The Hellfire Club, Part Three

At 8:30 we were parked in Rachel’s Prius outside the Keeler house. I slipped the ring on my finger. It dangled, but I figured I could hold it tight.

            Bering had lent it to me. I still didn’t want to touch the one that Mathis had worn. Bering had seemed rattled when I told him about Linda Niles, so he agreed to let me borrow his ring for the night—"as long as you don’t tell anyone where you got it.” He gave me some tips on getting inside.

            “Okay.” My mouth was dry. “This may take a few hours. Last month I was here until 3 a.m.”

            Rachel gazed through the window. Her hand clutched the steering wheel, twitching. “There’s a lot of energy zipping through there. Be careful.”

            “Careful? Me?” I swallowed some water. “Always.”

            She slugged my shoulder. “I’ve got pepper spray and my stun gun. Stay there too long and I’m coming in. And maybe calling a SWAT team.”

            I trusted Rachel more than any SWAT team. “Here goes.” I opened the door.

            “I swear, if you get sick and die—”

            I shut the door. Rachel flicked her middle finger at me.

            I grinned. Love you too.

            Then I went up the stairs to the house.

            I rang the bell. A tall man with thick shoulders looked me up and down. “Yes?”

            “Hi!” I showed him my ring. “I’m Tom Watson. I heard there was a meeting tonight. I’m from California.”

            He peered at the ring’s emblem. Then he shook my hand. “Welcome. I’m Clark Demmons.”

            Inside he led me down a hall toward the sound of quiet music and the glow of soft light. He opened a door.

Stepping through the doorway felt like walking across a narrow bridge swinging over a deep gorge. I blinked, dizzy for a moment. After a moment my eyes focused again, and I looked around.

            The music came from a harpsichord—yes, an actual harpsichord, played by a midget on a stool, wearing a top hat. The glow came from candles in three high chandeliers and sconces on the walls.

It was all very mid-Victorian. A dozen men and a few women stood in the center of the room talking quietly. Some sat in big leather armchairs and sofas, smoking cigars and drinking from thick-cut crystal glasses. A long oriental rug covered most of a hardwood floor. Bookcases and cabinets lined the walls, and a painting of a fox hunt in a green and grey countryside hung over a massive fireplace.

I felt as if I’d gone back in time, aside from the sight of some club members talking on their smartphones and the flatscreen TV on the wall opposite the painting.

Demmons led me to a man in a cable-knit sweater. He had a thick black beard and narrow gray eyes. “This is Terence Keeler. Terence, Tom Watson.”

I wished I had enough confidence in my phony British accent to disguise my voice. I’d have to gamble that he wouldn’t remember me from the phone call. We shook hands.

“Tom’s from California.” Demmons smiled.

“I, ah, haven’t actually been to many of these things.” I looked around. “I’m just in town on business and I thought I’d check it out when I figured out it was tonight.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.” He patted my shoulder. “Of course, you know that we take confidentiality very seriously. That’s why all we require is a ring for entrance. Could I see yours?”

I held my hand up. “Oh. You want me to take it off?” Maybe he could identify its real owner? I’d hate to get kicked out—or worse—within five minutes.

“No.” He rubbed his finger over the surface. “I just want to make sure it’s legitimate. No offense. We sometimes get—outsiders.”

 “Sure.” I shrugged. “I’m just here to check the place out.”

“Well, enjoy yourself. Get a drink.” He pointed to a table filled with bottles in the corner of the room. “The discussion will start soon.”

“What’s tonight’s topic?”

He smiled. “You’ll see.”

I got myself a drink—soda water and a lime—and looked around for someone to talk to. Almost immediately a guy in jeans and a corduroy blazer turned from the two women he was talking to and asked me, “You—what’s your take on Nietzsche?”

I thought for a moment. “I liked his first few albums, but he went downhill after giving up cocaine.”

One of the women laughed. The guy looked pissed.

I held out a hand. “Hi. Tom Watson.”

His name was Gary. No last name. The woman who’d laughed was Liz Ray. She had blonde hair, almost silver, and she looked close to my age. I didn’t catch the other woman’s name, but she was young—younger than Rachel—and she wore a short skirt that I tried not to check out too closely.

“I do think the will to power is an important concept.” It had been a long time since my philosophy class in college. “And Zarathustra is an interesting character for exploring ideas. But I haven’t really read any Nietzsche in a long time.”

“We were just talking about some of his themes in Beyond Good and Evil.” Liz Ray sipped her wine.

