Evil Ways (6 page)

Pardee entered his master's study to find Grobius staring moodily out the immense picture window. "It's snowing again," the old man said, as if it were Pardee's fault. Grobius had been failing at an increased rate the last year or so, despite his doctors' best efforts and Pardee's magic.

"It does that, this time of year." Pardee was careful not to sound sarcastic. "You wanted isolation, and that usually means an area with severe weather, of one sort or another. There is a reason why isolated areas are isolated, after all."

"Well, it better not snow on the thirtieth. Some of them will be coming in by air, you said, and I don't know what effect bad weather will have on their ability to navigate. And I don't want it spoiling the ritual, either, by blocking the moon."

"I understand, of course. And I can assure you that it will not snow on Walpurgis Night. Not here, at any rate."

"And you know that how? Been consulting your crystal ball again?"

Pardee, like most professionals, did not appreciate badinage on the subject of his work. But he was careful to keep any irritation out of his voice when he said, "I have never used such a device, nor has any
genuine practitioner of the Art. Such baubles are the toys of Gypsy con artists, nothing more."

"Then on what basis are you predicting that it won't snow?"

"I am not predicting it will not snow. I am guaranteeing it."

"You can do that, can you? Control the weather?"

Pardee nodded slowly. "Within a limited area, and only for relatively brief periods of time. But I can certainly hold the elements in check long enough for our project to succeed."

"That's reassuring," Grobius said. "Hanging on this long, not to mention all the work and money that have gone into it. And the lives. If it were all for nothing, just because of some fucking low pressure area… When are these precise conditions
—the moon and so on— going to occur again?"

"I'd have to look it up," Pardee said. "But I think it's safe to say that it won't be within a reasonable time frame."

"Meaning there's no way I could live long enough, even with your magic and the wonders of modern science." The old man made a disgusted sound. "I suppose I'd be lucky to last until April of
next
year."

"That's quite possibly true. Which is why I intend to succeed the first time. I know how much this matters to you."

"Yes, it does. But why does it matter to
you?
Is it just the money?"

"The money's important, of course." Pardee said. "I enjoy the things money can buy, as much as anyone. But this is also the chance to do something that has never been done before. Oh, in the movies and cheap fiction, it happens all the time. But in reality, it has never been possible. Those who have tried have either simply failed, or both failed and died. Until now, that is. Quite a momentous occasion, or, rather, it will be."

"Pity is has to remain a secret. You could be named to the Wizards' Hall of Fame, or some such."

"I suspect it would be more like the Hall of Infamy. But that's all right. I have no concerns that my name will be forgotten."

"By those who matter, you mean," Grobius said.

"Exactly. Those who really matter will know."

Andrea McKinnon struggled to balance her heavy briefcase and two thick files of legal depositions while fitting her key into the lock of her front door. She finally managed, without spilling her work all over the front porch. She stepped inside, and kicked the door shut behind her.

She could have used magic either to get the door open, or to transport the paperwork from her trunk, or both. But she didn't like to use her power in public unless absolutely necessary. It tended to upset people, most of whom still thought that there was only one kind of witchcraft
—the evil kind. Andrea supposed that she could have been doing more to educate the public about white witchcraft, but Lawrence, Kansas was smack dab in the middle of the Bible Belt, and the last thing she needed was a bunch of crazed fundamentalists howling outside her house at all hours.

Even worse, one of them might try to kill her, interpreting the scriptural admonition "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" in an all too literal fashion. It had happened in Oklahoma, a few years ago. One of her Sisters in the Goddess had been "outed" as a witch by the local paper, and soon a nutcase, off his medication and hopped up with the need to do something wonderful for Jesus, had thrown a pail of gasoline on her and then tried to set it alight. Fortunately for all concerned, the plastic disposable lighter the nutcase had flicked into flame and tossed toward the gasoline-soaked woman had gone out as soon as it was thrown, which such devices are designed to do.

Shrugging out of her raincoat, Andrea shook her head at the idea of it. Jesus of Nazareth had been, by all reliable accounts, a man of love and peace. The antics some of his followers got up to must sadden him greatly, even now.

She was measuring Maxwell House into her coffee maker when she heard the sounds coming from her living room.

A burglar? In this neighborhood?

Well, anything was possible. Meth had caught on among certain elements of the Lawrence underclass, and the resulting small army of addicts was gradually spreading, even into the suburbs, seeking money or anything that could be turned into ready cash.

