The Devil Will Come (24 page)

“What’s that mean?” she asked. “‘Short-term security’?”

“It means that we’re supposed to keep you alive until the cavalry gets here,” O’Hare told her.

Seeing the woman’s puzzlement, Burke explained. “There’s a flight from Washington that arrives at the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton airport at 7:10 every evening. Today, it’s bringing several agents from the Organized Crime Division, along with a couple of people from the Justice Department.” Burke glanced at his watch. “By the time they get organized on the ground and get out here, it’ll probably be around 8:00 o’clock— about six hours from now.”

The woman took a tiny sip of her orange juice. “So what do all these big important Washington people want with me?”

“To sell you on the joys of the Federal Witness Protection Program,” O’Hare said with a grin.

Burke gave his partner an annoyed look. To the woman he said, “They’ll want to talk to you about testifying in the Frank Brogna murder case, and probably in some other matters, as well. And if you agree to testify, there will be provisions made for your security, before, during, and after the trial. Those
may
include an offer involving the Witness Protection Program—” he sent another sharp glance toward O’Hare “—or it may not. And if it does, acceptance is, of course, up to you.”

“And how about whether I even
testify
or not?” she said. “Is that up to me, too? The law says I don’t have to, remember?”

“That’s right, you don’t,” Burke said. “And if that’s your decision, then you can convey it to the people from Justice when they get here.”

“How about I just
convey
it to you right now? Why don’t you just call your important Washington lawyers and all those extra-special agents and tell them I’m not scared by your stories about Carlo and his big, bad hit man, which I don’t believe for two seconds. Why don’t both of you just get the hell out of my face, and out of my life,
and out of my house
!”

After this outburst, Burke’s voice seemed very quiet as he said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to tell the Justice Department people yourself, Mrs. Latona, face-to-face. They won’t abort the trip on my say-so. That kind of decision is far above my pay grade Now, if you want us out of your home, that’s your right. We’ll leave. But our orders are to stick with you, so we won’t be far away. We’ll stake out the house as best we can while staying off your property, if that’s the way you want it. And if you go out, we’ll be behind you— at a discreet distance, of course. We’ll do our best to keep you alive in case a killer named Dennis shows up before our people do.”

“You’re being dumb, lady,” O’Hare said, still in “bad cop” mode. “If you don’t accept protection, you’ll be cold meat within forty-eight hours.”

It was then that she buried her face in her hands and started to cry, her shoulders shaking with the spasms. The two men exchanged glances but said nothing.

After a half minute or so, she reached for a paper napkin from the tray on the table and began to dab at her eyes, even though no tears had marred the perfectly-applied mascara. “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “I just don’t know what to
do
.”

“You don’t have to make any decisions right now,” Burke said. “Look— take the afternoon, think things over, then talk to the people from Justice when they get here tonight. See what they have to—”

Her head turned quickly to the left. After a moment, she whispered, “
Did you hear that
?”

Burke slowly pushed his chair back. “Hear what?” he asked quietly.

“From the living room,” she said in a hushed voice. “It sounded like the screen in the window was rattling. But it
never
does that, except… when you’re taking it out.”

Burke stood, drawing a big automatic from a holster at his right hip. “Stay where you are, both of you,” he said softly.

“Probably just the damn breeze,” O’Hare muttered, but did as he was told. The woman stayed still, except for her left hand, which moved to grasp her glass of orange juice, from which she had barely sipped a drop.

Burke walked softly over to the living room door and stood, listening intently. With his free hand he grasped and turned the doorknob— slowly, to avoid rattling. He took a deep breath and flung the door open, holding the automatic to cover the room.

If Burke had seen something that fit his expectations, like a man coming in through the window, he would have reacted instantly and effectively. But what he saw instead was a corpse. A dark-haired, rather heavy woman was lying on the floor, surrounded by a blood pool that spread out from her body to saturate the carpet. She appeared to have been shot twice, once in the heart and again between the eyes. Taking in the head wound in a glance, Burke noticed, absurdly, the fringe of dark moustache along the dead woman’s upper lip. It took him perhaps two seconds to realize the implications of what he was looking at. Then he turned, very fast, back toward the kitchen. He was almost fast enough.

