Evil Ways (13 page)

It had been quite a while since Charlotte had had a fuck
—good, bad, or indifferent. As a working single mom she barely managed to juggle all the duties of both job and family and still manage to get (if she was lucky and none of the kids was sick) six hours of sleep a night. Doing the horizontal polka with somebody (even assuming a likely candidate were available) would require scheduling weeks in advance, just like a play date.

That's what Mom needs. A play date of her own, preferably with some hot guy who's hung like a horse.

Her driveway was coming up, so she pushed thoughts of sexual longing aside and began to focus on her present responsibilities. The first of her three kids should be home from school in about fifteen minutes. She could give Mark a glass of milk and a cookie, then ask him about his day while she began dinner preparations.

Household chores were actually somewhat easier for Charlotte when nobody was home, since she could use a little magic to move things along. Dishes might wash themselves, or dust could be commanded to fly off surfaces and into the trash bin.

Charlotte juggled two bags of groceries while unlocking the back door. She noticed her key slid into the lock more easily than usual, as if the lock had been oiled.
Sliding right in because it's so well lubricated. Get it out of the gutter, Charlotte.
She plopped the bags onto the kitchen table, scattering a number of toys in the process.

She had started taking the groceries out of the bags and putting them on the table, when she heard a floorboard creak behind her
—a floorboard that should not have creaked, on its own.

Charlotte Kenyon picked up a can of peas to use as a missile, if necessary. She was about to pivot and face the threat, whatever it was, when the .22 slug entered her brain. She collapsed to the floor, dead before she even knew she'd been shot.

The man who had killed Charlotte was unscrewing the silencer from the barrel of his .22 pistol when the phone started ringing. He did not, quite, jump. "I oughta answer it," he said to his partner. "Say something like, 'Hi! Charlotte can't come to the phone right now. She's, like dead.'"

"Pardee would skin you alive, you do something like that," the other man said. "Come on, let's boogie."

The answering machine came on, and the dead woman's voice said, cheerfully,
Hi! You've reached Charlotte, Mark, Cheryl, and Sarah. Leave a message at the beep.
The two killers were heading for the door when another female voice said, "Charlotte, this is Rachel Harvey. You need to call me ASAP. At least three of the Sisters have had… accidents, bad ones. There may be more on the way. I don't want you to have one, too. Call me, okay?"

The man who had killed Charlotte looked at his partner. "That mean what I think it means?"

"Yeah, I bet it does. The bitches have figured it out. Pardee's gonna want to know about this."

"Then let's get the fuck out of here, so we can tell him."

Colleen O'Donnell stared at the body of Annie Levesque, who lay in a pool of blood on her front porch. Colleen was shaking; she had never taken a life before, and all the training in the world cannot prepare you for that. The fact that she'd had no choice didn't make her feel any better about it. She uttered a quick invocation against panic, and found herself growing calmer almost immediately. Good
—she had some fast thinking to do.

She looked at Fenton, who lay on the ground a few feet to her left. She could keep him unconscious a while longer, but eventually he would wake up, and demand an explanation. She'd better have a good one ready.

She shifted her gaze to the porch, where Premeaux lay. His eyes were open and staring, and the blood no longer pumped from the wound in his throat. The detective was dead.

Colleen considered her situation, which did not look promising. In the FBI, like every other law enforcement organization in this country, you have to justify the use of deadly force.

I fired my weapon at the suspect in self-defense. She had raised several of the dead and sent them towards me, with probable injurious intent. Further, I had reason to believe that her attempt to enter her
house was equivalent to reaching for a weapon, since the dwelling contained, almost certainly, a number of implements of black magic, and the power to give them maximum strength. These, if employed by the suspect, would undoubtedly have resulted in the deaths of both myself and Agent Fenton.

Yeah, that would look great typed on Form 344-J, "Report of Agent Discharge of Firearm, Fatality Resulting." Colleen would lose her job, and would likely either stand trial for murder or end up committed to a hospital for the criminally insane. And people like Annie would still be out there, murdering kids.

Even though Colleen knew that the shooting was righteous, she could not tell the truth in justifying it.
Well, if the truth won't work, what kind of lie might do the trick?

She looked around the crime scene
—for that's what it was, now— seeking something that she could use in the fiction she would have to create. The revenants summoned by Annie Levesque had collapsed, with the death of their resurrector. Colleen would have to use a spell to return the remains to their graves before awakening Fenton. The bodies would have to be dug up officially later, so that they could be identified and returned to their families.