But the wards on the house should have kept them out. As soon as they tried to get in, they should have felt an overpowering desire to go someplace else.

Worry about that later. For now, deal with the threat, whatever it was.

From a drawer next to the cutlery she removed the wand she kept there for emergencies, which this clearly seemed to be. It had been charged with a general-purpose spell that would give Andrea a wide variety of options, once she knew what she was dealing with.

Although she could not harm people with it, magic did allow her to protect herself, and a variety of non-lethal responses were possible. She could, for instance, freeze the intruder in place for the time it would take the police to arrive. But before calling 911, better be sure that this wasn't another squirrel that had gotten in to wreak havoc.

Andrea McKinnon walked softly to the doorway that led to her living room. The sounds were coming from her right, so she turned that way immediately on entering.

A man was going through her desk, presumably looking for money or valuables. He was tall and heavyset, and wore glasses.

"Hold it right there!" She was uttering the first words that would allow her to launch the freezing-in-place spell when the other man stepped up behind her and looped the wire garrote around her neck.

There was no prolonged struggle, like something out of one of the
Godfather
movies. Unlike the cord garrotes employed by fictional Mafia assassins, piano wire is quick, if messy, and the killer had chosen it precisely for that reason. He wanted the witch to have no chance to work some hocus-pocus on him, or his partner. Wire doesn't just constrict the victim's flesh
—it
cuts.

The killer was strong and skillful. Within four seconds, the piano wire had sliced through Andrea's throat to sever her windpipe, as well as both her carotid artery and jugular vein.

As soon as the blood began to spurt, the killer, whose name was Kittridge, released his grip on the garrote's handles and let the woman, already unconscious, fall forward to the floor. Within a couple of minutes she would die
—either from choking or bleeding out, and Kittridge didn't care which.

The other man, who had a youngish face and prematurely white hair, stepped out from behind the desk and approached the still form, careful to avoid the spreading pool of blood. His name was Winter.

"Nice work," he said to Kittridge. "She didn't call the cops, did she?"

"Nope, didn't use the phone at all. Guess she thought her little stick, here"
—he nudged the fallen wand with the tip of one expensive shoe—"was all the help she needed."

"Well, the bitch guessed wrong, didn't she? But we better clear out of here, anyway. Where's the next one?"

"New York. Pardee texted me a few minutes ago. O'Neill and his partner haven't reported in. Chastain must have got the best of them, somehow, so she's our problem now."

Winter snorted. "Should have sent us in the first place. O'Neill's a pussy."

"Well, he's probably a dead one. Or, if not, he will be, once Pardee gets hold of him. Come on, let's go."

As it happened, they were closing the kitchen door behind them precisely at the moment that Andrea McKinnon's heart stopped beating.

Morris looked at Fenton and said, "I think you've got me confused with somebody else. Batman, maybe. Or James Bond. Somebody like that."

Fenton shook his head, just once. "No, I'm not confused about anything, Morris. I know who you are, and I know what you do. I just want you to do it on the Bureau's behalf. We'll pay your standard rate, which is pretty damn high for a ghostbuster, if you ask me."

"I don't believe I did. Ask, that is. But I am curious how you'd explain to the accountants back in the Hoover Building why you've got a 'ghostbuster' on the payroll."

"There's a budget for hiring consultants. As long as my boss is cool with it, I don't have to be real specific when I file the paperwork."

"And
is
she cool with it, your boss?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, she is. Sue's pretty open-minded for somebody with a Ph.D. from the University of Chicago."

"Maybe that means she's also good at handling disappointment. I hope so, because I'm about to hand her some."

"You don't want the job."

"You got that right, podner. I absolutely do not want this job."

"Why not? It's the kind of thing you do all the time, isn't it?"

"No, it's the kind of thing I
used
to do, when I was young and stupid. I'm older now, and at least a little smarter. Or so I like to think."

Morris leaned forward. "Look, Fenton, from what you've told me, you've got several black sorcerers, in different parts of the country, killing kids for their hearts."

"Not just the hearts. In some cases, other organs were taken, as well."

"All right. The point is that these organs, properly used, are going to give the witches who took them a great deal of power. Hell, that's why they're
doing
it."

Fenton spread his hands a little. "See? That kind of insight is exactly the reason I want you for this case."