As soon as Burke had thrown open the door, the woman sitting at the kitchen table hurled the contents of her glass, about six ounces of highly-acidic orange juice, right into O’Hare’s face.

A lot of professional assassins favor a .22 automatic, because it can be silenced effectively — the bigger the caliber, the harder it is to suppress the noise. But a .22 slug doesn’t have a lot of stopping power to begin with, and screwing a silencer onto the barrel reduces muzzle velocity even further. So if you’re planning to kill somebody with a silenced .22, you’d better be a hell of a good shot.

The woman in the kitchen was a superb shot. She knew that Burke had his pistol already out, and that made him the danger man. He was just spinning to face back into the kitchen as the woman snatched the silenced Browning Buck Mark from her outsize handbag.

Burke was just bringing the barrel of his weapon into line with the woman’s head — his last coherent thought was,
Gotta be a head shot, or she still might have a chance to fire
— when the subsonic .22 bullet struck him in the chest, entering the left ventricle of his heart. He jerked with the impact, which gave the woman another precious half-second to fire again, this time putting the bullet just above the bridge of his nose, from which the angle of entry carried it into his brain. Burke was dead before he hit the floor, although the woman, mouth set in a thin line of concentration, had lost interest in him the instant the second shot went home.

O’Hare’s eyes were in agony from the acid in the orange juice, and his mind was reeling from the shock and incipient panic that came from knowing that he was suddenly in
very
bad trouble. He had been frantically trying to reach his own weapon, but sitting in a narrow chair with armrests is the absolute worst position for getting at a handgun holstered behind your right hip, especially for a big man. The woman had counted on that.

Failing to reach his pistol from the chair, O’Hare was frantically trying to reach his feet when the .22 round took him in the stomach. It was a snap shot designed to slow him down, and the woman had made it using peripheral vision only. But now she was facing O’Hare, and her follow-up struck precisely in the center of his forehead. O’Hare fell forward onto the table and slid slowly to the floor, bringing the tablecloth and a tray full of condiments with him.

None of the four shots was any louder than snapping a pencil. None was heard anywhere outside the house.

The woman sat where she was for almost a minute, breathing deeply to damp down the adrenaline that was racing through her bloodstream. The hormone is essential for quick action, but it can interfere with clear thinking once the action is over.

As her heart rate slowed, the ability to think clearly and coldly reasserted itself. When she rose from the kitchen chair, the woman’s movements showed no hesitation or uncertainty. First, she checked the two bodies sprawled on the kitchen floor. The men were almost certainly dead, but old habits die hard. Then she peered cautiously out of each window, to be sure that the FBI agents did not have backup waiting outside. Next, she picked up the four cartridge casings that had been ejected from her automatic and put them in her bag. Finally, she took a dish towel and wiped down every surface that she had touched since coming back into the house with the two Feds. She had already erased her fingerprints from the rest of the place before her abortive effort to leave the first time.

She replaced the pistol in her purse, took a final look around the kitchen to be sure she was leaving nothing behind, and turned toward the stairs that led down to the entrance. Opening the wooden door, the woman looked through the glass of the storm door to check the street one more time, then used a tissue to wipe the doorknob on both sides.

Her pulse rate was normal now. It had been a close thing back there in the kitchen, but “close” only counts in horseshoes. In the game that Carolyn Dennis played, all that mattered was who was still standing when it was over.

She had spent eight years in Europe killing individuals whom the CIA had decided were threats to the nation’s well-being. But her travels had given her a taste for nice things, and the Agency’s pay scale had never been described as generous, even with danger money added. People like Carlo Latona paid much better than the CIA ever had.

Just before stepping outside, Carolyn Dennis slipped on the pair of Oakley sunglasses she had worn on her way in. The big lenses should prevent any nosy neighbors from getting a clear view of her face. Besides, she thought the Oakleys made her look sexy.

She was right— they did.

