Diabolical (39 page)

“I tried to tell you.”

On the other side of the door was a wall of rock. Stones, packed tightly, wedged from floor to ceiling. He reached a hand out and touched one, pushed on it, then pulled. It wouldn't budge.

“I'm told it used to lead to a subbasement of some sort. It was filled in long before I got here.”

Hatcher pushed and pulled on random stones. None of them moved.

“Now,” the priest said, “will you please leave?”

“Just tell me something, Father. Is there another way down there?”

“No. Listen to me—this is all just legend. Stories.”

Hatcher let his eyes run over the blockade of stones. The silence yawned. He heard the priest shuffle his feet, sensed him about to say something. Hatcher held up a hand and turned to go.

As he stepped out of the storage room, he turned back. “What legend?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said it was all legend. What legend?”

“The lizard people. Isn't that why you're here?”

“But what, exactly, is that legend?”

“Some old story about how a race of lizard people was found living beneath Los Angeles. Someone had even mapped out an entire underground city. The mayor had gone so far as to hire some ‘expert' to dig to find them. This was many decades ago.”

“But what does that have to do with this building?”

The priest let out a sigh that sounded like air escaping a tire. “Someone got it in their head that one of the entrances to the tunnels was beneath the church. Don't ask me how.”

“That's it?”

“Yes.”

“You hesitated there, Padre.”

“It's silly.”

“I like silly. Same way I like being humored.”

“Local residents have told me stories, things they said they heard as kids, about how another type of church was built right below this one. A place where the lizard people would conjure the Devil.”

“Was there a point to any of it? In the stories, I mean?”

“One parishioner told me his grandmother used to warn him that the lizard people were controlled by witches, and if he wasn't good, they would sneak into his bedroom at night and carry him down so they could offer him to Satan. Through a doorway to Hell.”

“Again, I'm sensing there's something else. Something maybe you left out.”

The priest stared at his shoes, gave his head an ironic little shake. “He said something about a sign, that she'd said they were looking for a sign.”

“What kind of a sign?”

“If I tell you, will you really leave? No more questions, no more anything?”

Hatcher held up two fingers. “Scout's honor.”

“The arrival of a person. Someone he called the Devil's Right-Hand Man.”

Hatcher eyed the priest for a few more moments, then gave a curt nod and headed up the stairs, leaving the man with an unamused look on his face. He took the steps two at a time, thinking about the Devil's Right-Hand Man, and how he knew someone who seemed to meet that description perfectly.

 

 

SINCE HE HAD NO WAY OF KNOWING WHETHER THE PRIEST called the police, Hatcher wasted no time driving away, vaguely heading back toward Venice.

His head felt like somebody had scrambled his thoughts. Nothing made sense, and trying to get a handle on what was happening was causing his temples to thump.

Had the Carnates really gone through such an elaborate ruse just to get him to break the tablet? Could Bartlett have been right? Did he just let himself play into their hands?

But no. There had to be a more efficient way to get at the tablet than that. Hell, if Edgar was working with them, he could have destroyed it. Or they could have hired someone. It wasn't like he was the only one in the world smart enough to find it. He was missing something. Probably a lot of somethings.

Why did they kill Lori? And where was Vivian? Did they take her? Was she still alive?

He called Amy, but she didn't answer. A few seconds after he left a message, he got a text from her saying she was conducting an interview and would call him later.

His options were limited. He needed to do some research, maybe get on the internet again. He could swing back by the bar, but Denny would probably give him a hard time. At the very least, he'd pressure him into watching another Mark Specter show, like he'd promised. Obviously, he didn't have the time to sit around and watch some guy create a bunch of—

Illusions
.

The word seemed to echo in his head, repeating over and over. No, he thought. No, no, no. No way.

He stepped on the gas and sped toward the Liar's Den.

The door wasn't locked. Some guy he didn't recognize was behind the bar. Hatcher ignored him and headed back toward Denny's office.

“Oh, hey,” Denny said, looking up from his desk. “Need the computer again?”

“Maybe in a minute. Remember that video you made me wa—that you, uh, showed me a month or so ago?”

“The last Mark Specter one?”

Hatcher nodded. “There was a particular trick he did, something where he pulled a watch from a store window.”

“Oh, yeah,” Denny said, his eyes brightening. “That one. What about it?”

“Can I see it?”

“You mean now? You wanna watch a Mark Specter DVD?”

“Just that one trick.”

Denny's expression sagged a bit, but the idea of watching even a few minutes of a Specter video with someone seemed to counter the disappointment well enough, and he pushed himself out of the chair and poked through a shelf haphazardly cluttered with books and papers and magazines and DVDs. He sorted through a few piles until he settled on one in particular. He held up a case. It had a picture of a shirtless guy with long blond hair wearing an ankle-length black duster over jeans and biker boots, head dipped slightly as he stared at the camera. There was a burst of flame behind him, and the effect was to make it look like he was walking out of it. The word
Specter
was writ large across the top, beneath it were the words
Extreme Magic.

Denny popped the disc into the drive of his PC. Hatcher circled around the desk and leaned against a filing cabinet, looking over Denny's shoulder.

The disc menu had the show broken down into sections, titles under thumbnail pictures. Denny quickly found the one he was looking for and clicked on it. The drive engaged and whirred and a video image of an urban street at night filled the screen. A bluesy bass rhythm shuffled in the background.

Specter—Hatcher seriously doubted that was his real name—walked into the frame from behind the camera, wearing the same duster but this time with a white shirt under it and a straw cowboy hat on his head. He kept going a few yards, then looked over his shoulder at the screen and said something about having a little fun.

A pair of young couples, two guys and two gals, came into view heading toward him, talking among themselves and laughing. Specter gave one more glance over his shoulder, winking, and veered into their path.