Her gaze passed over Fenton, who was covered with small glass fragments from the magic-induced explosion, the body of Annie Levesque, even more repulsive in death than it had been in life, then the corpse of Detective Pete Premeaux, sport coat rucked back to reveal the pistol he wore in a belt holster, and the house itself, with its windows
—

Premeaux's pistol. Premeaux, who had died minutes before Annie Levesque. Annie, lying dead, herself. Fenton, who'd seen nothing that had transpired since the explosion.

Colleen's thoughts raced. Once she had the story clear in her mind, she went over it again, more slowly, looking for weaknesses or inconsistencies. She could find none.

Kneeling over Premeaux's body, Colleen said a brief prayer that his spirit might find rest. Then, after pulling on the latex crime scene gloves she always had with her, she carefully pulled the detective's Colt Commander automatic from its holster. Colleen checked that there was a round in the chamber, then cocked the hammer.

Stepping carefully to avoid the blood pools, she went to the body of Annie Levesque, knelt down, and wrapped the black witch's dead right hand around the pistol, index finger on the trigger. Then she lifted the hand, until the pistol was pointed at the general area where Colleen had been lying after her tumble from the porch, and slowly pressed down on Annie's finger. The weapon fired, sending a round into the dirt of the yard. Colleen then let the hand drop, allowing the pistol to fall free.

After causing, by means yet unknown, the explosion that resulted in the death of Detective Pete Premeaux, suspect Annie Levesque approached the detective's body and removed his sidearm from its holster. She then pointed the weapon at me and fired once, missing me. Believing that the suspect intended to fire again, I drew my own weapon and returned fire. Suspect Annie Levesque was struck by two rounds from my weapon, leading to her subsequent death.

That was a story the FBI's Committee on Professional Responsibility would find credible, even though there was barely a word of truth in it. Colleen made herself say another prayer, this one for the soul of Annie Levesque
—even though, as a practitioner of black magic, Annie was almost certainly damned. Then she looked toward her partner's supine form. It was time to get rid of these zombie corpses and bring Fenton back to the world.

Quincey Morris had never been married, but he nonetheless recognized the
We're going to talk about this later
look that Libby gave him. He was not expecting to enjoy that conversation, but was confident he had done the right thing by sending for the tall woman in black, who now sat opposite him.

Hannah Widmark had brought her drink with her from the table where she'd been waiting
—something dark on the rocks. She set the glass down in front of her, and in that musical voice said, "It's about time, Quincey." Then she turned her head a little and, after the briefest of hesitations, nodded and said, "Hello Libby."

Libby returned the nod without smiling. "Hannah."

Hannah said, "So, I understand you guys need personal security against the Forces of Darkness." She said the last phrase with no trace of irony.

"It's more for Libby," Morris said. "She's the one they're after."

"Doesn't matter. If you're in the line of fire, they'll take you down without a thought. These creatures aren't discriminating about their victims." Hannah's inflection didn't change, but there was something in her voice right then that made the little hairs stir on the back of Morris's neck.

"Be that as it may, we sure appreciate your help," Morris said.

"You don't have to appreciate it, Quincey." Hannah took a sip from her glass. "Just pay for it. As you know, I charge a lot. But then, I'm worth it." Once again, Hannah spoke as if irony had left the building.

"Seems to me that I should be the one paying," Libby said, with a glance at Morris. "After all, it's my life you're here to save, Hannah." Her teeth were clenched as she said the last part of that.

"Doesn't matter to me who pays, as long as somebody does," Hannah said.

"You and me, we'll talk about that later, Libby," Morris said. He looked at Hannah. "From here, we're headed to Kent, Ohio. That's in
—"

"The northeast corner of the state, about twelve miles northwest of Akron," she said. "Have you booked your flight, yet?"

"No, I thought we ought to talk with you, first. But I'll buy us three tickets on the next flight out that way. Get us into Akron, maybe, or Cleveland."

Hannah shook her head. "No, just text me the flight info once you've got it." She reached into the heavy shoulder bag she had placed on the chair next to her and produced a plain black and white business card, which she gave to Morris. "I'll pay for my own ticket, and bill you."

"What does it matter whether you get your money now, or later?" Libby asked. She sounded more irritated than curious.

Hannah gave her a tiny smile. "It matters, because I don't want my name showing up in a computer linked to your names. It would be, if Quincey here paid for all three tickets with the same credit card. If the opposition
—whoever they are—check the passenger manifest, I don't want them noticing my name. For the same reason, I won't be sitting near you."