* * * * *

Last Rights

“Most the time, I don’t interfere,” Mrs. Kvasny told the two policemen as they followed her down the hallway, the old floorboards groaning beneath their feet. “Long as people pay their rent on time, and none of the other tenants complain, what do I care what kinda stuff they do in their own apartment?” She fingered her ring of keys nervously, as if it were a set of worry beads, or maybe a rosary. “But last night I could hear it myself, and I live two floors down, for God’s sake!”

“You’re doing the right thing, ma’am,” Officer Muldoon told her. He was 22, skinny, and a rookie. “It’s always best to check these things out.”

“I mean, there was this like
chanting
,” she said. “Went on for hours. And then all the banging around, like he was throwing furniture, or somthin’. And then that awful
screamin’
— that’s when I called 911!”

“And how long has it been since you last heard anything from Mr. Belasco’s apartment?” Officer Gunther asked. He was 48, heavyset, and Muldoon’s Training Officer.

Mrs. Kvasny checked her watch. “Must be half an hour, maybe a little less.” She stopped in front of Apartment #9. “Here, this is the one.”

Muldoon stepped forward and pounded on the door. He paused, then pounded some more before calling, “New York Police Department, Mister Belasco! Open up!”

There was no response from inside. Gunther said to Mrs. Kvasny, “Okay, here’s what you do. Unlock the door, then step away from it. In fact, it might be a good idea if you went back down to the end of the hall.”

As soon as they stepped into the apartment, Muldoon and Gunther knew they were dealing with more than a simple noise complaint. The odor of fresh blood is something that any police officer learns to recognize early on, and the coppery scent was all through the place, overlaid with incense and something else, something that smelled like sulphur.

They went slowly through the place, weapons drawn, checking each room as they passed it. Then they reached the living room.

After a long moment, Muldoon said, softly, “Dear sweet merciful Jesus.”

Gunther, who had been on the job for sixteen years, swallowed a couple of times before saying, “No, I’m pretty sure He wasn’t here today, kid.” He stared at the pentagram painted on the floor, its design partially obscured by blood and other bodily fluids. “The other guy— well, that could be a different story.”

Gunther turned to look at Muldoon, whose face had gone the color of dirty milk. “Look, I’ll stay here,” he said. “Why’nt you go out in the hall, get on your radio, and call this in? And for Christ’s sake keep that landlady outta here.”

He looked again at the savagely mutilated body of Bela Belasco. “Be sure and tell ‘em we’re gonna need detexorcists as well as the forensics people.”

* * *

The crime scene technicians arrived quickly and began the arcane rituals of their work. They were followed a few minutes later by two men in rumpled black suits with ID folders hanging over the breast pockets. In each case, the badge being displayed was the standard gold detective shield, but with a cross superimposed on the insignia of the NYPD. The two men spent several seconds looking silently around the room, then approached the uniformed officers. “I’m Merrin, this is Karras,” said the tall one. “What do we got here?” Merrin’s voice was a raspy, black-coffee-ruined tenor.

As Gunther began to run down what little information they had, Muldoon studied the two exorcist detectives, the first ones he’d ever seen in the flesh.

Merrin was lean verging on skinny, with white hair that might have been premature, but not by much. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that accentuated the ascetic thinness of his face. His partner was shorter, and broad through the shoulders and chest. Detective Karras had dark, untidy hair and skin that was somewhere between tan and swarthy. His nose looked like it had been broken more than once.

Muldoon still remembered the guest lecturer who had addressed his class at the police academy. The expert, a retired D.C. detective named Kinderman, had told them he was there to explain why cops now had to deal with demonic crime — offenses committed, not by demon worshippers, but by real demons.

“Fourteen years ago, during the last days of the Afghan War, all hell broke loose,” Kinderman told them. “Literally.”

Muldoon had nodded at that, along with several of his classmates. They’d been too young to pay much attention back then, but there’d been stuff written about it since. At the time, the news reports had been vague, then conflicting, then nonexistent. The government had never publicly explained what had happened, had not even admitted that anything
had
happened.

