Black Magic Woman (4 page)

"Not 'private investigator?'"

Morris shook his head. "That's a legal term, Mr. LaRue, and it's got a specific meaning under the law. The state of Texas, like most places, has pretty stiff requirements for a private investigator's license—you've got to show so many hours of law enforcement experience, and so on. I don't qualify for the license—but then, I can't say that I ever felt the need to."

"You don't advertise in the Yellow Pages, either." It was almost an accusation.

Morris smiled without showing any teeth. "No, I sure don't," he said evenly. "I doubt the phone book people have a category that would fit me very well. But there's quite a few folks out there in the world who know what I do. My clients mostly hear about me by word of mouth—as you did your own self. Or so I'm assuming."

Walter LaRue grunted softly in response. He was one of those big men who always seem untidy. His expensive gray suit had not known the touch of an iron for quite some time, the custom-made white button-down shirt had a button missing from one of the collar points, and LaRue's Hermes tie bore a small stain of what was almost certainly mustard. His hair, which was brown flecked with gray, was carelessly combed and unevenly parted.

In contrast, the slender, thirtyish man seated behind the big desk was carefully groomed and neatly dressed. Quincey Morris's black hair was combed back from his high forehead. His tropical-weight navy blue suit combined quality fabric with good tailoring. Although Morris didn't really care much about clothing, four years at Princeton had given him conservative good taste in attire. So, every January 2nd, he spent an hour online with the current catalogs from Brooks Brothers and Joseph A. Banks, ordering whatever he thought he might need for the coming year.

Quincey Morris may have been the only adult male Texan who had never owned a string tie.

After several moments of fidgety silence, LaRue said, "This is kind of… weird for me. I mean, six months ago, if you'd asked me to predict what I'd be doing today, most likely I'd say that I'd be at my desk in Madison, Wisconsin, running my software design firm. Sitting in Austin consulting a parapsychologist would have been pretty damn low on my list of possibilities."

"I'm not one of
them,
either, Mr. LaRue," Morris said patiently. "A parapsychologist—a real one, I mean, not one of the cranks or con artists—is a scientist, someone who studies the paranormal in an organized, controlled way. Now, I do try to keep up with the serious stuff as it's published. That's not hard to do, since there's so little of it. But I don't consider myself any kind of scientist."

"Then what
are
you?" LaRue asked with a frown.

"I suppose you could call me an interventionist, if you need to put a name on it. Let's say I've got a client who's experiencing some difficulty that he thinks is due to some supernatural entity." Morris shrugged. "That turns out to be the case, then sometimes I'm able to provide assistance."

"Only 'sometimes?'"

"Yep, afraid so. It all depends on the nature of the problem, and what the client expects in the way of a solution. For example, I've been asked more than once to raise the dead."

"Are you
serious?"

Another shrug. "The people who asked me were sure enough serious. But necromancy is not something that I practice—and I mean
never.
That kind of thing comes strictly under the heading of black magic. I don't perform black magic, and I don't mess around with those who do."

"So, what does that leave?" LaRue asked. "White magic? Do you perform that, whatever it is?"

"I've got some very limited skills in that area, Mr. LaRue. But I have several associates whose expertise in that area is far greater than mine. I call upon them, from time to time."

"Maybe you should put 'warlock' on your tax forms," LaRue suggested with a tiny smile.

"That'd be wrong, too," Morris said. "But maybe we'd be better off identifying
your
problem, Mr. LaRue. I assume you're looking for some sort of… intervention?"

"Yeah," LaRue said, nodding slowly. "I guess that's what I need, all right. If 'intervention' is a fancy way of saying, 'help, and a lot of it, and right away,' then it could be that's just what I need."

Morris made a slight gesture. "Go on."

"There are these—these
occurrences,
these
events
that have been happening to my family the last three months. My wife and kids are terrified, and if I wasn't such a big, tough he-man, I suppose I would be, too." The second cousin of a smile appeared on LaRue's haggard face, but only for a second. "And the thing is, it's getting worse. It was puzzling at first, then annoying, but now I think it means us harm."

Morris kept silent but nodded his understanding.