"Pity, that," Libby said.

Hannah flicked a glance her way, then said to Morris. "If I go around with you, then I'm just part of the bull's-eye. But if I'm off at a distance, I can get a clear idea of the threat picture, and I'm in a better position to do something about it."

"Something lethal, you mean," Libby said. '

Hannah shifted her gaze to the glass containing her drink. The ice cubes seemed to hold a fascination for her, because she did not look up as she said, "There's a story I heard once, it's kind of interesting. Out in the sticks somewhere, a woman is walking home in the late fall, when she comes upon this big rattlesnake. There's been a cold snap, kind of unusual for that time of year, and the rattler wasn't able to get back to his burrow, or whatever you call the place that snakes live. He's clearly freezing to death. Since this is a fable, the snake can talk. He says to the woman, 'Please help me. If I don't get inside someplace warm soon, I'll die.' The woman, who's no fool, says, 'But you're a rattlesnake. Your bite would mean death for me.' The snake says, 'I promise, if you help me, I'll never bite you, ever. I don't forget favors that others do for me.' So, being a compassionate sort, the woman gingerly picks up the snake and stuffs him down inside her coat to get warm. Then she starts walking again. Another ten minutes, and she's home. She starts a fire in the wood stove, and gently lays the snake down near it. After a half hour or so, the snake is doing much better, and thanks the woman for her kindness. She says, 'It's still too cold for you to go outside. I'm tired from that long walk home, and I thought I'd sit in my rocking chair next to the stove for a while. Would you like to curl up in my lap?' The snake says 'Sure, why not?' She picks him up, and as soon as she does, he twists in her grasp and bites her, right on the side of the neck. A little later, as she's lying on the floor, dying, she asks the snake. 'After all I did for you, why did you bite me?' And the snake says to her"
—Hannah raised her head then, to look directly into Libby Chastain's eyes—"he says,
'You knew what I was, when you took me in."'

Then, after glancing back in the direction from which she'd come, Hannah said, "I'm going back to my table now. Puts me in a good position to watch you, the front entrance, and the door from the kitchen, all at the same time." She turned to lift her oversize bag from the adjoining chair, which caused one black sleeve to pull up a few inches.

Libby may have been making a belated effort to be pleasant when she looked at Hannah's wrist and said, "That tattoo you've got there, it looks new."

"It's a sigil against demons," Hannah said. "Got the idea years ago, from a private eye I know in New York. Very useful protective devices. I have a number of them, all over my body." The tiny smile appeared again. "Ask Quincey
—he's seen them all."

Hannah pushed her chair back. "Oh, that's right, Libby, I was forgetting
—so have you," she said, then stood, and walked away.

Libby Chastain and Quincey Morris looked at each other without speaking, their expressions unreadable. Finally, as if by tacit mutual consent, they went back to eating their lunch.

Pardee closed his cell phone and put it down carefully, resisting the urge to smash it in a million pieces, either magically or through sheer brute force.

The room in Grobius's mansion that Pard
ée used as an office offered a good view of the grounds, where workmen were completing preparations for the Ceremony. Had they known the true nature of the enterprise in which they were engaged, they would likely all walk off the job immediately, never to return.

Pardee stared down at all the activity without really seeing it. His thoughts were elsewhere.

So the Wiccans now knew that they were being stalked and slain, like deer in a forest. They would be wary now, their pathetic white magic defenses in place.

And that cunt Chastain had escaped,
again.
The one whose life he wanted more than any of the others. Pardee shook his head in disgust. He would have said she had the luck of the devil, but he knew that particular force was on his own side.

He stood at the immense window for perhaps fifteen minutes. Pardee's mind had been trained to allow him to think about several things at once, and by the end of that time he had made three decisions. He picked up his phone and began to implement them.

He sent a blast email to all his teams of assassins, ordering them to stand down: remain in place, continue surveillance of their targets, but let the white bitches live
—for now.

Then he called one of Grobius's computer geeks and instructed the man to continue monitoring Libby Chastain's credit card activity, but now to broaden his focus to include the transactions of one Quincey Morris. The man described as accompanying Chastain could be no one else.

His third call was to Roderico Baca, who was a wizard of considerable power
—although not, of course, in Pardee's class. He instructed Baca to make certain preparations, and to be ready to travel on very short notice.