“As you all know,” Kinderman continued, “Ayman al-Zawahiri
took over leadership of Al Qaeda, following the death of Osama bin Laden in Pakistan at the hands of U.S. forces. Fearing that American and Pakistani troops were closing in on the complex of caves where he was hiding, al-Zawahiri apparently got in touch with an Arab mystic named Abdul al-Hazram. Al-Hazram, we now know, had discovered a ritual that would allow him to conjure demons. For real. Usually, such creatures, once summoned, are carefully controlled, exploited for whatever purpose the summoner desires, then sent back to Hell. But al-Zawahiri had something else in mind— he wanted Abdul al-Hazram to conjure as many demons as he could, then set them free in our world. We don’t know whether he thought the demons could be induced to fight for Islam against the infidel Americans, or maybe he simply wanted to take all of us to Hell with him. Since al-Zawahiri was killed by a Predator drone shortly thereafter, those questions may never be answered.

“It has since been established that al-Hazram succeeded in conjuring several of these infernal creatures, exact number unknown, and turning them loose— before one of the demons turned on him and tore him to pieces. The consequences of al-Hazram’s actions are still being felt around the world today.”

Kinderman paused for a sip of water. “A potentially greater problem for law enforcement is that al-Hazram’s grimoire, the so-called Necromicon, which contained his precise instructions for summoning demons, disappeared shortly after his death. Its present whereabouts are unknown, but photocopies of the book have been appearing on the black magic market in the last few years, along with a great many fakes.

“Therefore, as police officers, you will likely encounter two kinds of infernal crimes. One involves demons themselves. As pure spirits, they have no influence on our world unless they possess a human being. This they can apparently do, under certain circumstances. The second kind of crime involves those individuals who will attempt to make use of al-Hazram’s knowledge to summon other demons from Hell into our world. The murders in Prague last year, which I’m sure you have heard of, were traced directly to a conjuration ceremony that went wrong.”

Muldoon was abruptly brought back to the present when Detective Karras said to him, “How about you, Officer? Anything to add?” Even though he had the look of a failed middleweight, Karras’ voice was soft.

“Uh, no, sir, nothing.”

Karras nodded and was turning away when Muldoon said, “Detective?”

“What?”

“You figure it was some kind of, like, demon that done this?”

Karras shrugged heavy shoulders. “Too early to say for sure. Why do you ask— because of the pentagram?”

“Well, yeah, and, besides— you saw what he
did
to the guy, for God’s sake.”

Karras looked at the young officer. “What you mean is, you’ve never seen this kind of savagery committed by a mere mortal.”

“No sir, I sure haven’t.”

“Stay with the job a while, son. You will.”

* * *

Merrin got behind the wheel of the dark blue Chrysler Charisma and waited while Karras maneuvered his bulk into the passenger’s seat.

“So, all the neighbors heard the chanting and banging around and screaming, but nobody saw anything,” Merrin said.

“Yeah, nobody ever sees anything.”

“Still,
somebody
walked out of that apartment when all the fun was finished.”

“Sure— whoever the demon took over and used to do a number on what’s-his-name, Belasco.”

Merrin nodded. “So somebody else was there when Belasco did the summoning. Question is, who?”

“Belasco’s client, maybe.”

“Think Belasco was in it for the money?”

“Black magicians are always motivated by greed, whether for money or power— you know that as well as I do. And even a magus like Belasco had to come up with the rent every month.”

Merrin started the car. “Good point. Let’s go back to the house and work the phones. See if maybe a big check cleared Belasco’s account recently, and whose check it was.”

Karras snorted. “Our luck never runs that good.”

“Then maybe it’s due for a change.”

As he guided the car through the heavy traffic, Merrin noticed that Karras was muttering something under his breath, his lips moving incredibly fast. “Are you still screwing around with that speed-talking stuff?”

“It’s not screwing around,” Karras said. “That new voice-recognition software, it’s fucking amazing. Lets the computer process spoken words as fast as you can say ‘em, no limit. The guy teaching my Speed-Talking class says we’ll be up to 800 or 900 words a minute soon. It’s gonna save hours on my paperwork, you watch.”