I nodded. “His best album.”

I moved on before Gary got mad.

Not all the conversations were about 19^th-century philosophers, fortunately. Some talked politics, others were more interested in the latest Avengers movie. A guy in a skinny necktie named Jason argued with a short redhaired woman and two men about best burritos in the city. “No,” he laughed, arguing you’ve got to try . . . “

I moved away and tried to mingle. I met Brian, who was into classic movies, and Cheryl who wanted to talk about modern art. Plus a guy named Isaac, who only wanted to talk about monkeys. He apparently volunteered at the zoo.

After an hour, two women pushed a cart into the room. It was filled with snacks—nuts, cheese, fruit, salmon . . .

“It’s about time for Tick and Tock,” Isaac murmured. “I’m getting hungry.”

Tick and Tock were naked. Mostly.

One was African-American, wearing a brief leather skirt and boots. The other was white, with long brown hair, in tight black shorts and sandals. They kept their faces to the floor, avoiding eye contact, and backed away from the cart as the guests began taking and filling china plates with food.

Tick and Tock—I didn’t know which one was which—weren’t groped or harassed. Keeler stood next to the fireplace, his arms folded, like a benevolent watchman protecting everyone.

I didn’t have any appetite. Others piled their plates high, as if they hadn’t eaten dinner—or as if they expected they wouldn’t get more to eat for a long time.

After a few minutes, when people were sitting down, the women pulled their cart to the side of the room and knelt on the rug submissively, their heads bowed.

The food seemed to be a signal for the next phase of the evening. I checked my phone for the time. 10:30. How it flies.

I was sitting next to Liz Ray. “What’s the topic for the evening?”

She shook her head. “Nobody knows. Have we met?”

Whoops. “I don’t think so. I’m from California.”

“Where?”

“San Francisco.” I’d been there on vacation. Once. Nine years ago. “I’m in insurance marketing.”

“Oh.” She went back to her salmon. Anything with “insurance” usually shuts people right down.

Keeler stepped forward. The midget at the harpsichord stopped playing. He’d been at it for hours—his fingers must have been exhausted.

The guests applauded. The midget stood, lifted his hat to reveal a completely bald scalp, and took a bow. If he was tired from an hour of more of playing the harpsichord, he managed a smile nonetheless. Then he sank back down onto his stool.

“Hi,  there.” Keeler smiled. “It’s time to get started. First we have a new guest tonight. Tom Watson. From the club in California. Tom?”

Uh-oh. I stood up and waved. “Hi, everyone. Thanks for having me.”

“Hi, Tom!” It was like an AA meeting. I smiled. Then I sat down.

“Welcome, Tom.” Keeler leaned back. “We’ve all had good stimulating talks, I know. Now let’s stimulate something else.”

The door opened again, and three people walked in. Two white women, one thin African American man. All completely nude.

The midget changed his tempo to something soft and sensual. The trio began to dance.

At first they danced separately, then joined together, then split up, then joined again. Stroking each other, kissing, then backing away to start over again. Not exactly a lap dance at a strip club, but not the Bolshoi Ballet either.

People around the room stirred. I saw Gary put his hand on the leg of the girl who’d been part of his Nietzsche group. She put her hand on his and shivered.

Fortunately Liz Ray didn’t make any kind of move on me. I bit my lip and wondered how I was going to explain any of this Rachel without getting punched.

After a few minutes the dancers sank to the floor, their arms and legs twisted around each other.

Keeler strode forward. “Your bodies are stimulated. Now the discussion for the evening, exciting your minds. The subject: What should be done about traitors?”

Uh, what? The room was silent.

“Clubs like this depend on confidentiality.” Keeler walked forward. “We welcome members from anywhere, but we need to keep our discussions private. We all agree on that. For our freedom.”

I glanced over my shoulder. The door was 20 feet away. But Demmons stood there as if guarding it.

            Keeler pointed a finger. “Gary. You’ve been blogging.”

            Gary snatched his hand from the woman’s leg. “What? I haven’t—”

            Keeler reached into his pocket. “Take a look.”

            The TV flared on behind us. I turned. Everyone turned. Only the naked dancers stayed in position, frozen on the floor.

            Keeler pressed buttons on his remote. “Here. Look at this—”

            G-BLOG. The title at the top of the screen was in green on a dark gray background.

            The date of the blog post was one month ago. The night after I’d tailed Roger Mathis here.

            The title? LAST NIGHT’S CLUB.

