Black Magic Woman (32 page)

As they passed, Morris could see that each denim jacket bore the same emblem: a stylized skull with blood dripping from the eye sockets. Atop the image, gothic-style lettering spelled out "Hell's Angels," and underneath the skull was added: "For Fuckin' Real."

As the last skeletal biker rode by, he turned a fleshless face toward Morris and yelled, "See ya in Salem, motherfucker!"

Then, almost casually, he tossed an open can of beer at Morris's windshield.

The almost-full can hit the glass with a sharp "crack" and bounced off, spewing foaming Budweiser all over Morris's field of vision. He swerved the car instinctively to the right, which caused it to skid. Morris took his foot off the gas, but had the sense not to touch the brake pedal. The Olds veered off the road, onto the shoulder, and hit the guardrail a glancing blow. Morris overcorrected, which brought the car back across the road and into the left lane. He still did not brake, but inertia and engine compression were slowing the car now, and he was able to regain control, thanking his stars that no other traffic had been coming up right behind him.

He eased the Olds into the right lane and then finally applied the brake, bringing the car to a gentle stop on the right shoulder.

He sat there for several minutes, waiting for his heart to return to something like its normal rate. He did not bother to look down the road to see if there was actually a pack of outlaw bikers receding in the distance. It didn't matter, really. If he needed evidence that he hadn't imagined it all, the thin crack in the windshield would do nicely, along with the splattered film of beer that was already drying across its surface.

After a while, he got out and went around to the passenger's side. Sure enough, the impact with the guardrail had left a good-sized dent in the door and messed up the paint badly. Morris found himself wondering how he was going to explain this to the folks at Avis, but then gave a mental shrug. In his situation, worrying about cosmetic damage to the Olds was like Custer at Little Big Horn fretting about grass stains on his buckskins.

Since the customer ahead of him seemed to having some trouble getting his credit card approved, Morris reached over and plucked the
Times
from the rack, wondering if it had a story about the attack that morning that had nearly cost him and Libby Chastain their lives.

He didn't find any mention of what he was looking for. Instead, on the front page of the Metro section, he saw: "Patient Raped, Murdered in Hospital ICU."

Morris felt his heart start to thud against his chest wall even before he read, "Elizabeth Chastain, 34, of Washington Square, was sexually assaulted and murdered in the Intensive Care Unit of Cedar Sinai Medical Center earlier today…A hospital spokesman confirmed that Ms. Chastain had been brought in to the hospital as an emergency room patient several hours—"

"But if we're stopped, you still have your FBI credentials to show," Van Dreenan said. "That should get us out of trouble." He held the locator steady on the lid of his briefcase, and it was pointing straight ahead.

"Yeah, but getting cleared would take time. He'd want to know why I'm in a civilian car for starters. Then, after I explained that, he'd have to radio my name and badge number in to his barracks, who would call the local FBI field office, Boston I suppose, who might well decide to contact Behavioral Science at Quantico to make sure I was legit. Christ only knows how long all that palaver would delay us."

"Well, we could always just shoot him."

Fenton looked at Van Dreenan without turning his head. "I'm going to have to watch out for that sense of humor of yours."

"Always assuming I was joking," Van Dreenan said with a tiny smile.

"Yeah, assuming that. No, we're better off keeping it at seventy, which is more or less within the legal limit. Just let me know as soon as that pointer starts moving again."

They were approaching the exit for someplace called Peabody when it did.

"Pointer's moved!" Van Dreenan said. It's at two o'clock now. Best take this exit coming up."

"Right, got it." Fenton put on his turn signal and began to move into the right lane.

As they made the turn off Route 95, Fenton said, "What do we do when we hit the end of the ramp?"

"Let us hope the device will answer that for us." Van Dreenan said. His voice had grown tight with tension, and he kept fiddling with the clasps of his briefcase.

"Well, it fuckin' well better."

It did. The sharpened stick moved smoothly to the left, sending them north along Route 128. Fenton brought the speed down to forty-five, out of concern for both safety and the local cops.

They had just passed the Northshore Mall on their left when the indicator turned to the right again.

"Take the next exit," Van Dreenan said.

"Gotcha."

A few minutes later, van Dreenan muttered, "Gott!"

"What? What's up?"

"Did you see the sign?"

"Which one?"

"Salem, 3 miles."

"Well, fuck me," Fenton said softly. Then, more loudly: "You don't suppose—"

"Yes, I do suppose. I suppose very much that this is not mere chance."

