Chapter Fourteen
An awkward silence prevailed.
Connie sipped her coffee. She set down the cup. “So, can we talk to the band or not?”
“I will ask them,” Kaspar said. “I am only the manager.”
“I was under the impression that the manager managed the band’s appearances, including the press,” St. James said.
Kaspar looked at him with a hint of mischief. “Not in this case. They are the bosses.”
“How’d you hook up with them, anyway?” St. James said.
“I answered an ad on Craigslist. ‘Manager needed for heavy metal band.’” Kaspar seemed to take delight in the blatant lie, smiling broadly. “Listen. You come to the show. See the band perform. That is what they are all about. Maybe afterwards, we’ll see.”
“That’s what you said last time,” St. James reminded him.
“This time,” Kaspar said, “I hope to do a better job.”
Connie saw the dart pass between them. She put her hand on St. James’ arm. “Come on. Let’s go find dinner someplace. We’ll come back for the show.”
St. James and Connie stood and made their way toward the entrance. St. James retrieved his guitar case from behind the desk, and they walked out into the late afternoon, traffic moved in orderly fashion on the broad boulevard, trees from a park visible to their right. The avenue was rife with clubs and restaurants. They decided to walk. They made an odd couple, the hippie with his guitar case and the cover girl reporter in her pink sweater and trench coat.
The sidewalks were filled with well-dressed students, business persons, and hausfraus availing themselves of the June weather. Connie stopped at each restaurant and read the menu aloud. As she began to recite the seafood selections, St. James felt someone’s gaze on the back of his head, but when he turned, no one stood out. People everywhere.
“This looks suitably fancy,” Connie said. “Don’t worry—it’s all on In Crowd.”
St. James followed her into the restaurant modeled on a bierskellar from the thirties, with white-washed walls, heavy exposed beams, and thick with the smell of heavy food. As the smiling hostess approached, the door opened behind them, admitting a whiff of dust that reminded St. James of a university library.
“Mr. St. James?”
St. James turned. The man was about 5’5” with a troll’s long white beard, rotund belly, and round wire-rimmed glasses, toting a Gladstone that threatened to explode. Parts of his beard were braided with beads. Colored threads had been woven into the beard as well. He wore tweedy pants, a dark brown sweater and a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows. St. James experienced a moment of déjàvu and was about to dismiss it when an image snapped into focus. He had seen this man before—at the Phoenix Club.
“You were there,” St. James said.
“Indeed, sir. We need to speak.”
The hostess cleared her throat. “How many please?”
St. James glanced at Connie. “Three,” she said.
The trio awkwardly followed the hostess to a booth with expansive screening boards decorated with a painting of mounted noblemen and hounds pursuing a stag so that the effect was semi-private. Connie and St. James took one side, the troll the other. He heaved his bursting Gladstone onto the bench next to him.
“I am Lothar Klapp. Please forgive my intruding like this, but it is of the utmost importance that we speak.”
St. James watched Connie slip a tiny recorder from her bag, turn it on, take a napkin, wipe her mouth, then casually place the napkin on the table in front of her with the recorder underneath.
“About?” St. James prompted.
Klapp leaned forward clasping his hands on the table. “The Banshees. I fear they are the real thing, and their appearance portends a new Dark Age.”
Connie poked St. James below the table with her elbow. “How is that possible?”
“Until recently, I was Professor Emeritus of Medieval History at the University of Dusseldorf. I specialize in ancient religions including Druidism and Satanism and the nexus between the two. I have always been interested in the Banshees. I saw them several times when I was a young man. I noted then the use of certain Druidic rituals and phrases in their music.
“As you know, Paddy, Oaian, and Cunar met at Sidcup Art College in ’72 and shared their interest in rock and the occult. Burke Melchior heard them at the Quonset in Sudbury and signed them. Under Burke’s direction, the Banshees recorded Beat the Manshees. There were rumors that Melchior was secretly in love with Paddy. Satan worship. Blood sacrifice. Churches burned their records. And the churches in turn burned.”
“There were rumors that me old man deliberately smashed his Jaguar to kill me mother, too,” St. James said softly.
“I have heard that, too. I enjoyed your first record very much.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s so important, Mr. Klapp?” Connie said.
“Actually, it is Professor Klapp. I was quite obsessed with the Banshees as a young man, and their music has continued to haunt me through the years. I spent a summer sabbatical in Dunkeld in Scotland.”
“Paddy’s home town,” St. James said.
“Ja, Paddy’s home town. And do you know what else is there?”
“The moors?” St. James said.
“There was a village called Rathkroghen, named after Laird Rathkroghen, a priest who sought to merge Druidism and Satanism through the sacrifice of children. He was a cult leader like Jim Jones or Charlie Manson who held his flock in thrall, choosing whichever women he wished, sacrificing his own children to sing the praises of his dark and evil god. He had a marvelous voice and his songs hypnotized people.”