Merrin cut off a super-limo, ignoring the outraged blaring of its horn. “Don’t you need like a Pentium 19 processor to run that new voice-recognition thing?”

“Yeah, but my computer’s got a 19. Doesn’t yours?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, they’re probably upgrading alphabetically. They’ll get to you soon.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Just don’t try any of your Speed-Talking on the phone this afternoon. You’ll just confuse people, and I’d kind of like to clear this case before I die.”

“Or anybody else does,” Karras said.

* * *

Karras sat at his gray metal desk in the detective squad room, staring at his computer screen and mumbling search commands into the small microphone clipped to his collar. Frown lines made creases in his brow.

Merrin came over and plopped wearily into the empty visitor’s chair. “Good news and bad news,” he said. “The good, first: I finally got access to Belasco’s bank records, although I had to practically promise Chase Citibank my first born child in exchange.”

“You’ve taken a vow of celibacy,” Karras said. “You don’t have any kids.”

“Chase Citibank doesn’t know that.”

“I bet I can guess the bad news, already. No big checks deposited in Belasco’s account recently.”

“Bingo,” Merrin said. “You’re pretty smart for somebody with a size eighteen neck.”

“Smart enough to know what we have to do now.”

“Amaze me.”

Karras shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Find out whether somebody’s been looking for a magus recently— somebody who eventually hooked up with that asshole Belasco.”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself, although less obscenely,” Merrin said, rising. “Shall we hit the bricks?”

Karras looked at his watch, an old Timex he’d had since the seminary. “No hurry,” he said. “Might as well get some dinner first. Nobody we wanna talk to is going to be up and around until after dark.”

* * *

The sun had been down for an hour when they pulled into the parking lot adjoining Hazel’s Hex Club. From outside, the place looked like a hundred other upscale bars in the city. Unless you knew better, the strange symbols painted on the walls were just quirky decorations, not ancient signs designed to ward off curses.

The big, smoky room was about half full, most of the customers the usual mixed bag of Wiccans, New Agers, Satanists, Goths, and tourists. Sprinkled among them were a few other beings, who, were their true natures readily apparent, would have sent the dilettantes and wanna-bees screaming out into the night.

Karras and Merrin pretended not to notice how conversation in the room seemed to ebb when they walked in, before slowly resuming its former volume.

They sat at a vacant table and gave their drink orders to a waitress who looked like an anorexic version of Elvira. But they were served by Hazel herself.

In a room full of black clothing, pierced nostrils, and Kabuki makeup, Hazel stood out like a pearl among pebbles. Her dress was a simple white sheath that probably cost more than the car that Merrin and Karras had parked outside. Her hair and makeup had the elegant simplicity that requires a great deal of skillful attention. And, although she was past forty, her skin was both smooth and flawless.

Being the genuine article, as Hazel had said more than once, she felt no need to look like something out of a road company production of
The Wizard of Oz
. Hazel was, of course, a witch.

“The lady Hazel,” Merrin said with a slight inclination of his head. “Always a pleasure.”

“Join us for a drink, why don’t you?” Karras said, then added, “This isn’t a social call.”

Hazel produced a tiny smile. “No, it never is, is it?”

She sat down and made a slight gesture in the direction of the bar. Thirty seconds later, Elvira was placing before Hazel a small snifter containing a green liquid.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” Karras asked.

She studied the contents of her glass, or pretended to. “Well,” she said, “it’s either Crème de Menthe, or Essence of Toad Testicles.” With a grin, she extended the glass toward Karras. “Care to find out which?”

Karras shook his head quickly and sat back in his chair.

“Cut it out, Haze,” Merrin said. “We’re here on business.”

She took a sip of her drink, then nodded. “The business of burning Belasco, most likely.”

“Belasco didn’t burn,” Karras told her.

“No, but I like the alliteration,” she said. “Anyway, I expect he’s burning now. Lie down with dogs, end up with fleas. Lie down with demons….” She made a face.

“How did you know Belasco was fooling around with demons?” Merrin asked.

She moved her elegant shoulders slightly. “It wasn’t much of a secret. Not among our community, anyway.”