After asking what time it was and having one of the men glance at his watch, Specter gave a bit of patter about time and space and the mysterious ways matter can behave. He gestured for the people to follow and led them across the sidewalk toward a storefront one building further down the street. The camera caught up and zoomed in on a jewelry store display. Specter had them all gather around the shop window and gave some spiel about glass being liquid and always in motion and how with enough focused energy you can penetrate it. Then he placed his fist against the glass and pressed it through.

There it is,
Hatcher thought.
Son of a bitch.

The sleeve of his duster bunched up as his arm slid out the other side. He pushed as far as he could, to at least halfway up his upper arm, and reached for a watch. The people gasped and made noises. He held the watch in his hand, letting the camera zoom in some more, before pulling his arm out in one swift motion. He knocked on the glass with his fist, showing it to be solid, and invited the others to check it. Then he handed the guy who'd told him what time it was his watch back. The guy looked into the camera, then back at the watch, and absently muttered something that was bleeped out.

“Neat trick, huh?” Denny said.

Hatcher stared at the screen, or more accurately, stared at the window in the video, until the scene ended.

“Play that again.”

Denny shrugged, then gave the mouse another click. Hatcher watched the scene unfold, paying particular attention to the glass. It was the same illusion. No doubt. Only the one the Carnates had performed had another twist.

“Tell me something, Denny. Has this guy ever, like, taken off someone's head?”

“Huh?”

“As a trick. Has he ever removed someone's head?”

“Uh, I don't know,” Denny said. He drummed his fingers on the desk and turned back to his computer. “Let's find out.”

A Google search didn't pull up anything like that with Specter. But it did find an illusion called
decapitation
. It involved a hollow table, guy in a clown suit, and a space for him to lean his head back. The magician would hold up a clown's head for the audience, while the clown's body remained on the table, his real head tucked beneath the surface through an opening. Sometimes, the clown's head would move its mouth or eyes or both. Sometimes it would even speak.

“That's it,” Hatcher said. “Or something like it.”

“Looks neat. Is this some trick you saw?”

Hatcher scraped his palm down his face. “You could say that. Maybe.”

Denny said something about loving to see it himself, but Hatcher ignored him. He leaned in over Denny's shoulder toward the screen, directing the man's attention back to the PC.

“Search for General William Bartlett,” he said. Realizing how bossy that sounded, he added, “Please.”

“Who's that?” Denny said, typing in the name. He had Hatcher check the spelling and then hit the enter key.

“Somebody I met recently. Maybe.”

A list of search results popped onto the screen. “What are you looking for?”

Hatcher glanced at the entries. “A picture.”

Denny clicked on “images” and the results list was replaced with rows of thumbnail photographs. Hatcher scanned them. They all looked like the man he'd met.

“That him?”

“I'd say so.”

“Hmmm . . .” Denny said.

“What?”

“It's strange.”

“What is?”

“If I didn't know better . . .” Denny hit some keys, clicked through a few screens on his mouse. “These all look like the same person.”

“Well, isn't it?” Hatcher asked.

“No, I don't mean the same person in the photo, I mean it looks like all these pictures were posted by the same guy.”

“I don't understand.”

“Look.” Hatcher watched as Denny clicked opened a page. “You've got this photo on a foreign policy blog . . .” A few more clicks. “And this photo on a site called Military News and Events.” Another series of clicks. “And you've got this site called Pentagon Watch.”

“So?”

“Look at the web addresses. They're all using the same platform. In fact—” He clicked a few more photos, opening additional tabs on the screen. “There are only three platforms I can see. For all these pictures.”

“What are you saying?”

“I don't know. Just, it's like the same group of people were posting these photos. Look at the dates.” Denny clicked through the pages, reading off date-time markers where he could find them. “They're all within a few days of each other. And it looks like they used the same SEO.”

“The same what?”

“Search engine optimization. Someone tagged the sites with terms that make sure they pop up first when you do a Google search.”

Hatcher let the information flow over his mind, like he was trying to identify the taste of it. “Scroll down that results page, the one with the photos.”

Denny dragged the mouse down the scroll bar, causing the page to roll up. After about two screens' worth went by, several photos suddenly looked different. Similar, but different. They were various shots of a gray-haired man, somewhat rugged, but more politician than soldier. Only it was a different one than Hatcher had met.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Hey, is that the same guy?” Denny asked.

But Hatcher barely heard him. He stared at the photos until his eyes hurt. Then he looked at the top of the desk, thought of something that might come in handy.

“Denny,” he said. “I have a big favor to ask.”

HATCHER PULLED UP TO THE WAREHOUSE AND PARKED DIRECTLY in front of the garage entrance. He didn't care who saw him.

The double-wide garage door was closed. There was a regular entry door next to it, with a small square of security glass reinforced by wire mesh. The knob wouldn't turn. Hatcher tried to peer through the glass, but couldn't see anything.

He circled the building, looking for access. The structure had a row of windows high off the ground, second-story level. Parts of the wall had spaces where similar windows had been filled in with brick on the ground level, probably due to vandalism and street people gaining entry. There was another heavy-duty steel door on the other side of the building, but it was locked and built not to budge.

After surveying the perimeter from every angle, Hatcher went back to the vehicle entrance. The vertical door wasn't flimsy, but it was somewhat flexible, moving with a tinny sound when he pressed it. He pushed his weight against it several times, listening. Then he got in the PT Cruiser, started the engine, and pulled out into the street. With the nose in the opposite direction, he lined the car up with the garage door, put the car in reverse, and took his foot off the brake. He let the car roll back a few feet, felt some mild inertia set in, then jammed his foot on the accelerator.