Connie poked St. James again. This is good stuff!
An elderly gentleman in lederhosen approached to take their orders. Professor Klapp ordered the pork loin. Connie opted for a green salad. St. James ordered a beer, a Jägermeister, and knackwurst.
“That iss a good idea,” the professor said. “I, too, would like a beer undt Jägermeister.”
The waiter withdrew.
Connie leaned forward elbows on the table. “Please continue, Professor. We are in your thrall.”
“Having exhausted his own brood, Laird Rathkroghen sent his minions to abduct children from other villages. They slaughtered the children and made a sausage while Laird Rathkroghen sang. It was the sausage that granted him the dark power. It was the music that granted immortality. The children’s bones were made into flutes.”
Connie swallowed.
“This was not a new concept. Baal, too, demanded sacrifice of children. At the time,” Klapp continued, “six hundred years ago, there was really no way for news to spread except mouth to ear, and your average peasant did not travel far. The overwhelming majority of people in 17th century Scotland, indeed all of Europe, spent their entire lives within ten miles of their place of birth.
“Nevertheless someone, perhaps someone whose child had not been of Rathkroghen’s seed, fled to nearby Melchior, to petition Laird Melchior to do something.”
“Huh?” St. James said. “Any relation to Burke Melchior?”
Klapp held up a brat-like finger. “There is no doubt. Laird Melchior gathered a small army, and on a dark July night, they descended on Rathkroghen, putting Rathkroghen’s followers to the sword. Laird Rathkroghen was burned at the stake. He died singing. He sang a curse to the entire world.”
“Not so different from today, innit?”
“Lord Melchior tore down Castle Rathkroghen and used the stones to build his manor house. They say it was always cold, even in the heat of summer.”
Their drinks came. St. James drained half his stein and shot back the Jäger. Klapp did likewise. Connie sipped iced tea.
“I got a good look at them,” Klapp said. “They are the same band I remember as a young man.”
St. James wanted to circle his ear with a finger, but he didn’t want to offend the old man. “That’s a terrible story. Did you write it up?”
“Ja, ja, I write it up, and they deny me tenure! Did I mention I am also a Druid?”
“They denied you tenure because of your theory regarding Laird Rathkroghen?” Connie said.
Klapp nodded his head. “Ja. But that is not important. We must stop the Banshees from reaching America. If they reach America, there will be a terrible tragedy.”
Their food came. The waiter deposited a plate in front of St. James containing two steaming knackwurst and kraut. St. James stared at it wishing he’d ordered something else.
“So you’re saying,” Connie said, “that the Banshees are what? Representatives of Satan? Not human?”
“Do you believe in God?” Klapp said.
“No. I’m an atheist.”
“That is too bad. What about you, St. James? Do you believe in God?”
St. James scratched his head. “Jury’s still out on that one. I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m pretty certain this group is not the real Banshees.”
Klapp could not immediately respond as he was stuffing his face. He held up one finger and drained the rest of his beer. “Well, we’ll see tonight, won’t we? This time you won’t hover at the back of the room, will you? Do you think Oaian might know who you are?”
“I don’t see how,” St. James said, signaling the waiter for another round.
“Did you see the body the other night?”
“I saw it.”
“Did you know that after the release of Beat the Manshees, there was a death at every single Banshees appearance?”
“Really,” Connie said. “Why has no one mentioned that before?”
“One fellow fell off a speaker tower at the Isle of Wight. Another drove off a hairpin curve on his way home from the concert. Another was the victim of a hit-and-run accident, but because many of these events occurred after the concert, as people were on their way home, no one bothered to connect the dots.”
“So if you’re right,” Connie said, “someone is going to die tonight.”
“You said it, Fraulein. Not me. By the way, before I forget.” Klapp rummaged in his Gladstone and produced an ancient scratched CD case, Ian St. James: River of Blood. He opened the CD case and slid it across the table toward St. James along with a pen. “If you don’t mind. Please make it out to Professor Klapp.”
St. James smiled ironically as he signed the CD booklet. He had a fan.
The waiter brought another round of drinks. Klapp quickly drained his Jägermeister and pushed himself away from the table. “Thank you very much for the supper. I will see you tonight, nicht wahr?”
“Wait,” St. James said. “How do we get in touch with you?”
Klapp dipped into his tweedy jacket and handed St. James a card with his name, e-mail address, and cell phone number. Across the top was the embossed word ‘Druids’ in deep purple. “I play bass in a heavy metal band,” Klapp explained. “What is your phone number?”
St. James told him. Klapp entered it into his cell phone.
They watched the strange little man walk toward the front with a sailor’s gait, the heavy Gladstone causing him to tilt to the right.