole, yet it glowed and flickered. At first the floor of the pit was only three feet away, just as he had made it. But the longer he stared, the deeper it seemed to become. Now thirty feet instead of three. Now three hundred. Now three miles deep. Now as deep as the center of the earth itself. And deeper, still deeper, deeper than the distance to the moon, the stars, deeper than the distance to the edge of the universe.
    When the bottom of the pit had receded to infinity, Lavelle stood up. He broke into a five-note song, a repetitive chant of destruction and death, and he began the ritual by urinating on the photographs that he had strung on the cord.
    VII
    In the squad car.
    The hiss and crackle of the police-band radio.
    Headed downtown. Toward the office.
    Chain-rigged tires singing on the pavement.
    Snowflakes colliding soundlessly with the windshield. The wipers thumping with metronomic monotony.
    Nick Iervolino, the uniformed officer behind the wheel, startled Jack out of a near-trance: “You don’t have to worry about my driving, Lieutenant.”
    “I’m sure I don’t,” Jack said.
    “Been driving a patrol car for twelve years and never had an accident.”
    “Is that right?”
    “Never even put a scratch on one of my cars.”
    “Congratulations.”
    “Snow, rain, sleet-nothing bothers me. Never have the least little trouble handling a car. It’s a sort of talent. Don’t know where I get it from. My mother doesn’t drive. My old man does, but he’s one of the worst you’ve ever seen. Scares hell out of me to ride with him. But me-I have a knack for handling a car. So don’t worry.”
    “I’m not worried,” Jack assured him.
    “You sure seemed worried.”
    “How’s that?”
    “You were grinding the hell out of your teeth.”
    “Was I?”
    “I expected to