powder, powdered charcoal, and powdered tennis 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 veve, and it represented the figure and power
of an astral force. There were hundreds of veves that a Houngon or a
Bocor must know.
Through the drawing of several appropriate veves 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 veve 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 veve had to be symmetrical and
properly proportioned if it were to have any effect. The creation of
the veves 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 veve that represented Simbi
Y-An-Kitha, one of the dark gods of Petro:
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 veve 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 tennis root.
Then, careful not to disturb the veves, 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 umverse.
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
hehad strung on the cord.
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 lervolino, 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 hear your molars start cracking apart any second.
“I wasn’t aware of it. But believe me, I’m not worried about your
driving.”
They were approaching an intersection where half a dozen cars were
angled everywhichway, spinning their tires in the snow, trying to get
reoriented or at least out of the way. Nick lervolino braked slowly,
cautiously, until they were traveling at a crawl, then found a snaky