"And it's also the reason that I want nothing to do with it. You've got these people who have taken the Left-Hand Path, and you don't know how many of 'em there are, or who they are, or even where they are. What we
do
know is that they're willing to kill to get what they want, and that most likely they've acquired a hell of a lot of power, or will, soon."

"What's that mean
—
will, soon?"

"The organs themselves aren't powerful. They have to be used. They're like potential energy, in physics. You need a particular kind of ritual, or a series of them, to turn that potential into kinetic energy. And, considering the kind of people involved, we are talking about energy of the very worst kind."

"How bad?"

"Can't say, without more information. But bad; trust me. And dangerous. Look, Fenton, Libby and I spent part of last year on the trail of a black witch who was involved in some pretty nasty goings-on. She found out that we were looking for her, and tried to kill us. And damn near succeeded."

Morris shook his head slowly, like the bank officer does when turning you down for a small business loan. "You wanna play Wyatt Earp and face these folks down at some supernatural OK Corral, you go right ahead, and I sincerely wish you good fortune. But I'm not Doc Holliday, and I'm not goin' with you."

"Uh-huh." Fenton straightened his tie, which did not need straightening. "Well, we've established that you're neither Batman, James Bond, nor Doc Holliday. So just who the hell
are
you, Morris?"

"Just a guy with a dangerous, nasty job, who doesn't want to make it any more dangerous and nasty than it has to be."

Morris stood up. "Feel free to keep my name in your Rolodex. If something a bit less insane comes up sometime, give me a call and I'll see if I can help out. But not this time."

Fenton was still in his chair, and seemed in no hurry to go anywhere. "Well, I admire your honesty. I do. It's a quality in pretty short supply in Washington. Now let me
—"

Fenton's cell phone rang. He pulled it from a pocket, checked the display, then said. "Sorry, I've got to take this."

He pushed a button and held the phone to his ear. "Yeah. No, I'm still in his room, but I'm almost done. Come on up, if you want. Room 942. Okay."

Fenton put the phone away and said to Morris, "That was my partner. I figured you might as well meet her, since we're going to be doing business together."

In the voice of someone starting to lose his patience, Morris said, "I thought I made it clear
—"

"You did," Fenton said. "Now
I'm
going to make something clear, and you might as well sit down to hear it."

Morris didn't move. After a few seconds, Fenton said softly, "I said sit… the… fuck… down."

Morris looked at him. Mixing things up with Agent Fenton wasn't going to get him anything except arrested for assaulting a Federal officer. He slowly lowered himself back onto the edge of
the
bed.

"Thanks," Fenton said, sounding like he actually meant it. "Here's why you're going to work for the Bureau on this investigation, Morris. Not because you went all vigilante and burned down the best evidence we almost had tying anybody to these murders. Not because you're basically a decent guy who doesn't want any more kids to get
cut
open. Not because I'm authorized to double your usual fee, and I just did. But because you don't want somebody putting a quiet word in Fortner's ear, when he gets back, that you're the guy who burned his
hacienda
to the ground a few hours ago."

"You've got no proof of that."

"Fortner won't care."

After a few seconds, Morris said, softly, "No, I don't reckon he will."

"It's like you said yourself, just because his tools are gone doesn't mean he's not dangerous. You want to spend the next couple of years looking over your shoulder? That assumes Fortner doesn't come for you sooner, of course."

The look that Morris turned on Fenton was one of pure hatred, but his voice was mild when he said, "I don't suppose calling you eight different kinds of motherfucker would change anything, would it?"

"Nope," Fenton said. "But you go ahead, if it'll make you feel better."

Morris was considering doing just that when the knock sounded on his door.

He looked at Fenton. "You want to get that, or shall I?"

Fenton shrugged. "It's your room."

Morris went to the door and opened it. The woman standing in the hall had auburn hair, an upturned nose, and freckles, and she looked for all the world like a female leprechaun in a business suit
—an effect that was spoiled when she flashed her credentials and said, "Special Agent Colleen O'Donnell, FBI. You would be Mister Morris?"

"The very same." Morris stepped back to allow her entrance. After closing the door, he looked at the woman more closely. "Sorry, but have we maybe met before? There's something… familiar about you."