"There were little things, in the beginning," LaRue said. "Objects falling over when nobody's near them, a door closing by itself, stuff like that. You tell yourself that it's just the vibrations from truck traffic, or a breeze getting in through cracks in the foundation. It's easy to explain it away at first."

"But you're not trying to explain it away any more," Morris said quietly.

"No, not for the last couple of weeks. Because now I'm pretty sure it, whatever
it
is, wants to kill us."

"Explain what you mean, please. Be as specific as you can."

"Well, one evening last week my wife and I were in the kitchen putting dinner together when our big carving knife jumped out of the rack and buried its point in the cutting board I'd just been using. If I hadn't jerked away, it might've pinned my wrist right there, just like a pin through a bug in some kid's science project."

"Dangerous, for sure," Morris said, nodding. "And frightening. But not really life-threatening."

"No? Not
life-threatening?"
There was anger in LaRue's voice now. "Then how about last Saturday night? My daughter Sarah, eight years old, was having her bath while my wife stood a few feet away in front of the mirror, using her hair dryer. She swears the dryer just
flew
out of her hand, sailed through the air, and splashed down into the bathtub, which, I might remind you, contained one little girl, surrounded by a whole bunch of water." The voice was almost a snarl. "Is that
life-threatening
enough for you?
Is
it?"

Morris held up a hand, palm forward. "Please, Mr. LaRue, I wasn't trivializing your concern for your family's safety." His voice was calm, soothing. "I tend to categorize paranormal events, and sometimes I think out loud. I meant no offense."

LaRue took a couple of audible deep breaths. "No, listen, it's not you, I'm sorry. I'm just on edge a lot these days. Not your fault."

"Your daughter, was she—"

"No, she wasn't electrocuted. The hair dryer's got a short cord—maybe they make 'em deliberately short, I don't know— so just before reaching the tub it yanked its own plug out of the wall. Hell, Sarah was hardly upset by it at all, just surprised. That is, until her mother became hysterical, and I really can't say that I blame her."

Morris scratched his chin. "Any other incidents since the one involving the hair dryer?"

"No. At least, not since the last time I called home, which was…" LaRue checked his watch, "about forty-five minutes ago." He spent several seconds examining the nail on his right index finger, as if he found it the most fascinating object in the world. Then he sighed, a sound that seemed to come from the cellar of his soul. "But I figure it's only a matter of time until it happens again, and that could be the one that kills my daughter. Or my son, who's five. Or my wife. Or me."

LaRue's face twisted, and Morris was sure he was going to cry—an understandable reaction, all things considered. But the big man reestablished control quickly. He spent some time staring at the pattern in the carpet before he said, without looking up, "Please help us." The voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "Please."

"Of course," Morris said. "Of course I will. Are you flying home today?"

"Yeah, I want to get back as soon as I can. My flight leaves at 6:40 this evening."

"All right, then." Morris stood and came around the desk. "I've got preparations to make here, but I'll fly out tomorrow morning. Depending on the connections, I expect to be in Madison sometime in the afternoon. I want to spend some time in your home, with your family. I'll probably pester you with a lot of questions, and I'll need to see the rooms where these incidents have occurred. Then we'll figure out what needs to be done."

He placed his hand on Walter LaRue's big shoulder and squeezed, just for a moment. "And then we'll go and do it."

As Morris walked him to the door, Walter LaRue said, "There's one more thing I've been meaning to ask you. No big deal, just something I've been kicking around in my head while I try not to think about what could be happening at home."

"What's that, podner?" Morris said absently, as if part of his mind were elsewhere.

"I was a Computer Sci major in college—I know, big surprise—but they make you do a certain number of credits in Humanities as part of that stupid General Education stuff. So I took this course in Gothic Literature. Seemed more interesting than most of the other choices they had."

"Uh-huh." Morris knew what was coming now; it had happened before.

"Well, one of the books we had to read was
Dracula,
which I ended up liking more than I thought I would. Thing is, there was a character in there, one of the guys who helped hunt Dracula down and kill him. I guess this fella was supposed to be from Texas." LaRue was looking at him intently now. "And, you know, I'm pretty sure his name was Quincey Morris."