They were on something called Peabody Avenue now, but soon the indicator moved again, sending them on a turn into Marlborough Road. The indicator continued to point ahead, but now it was vibrating softly.

Fenton glanced over and noticed the sudden oscillation. "What's it doing that for?"

"It means they're close," Van Dreenan said, and flicked open the clasps of his briefcase. Putting the locator aside for a moment, he raised the lid and rummaged inside. He removed several objects, closed the case up again, and put the locator back in place.

Van Dreenan suddenly leaned toward Fenton. "Hold still!" he said, and raised his hands over Fenton's head. A moment later, he withdrew and Fenton realized that Van Dreenan had placed around his neck a leather thong with something hanging from it. He grasped the small object now resting against his chest and raised it to eye level.

It was the tooth of a large animal, the tip still sharp. Some odd-looking symbols were painted on it in red. Fenton looked over at Van Dreenan, and saw that the South African had just put on what appeared to be an identical necklace.

"What the fuck is this?" Fenton asked.

"An amulet, made of a lion's tooth. Blessed by a very powerful
sangoma.
"

"What's the point?"

"It will protect us from her magic. Maybe."

"Oh, man, for Christ's sake—"

"Just leave it in place, will you? It is no more insane than chasing all over creation because a magical stick tells you to, is it?"

"Well, when you put it like that…"

"We're coming to an intersection," Van Dreenan said. "Be ready to turn."

"Which way?"

"I'll tell you. Wait for it."

As soon as they reached the end of Marlborough Road, the pointer moved again. "Left!" Van Dreenan said. "Turn left here!"

Fenton made the turn, then picked up speed. The area appeared to be semi-rural, the houses they passed few and far apart. Soon, he could see another vehicle ahead of them. They were gaining on it, and Fenton hoped the road would remain straight enough let him pass them when the time came.

"Fenton! Does that car ahead look familiar to you? From a certain videotape?"

Fenton flicked on the high beams. "Sweet Christ, it's a fucking Continental! Can you make out the color?"

Van Dreenan spoke again a few seconds later, but this time his voice was quiet and calm. "Unless I am very much mistaken," he said, "it is British racing green."

The teenager behind the counter had finally finished with his other customer. "Gas," he said again. "Ain't that blue Olds yours? The one at number four?"

Morris stepped forward, trying to focus on what he was supposed to be doing. "Uh, yeah, sure. That's me. What do I owe you?"

"Thirty-two eighty-five. Plus another dollar for that paper, if you're plannin' on buyin' it."

Morris ignored the sarcasm and reached for his wallet with an unsteady hand.
Libby, oh dear Jesus, I'm sorry. It's all my fault for dragging you into this fucking mess in the first place.

Then the small part of his mind that was not reeling with shock and grief came up with an interesting fact and presented it to his forebrain for inspection:

The New York Times is a morning paper.

Which meant that something newsworthy happening in mid-afternoon, which was when Morris left Libby Chastain's bedside, is not going to show up in the
Times
until the next day's edition. It just wasn't possible.

Morris pocketed his change and looked at the teenage attendant. "Listen, could you do me a favor real quick?" He folded the Metro section in half and held it out. "Could you just read me the headline on this story right here? Just this one."

The attendant glanced at the paper, then looked up suspiciously. "You can't read, then what the hell you buyin' the paper for?"

"I can read. It's just that I'm dyslexic."

"What's that mean?"

"It means I have trouble understanding what I read sometimes, that's all."

"Look, man, I'm tryin' to run a business here, ya know?"

Morris glanced around the store. They were the only two people in the place.

He pulled out his wallet again and tossed a twenty on the counter. "That ought to make it worth your time."

The bill disappeared so fast it might never have been there at all. "This story right here, you mean?"

Morris nodded.

"It says, 'Mayor Opposes New Bond Initiative, Threatens Veto.'" He had trouble pronouncing "initiative."

Morris let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. "Thanks," he said, and turned away.

"Hey," the attendant called, "don't you want your paper?"

"Keep it," Morris said from the door. "Maybe there's comics in there somewhere."

Cecelia Mbwato turned and looked back, but only for a moment. "Trouble," she said, and reached down for her bag.

"That Connie's way heavier than we are, man. I try that, he'll most likely run
us
off the road."

"Just bring us as close as you can, then" Van Dreenan said, his voice icily calm. "Let us see what develops."

"Jesus, what are you doing?"

"Just drive!" she snapped, and flung the handful of powder out straight up into the night air.