Sick today. Throwing up all night. But worth it. Total RIOT. First the sacrifice. Then the fest. I don’t even remember all of it, except for one woman named Eliza. Couldn’t get enough of me. Now I’m sick. But I don’t care. Good club.

            “That’s my private blog!” Gary’s voice trembled. “Only my friends see it. And I didn’t really say anything—nothing anyone could identify.

            “This is the discussion.” Keeler shut the screen off. “Should Gary be tonight’s sacrifice?”

            Sacrifice? I glanced around the room. What were we doing here?

            The discussion last half an hour. Some defended Gary—“He doesn’t use our name,” said Justin, the burrito king. “He could he talking about a nightclub.” Others denounced him. “The rules are pretty clear,” Liz Ray said without looking at Gary. “We have to have trust that all this—” She spread her hands across the room—“will remain private.”

            In the end, the room voted against Gary.

            “All right.” Keeler rubbed his hands. “Center of the room. You know the routine.”

            Gary walked to the center of the oriental rug. Nervous—but not terrified. “Okay. I’m ready. What is it this time?”

            “Let’s light this up.” Keeler snapped his fingers on the hand with his ring.

            Gary burst into flame.

            He screamed. Liz laughed. People applauded. The naked performers watched, stone faced. I sat stiff, cursing myself for doing nothing. It felt wrong to just sit and watch.

I don’t know what I could have done. But I didn’t want to become a sacrifice myself.

Gary stood like a burning torch, teetering back and forth as the flames burned hot and white.

After 60 seconds or so, Keeler snapped his fingers again, and the flames died.

Gary tumbled to the rug, moaning and squirming. But his clothes were unharmed, and his face and hands showed no signs of burns. Neither did the rug.

Two of the nude performers—the females—knelt on either side of Gary and murmured to him, stroking his body. Then she began unbuttoning his shirt and loosening his belt.

Okay. So the “sacrifice” didn’t actually kill anyone. Good. It did involve a certain amount of excruciating pain. Not so good.

I nudged Liz. “Is it always burning?”

She laughed. “Sometimes it’s hanging. Or beheading. But no one gets killed. What do they do at your club?”

“I don’t think I’ve seen a beheading.” The thought made me want to run, but Demmons was still close to the door. “What about getting sick? Some of my friends have gotten sick the day after. One of them almost died.”

“All the magic running through the room can make some kind of, I don’t know, allergic reaction? I think the rings are supposed to absorb it or something, so it doesn’t get inside your body, but sometimes there’s just too much. I guess.” She shrugged. “I don’t really know. I’ve gotten sick once or twice, but it felt like the flu.”

That might explain what had happened to Roger Mathis. And Linda Niles. Except they’d died.

“The sacrifice is finished.” Keeler spread his arms like a priest announcing the end of the mass. “The fest can start. Ozzie?”

The midget—Ozzie?—lifted a steel brazier just like the one from Dean Lutz’s Facebook i-picture from a cabinet, and carried it to the center of the room. A small pile of wood chips sat in the bottom, and a metal bowl hung from the upper rungs.

The two nude women brought out small cups from the lower shelf of the snack cart. One cup held sticks that smelled like incense. The other brimmed with some kind of oil. They poured the sticks and oil into the bowl and then stepped back, bowing and kneeling again.

Ozzie stepped forward, a cheap cigarette lighter in his hand.

The wood chips must have been coated with lighter fluid. The flames sprang up instantly, smoke rising toward the ceiling. I hoped Keeler had fans installed somewhere—although I couldn’t see any vents overhead.

The performers, along with Tick and Tock, began dancing again, along with the nude male performer. They brushed their bodies together.

The rest of the guests began to disrobe.

Uh-oh. I looked at Liz. Then I looked away from her. Unfortunately, my eyes settled on the redhaired woman pulling off her sweater with the help of an enthusiastic Jason next to her.

What the hell? I’d spent a day with Rachel at a nudist colony a few weeks before, so I didn’t mind naked bodies. I wasn’t ready for a full-on orgy, though. Plus, Rachel would kill me.

Liz Ray pulled at my hand, smiling at me.

I stood up. “Sorry.” I shook my head. “Jet lag. I’d better—”

But then Demmons was next to me. “Terence would like to talk to you privately.”

Uh-oh again. This might be my chance to get some answers. It might also be my chance to become a bonus sacrifice for the night.

“I really have to go. I have an early morning tomorrow—”

“Let’s do this quietly.” Keeler, next to Demmons. “It won’t take long.”