Morris's mouth formed a small, wry smile. "Yep, that's true. That was his name."

"So, what gives? I'm no English professor, but I understand the difference between fiction and what's real. This guy in the book was a made-up character, just like Dracula, or Van Helsing, or any of the rest of them, right?"

"Many folks would call him that, no doubt about it," Morris said. Neither his face nor his voice held much expression.

"But what about you? What would
you
call him?"

"Me? I'd call him my great-grandpa," Morris said. "Now, y'all have a safe trip home, and I'll see you in Madison tomorrow." Then politely, but firmly, he ushered LaRue out of his office and closed the door.

He took from the top drawer of his bureau a fireproof metal container a little bigger than a cigar box. Unlocking it, he carefully took out two envelopes, brown with age. From each one he gingerly drew out a multi-page letter, unfolded the brittle paper carefully, and placed the documents side by side on the bed in front of him.

He had thought more than once about photocopying these pages and placing the originals in a safe deposit box, but always rejected the idea. It was important that he handle
this
paper, that he re-read
these
words before going out on an investigation, especially if it promised to be difficult or dangerous. It helped remind him of what he was, and where he had come from.

He read each letter slowly. One was signed "John W. Seward, M.D." The other, written in a shaky, old man's hand, bore the signature "Abraham Van Helsing, M.D., D.Ph., D.Lit., etc."

It was these documents, along with the account given by Stoker, that had allowed the family to piece together the fate of the first Quincey Morris, who had fought and died in a place far from home.

Unlike his companions, the American had some experience taking a horse into battle, although the brightly dressed gypsies up ahead bore little resemblance to the Apaches he had fought in south Texas as a young man, almost twenty years earlier.

The gypsies' cart was slowing to a halt now, under the rifles of Mina and the Professor, who had been hiding in ambush behind some rocks near the entrance to the castle. But the gypsies, although stymied, showed no inclination to surrender. Dismounting, they produced knives from within their clothing and formed a protective cordon around the cart and the large, rectangular crate that it carried.

The sun had crept lower still.

The American rode up on the scene and was out of the saddle before his mount had stopped completely. He sprinted toward the gypsies' cart, drawing the huge Bowie from its sheath on his belt. He could see Harker rushing forward from the opposite side, waving that great kukri knife of his like a scythe.

The two of them attacked without hesitation. There was no time to parley with the gypsies, even if a common language could somehow be found. There were at most a few minutes of daylight left, and then
his
time would be on the world again.

The American fought savagely and by instinct, which is the only way to go up against odds with any chance of survival. Slash, parry, thrust, parry, slash, feint, slash, thrust, parry, the big steel blade of the Bowie knife never still, thrust, parry, feint, slash, the left hand working as well, punching, clawing, blocking, pushing, gouging as he surged forward, forward, always forward. He knew nothing of fear, or pain, or mercy, and three gypsies lay twitching on the ground before the rest of them finally gave way before this madman, a moment after their kinsmen on the other side broke under Harker's equally desperate onslaught.

The two men clawed their way onto the cart's flat bed and immediately assaulted the nailed-down lid of the crate, the refuge and resting-place of the creature they had come so many miles to destroy.

Using their knives as levers, they tore the nails loose, wrenched off the lid and flung it aside—just as the last rays of the sun disappeared from the western sky.

He
was inside, as they had known he would be, to all appearances a corpse but then, as the daylight fled over the horizon, the ancient eyes flew open, the sharp canine teeth suddenly visible as the face twisted in a triumphant smile—a smile that vanished an instant later as the blade of the Bowie slammed into the monster's heart while Harker's kukri bit deep of his throat.

The sudden blast of energy from the crate knocked the two men onto their backs, their knives clattering loose against the crude wood of the cart. A terrible sound filled the air around them, an immense bellow that somehow combined a screech of pain, a scream of fear and, strongest of all, an animal howl of rage. It lasted only a few seconds, but when the two men regained their feet and peered inside the makeshift coffin, there was nothing left but dust, a few scraps of cloth and a half-dozen gold buttons, each inscribed with a stylized letter "D."