She gave him a second, more careful look before saying, "I don't think so, Mister Morris," then turned to confer with her partner. Morris was watching her curiously, when suddenly it hit him. It wasn't Colleen O'Donnell herself who was familiar; it was the aura surrounding her. Morris had been trained to sensitivity in such things, and the vibe that the female agent gave off was the same one that Morris had sensed many times when in the company of Libby Chastain.

Fenton's partner was a white witch.

Morris closed the door on the two FBI agents, after making a reluctant promise to stay in touch. He hadn't said anything about recognizing Special Agent O'Donnell as a member of what Libby Chastain called The Sisterhood. Fenton hadn't given any indication
that he knew, and if he didn't know, it wasn't Morris's business to tell him. Still, having a white witch as a partner would have its advantages, as Morris himself had reason to know.

His exertions of the night before had left him sweaty and a bit grimy. Morris needed a shower. Besides, he often did some of his best thinking under warm water.

A few minutes later, Morris was reaching for the shower tap when a female voice behind him said, "Hello, Quincey."

He spun around, arms moving into the defensive posture that his sensei had taught him was best when you did not know the exact nature of the threat you were facing.

Libby Chastain was standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

Except it wasn't Libby, not quite. Morris found that he could see through her translucent form to the bedroom beyond. Morris put his arms down. He knew what Libby was doing; he had seen this manifestation before.

"This must be pretty important if you're using spirit transference to find me, Libby." He reached for a nearby bath towel. "Uh, you mind if I…"

"Not at all, please do." Libby's image smiled a little. "I'm sorry to show up at an, um, inopportune moment. This seems to be a day for having showers interrupted."

"What's wrong?" Morris finished tucking the towel around his waist.

"Some people tried to kill me a few hours ago. At home."

"My God! Are you, I mean, is your body…"

"I'm all right, apart from being frightened half to death." Libby briefly described the attack upon her, and what she had done about it.

"What about the bodies?" Morris asked. "You can't leave them there indefinitely, and the NYPD might not buy your explanation of events."

"Already gone. I worked a discorporation spell, then transported them to the East River, where they were materialized again. Now when water is found in their lungs, it won't seem surprising."

"If the bad guys, whoever they are, could break in once, they can do it again," Morris said. "You've got to get out of there, Libby."

"I already have. I checked into a hotel a little while ago. My
corpus
is lying on the bed while we talk. The door is triple-locked and warded, as well. It should be safe enough."

Morris ran a hand through his hair. "You know, you could have called, Libby. Saved yourself a lot of time and effort."

"I did, twice, and got your voicemail each time. I assume you haven't checked your messages for a while."

"No, sorry. It's been kind of a busy morning for me, too." Morris told her about the Fortner job, and his subsequent visit from the FBI.

Libby's expression, already sober, took on a grim cast. "Children. Again."

"Yeah, and this time it's some kind of coordinated effort. That, or somebody has figured out how to be in two places, physically, at the same time. I never heard of any magic, black or white, being able to accomplish that."

"Nor have I. It's probably impossible, even for an expert practitioner. I assume you're not interested in a technical explanation of why that's so."

"Maybe another time." Morris frowned. "Libby, something just occurred to me
—if you checked into a hotel, you had to use a credit card, didn't you? Unless you're in one of those places near Times Square that rents by the hour, cash only."

"No, I didn't think I could blend in effectively in a no-tell hotel. It's not that trying to pass as a hooker would bother me, it's looking like a
cheap
hooker that I find demeaning."

"So you used a credit card. They can find you that way, Libby. Won't even need magic to do it
—just the skills of a good private detective."

"Not to worry. I was able to… persuade the young man at the registration desk that there was no need to run my credit card imprint until I check out. It's against company policy, of course, but he found himself willing to make an exception, just this once."

"All right, so you're probably okay for a while. But if there's a black magician involved, they'll find you, in time. You can't stay there indefinitely."

"I know. Moving from hotel to hotel will buy some time, but it doesn't solve the basic problem. I need to know who's doing this, Quincey
—and
why.
Although if I can determine the first, the second may well explain itself. But I'm not equipped to do this on my own. I need an investigator."

"You're probably right. But, like I told you, the FBI's got me in a vice, and they're squeezing pretty hard. Otherwise, I'd be on the next plane to NYC. Wait
—have you considered our old buddy, Barry Love? This sounds like something that'd be right up his alley, or down his mean street, or whatever the expression is."