The surviving gypsies had also observed their master's dissolution. Responding to a shouted order from their clan leader, they took to horse and fled, leaving their dead behind. As the sound of hoof beats faded into the distance, an unearthly quiet settled over this impromptu battlefield, a silence broken only by the wind and the far-off howling of wolves.

It was only then that someone noticed that the American was bleeding.

Both Seward and Van Helsing were physicians, but there was little they could do. One of the gypsy blades had found a major artery, and the hastily applied pressure bandages could not stem the flow of bright-red blood.

Mina Harker knelt beside the American, taking one of his hands in her own. She wept softly, and he turned his head toward her, probably with the intent of saying something manly and consoling. Suddenly his eyes widened. With an effort, he raised one unsteady hand, pointing at Mina's forehead. "Look!" he croaked. "It's gone! The scar…"

They looked, all of them: Harker, his hands still red from the Count's blood; Jack Seward, moustache quivering with emotion; Lord Godalming, the noble profile barely visible in the gloom; and Van Helsing, their leader, whose wise old face went from exhaustion to elation in the space of an indrawn breath.

Mina Harker's forehead, which had been scarred weeks earlier by the touch of a wafer of Holy Eucharist, was now utterly smooth. "God be praised!" Van Helsing said reverently. "Her brow is rendered clean as the virgin snow—the curse is lifted, by the death of the Devil that inflicted it!"

One by one, the men knelt on the ground, in respect for the miracle they had just witnessed.

It was sometime during that interval that Quincey Morris, of Laredo, Texas and many points east, lay back, closed his eyes, and quietly died.

Some time later, they loaded Morris's body onto the back of the cart that the gypsies had abandoned. "Should we put him in the coffin, Professor?" Godalming asked.

Van Helsing shook his head adamantly. "We should not the remains of our friend defile with the unholy resting-place of such foulness. He deserve better of us, I think."

In the end, they took coats and jackets from several dead gypsies and fashioned them into a semblance of a shroud. The gypsies themselves they buried in a common grave. While the Harkers and Lord Godalming labored at this, Seward and Van Helsing stood off a little way, talking quietly. "We shall have to make arrangements to have Quincey's body shipped back to Texas for burial," Seward said. "He would want that, you know."

The old man nodded. "He said so to me once, years ago."

"We should telegraph his family, as well. It wouldn't do to have the coffin simply arrive there unannounced."

Van Helsing sighed. "You are quite right. I will the telegram send from Bistritz. His family must learn the news, tragic though it be. We should also write at length, each of us, so they may know the true heroic end of him who they consign to the earth."

"Both his parents are still alive, I believe."

"Yes, and one child, also."

"Child!
You mean Quince was
married?”
Seward's voice betrayed his shock. "But… but he sought Lucy's hand, just as Godalming and I did!"

The old Dutchman laid a gentle hand on Seward's arm. "Do not have distress, friend John. Quincey was married once, true. But his wife died, in childbirth. It has been, now…" Van Helsing calculated briefly, "about four years since. So, fear not. Our American friend was a gentleman. He was free to marry Miss Lucy, if she would have him. But, as matters developed…"

"Yes, quite." Seward closed his eyes tightly for a moment. The fate of Lucy Westenra was a wound on his soul that would need a long time to heal, perhaps a lifetime. "But the baby lived, you say?"

"Yes—lived, and is now in the care of Quincey's parents on their ranch, or so he did tell to me some months past."

Van Helsing saw that the others were done with Morris's body and preparing to leave. As the two men walked toward their horses, Seward asked, "Is Quincey's child a boy or girl? You didn't say."

"A boy. Strong and healthy, by all accounts." Van Helsing swung into the saddle. "We should pray that the son grow to be as brave and steadfast as was the father."

"Yes, we should," Seward said. "The world needs such men." They turned their horses and joined the others on the road that would take them to Bistritz, and, in time, back to England. Behind them they left nothing but a ruined castle, a few gold buttons, and a handful of rags that were already scattering in the cold, Carpathian wind.