The Devil You Know (7 page)

Another thing about Ben is, he’s punctual, and he expects everyone else to be.

At five to ten, I finished gelling my bad haircut into one of those modern spiky men’s do’s, slid a casual, yet cop-like blazer over my pullover, and went downstairs. As the big Swiss-style clock tower standing erect over Blackwater started tolling the tenth hour, Ben pulled up in his police cruiser and I slid into the passenger side.

“Looking sharp,” Ben said.

“I try to avoid the vagabond look when I talk to suspects. It makes them nervous.”

“You really think the Bergers are up to something?” he said as he pulled out onto the main drag and headed west toward the developments. I knew he wouldn’t be asking me if this investigation wasn’t important to him. But there was the rub: this
was
important to him. So important, he was willing to drag me along. So important, he’d set the Kachina doll on his dashboard like it was a bobble-head.

I could imagine Ben putting himself in Thom Berger’s place, frantic to find his lost daughter.

“I don’t know what the Bergers are up to,” I admitted. “I assume you ran a background check?”

“They’re clean, Nick. Thom married Rebecca seven years ago. She was a nurse at the time, down at Pocono Medical. Graduated from ESU with top grades. Thom’s run the True Value since his old man died twenty-five years ago. Not much for education, but it hasn’t held him back any. They don’t have so much as a parking ticket between them.”

“Squeaky-clean.”

“You say that like its bad.”

“Not bad, just unrealistic.”

Ben’s squad car smelled greasy, like fast food and donuts. I rolled down the window to let in some fresh air.

“Guilty until proven innocent,” Ben said.

“I’m not a cop anymore, Ben. I don’t have to play by the rules. I can be as suspicious about people’s motives as I like.”

“Why’d you quit being a cop?” Ben asked suddenly.

I looked over at his profile. From the front, Ben looked African-American. But from the side I could see his Shawnee roots in the arch of his nose and his high cheekbones. He had a hunter’s face. Maybe that’s why I liked him. You can trust hunters. They don’t have time for deception. “My partner was killed,” I told him. Like he didn’t already know that.

“Goes with the territory. A badge is like a target, Nick. You know that.”

“I didn’t like the way he died. It wasn’t normal.”

Ben raised his eyebrows at that. “You think it was a hit?”

“I know it was a hit.” I really didn’t want to talk about this now.

“Was he into some bad shit?” he asked softly. He wasn’t using his cop-voice, so I knew this was strictly off the record. “Were you?”

“I was always into bad shit growing up, Ben. But my family is into worse shit.”

“Organized crime?”

“Something like that.”

Ben didn’t ask any more questions, thankfully. Not that I would have answered anymore. I’d already told him more than I told most folks. Only Morgana knew the whole story. And after I’d told her everything all those years ago I could tell she wished she’d never asked.

Five minutes later we turned up the paved drive to the Berger house and parked next to a bold-looking, cherry-red SUV. I recognized the vehicle immediately, and wasn’t the least bit reassured by its appearance. As Ben and I started up the mum-lined walk to the Bergers’ front stoop, the door opened and Shelley Preston stepped down onto the stoop. She was talking avidly to Thom Berger about having him on the radio. Somehow, I just wasn’t surprised.

I hung back by the SUV as Ben climbed the stoop to talk to Thom Berger. Whatever Shelley had to say to me, it wasn’t for Thom Berger or Ben Oswell to hear.

Shelley zeroed right in on me, prancing up in her four-inch pumps, a predatory sway to her hips. Anyone looking on would say she had sex in her walk, but I know she wanted to eat me alive . . . and not in a good way. She smiled her professional smile but her eyes were mean and dead. Shark eyes. “Nicky,” she cooed, looking me over critically, “it’s nice seeing you again so soon. Rockin’ that whole retro
Miami Vice
look, I see. How’s business?”

I smiled in return. “We’re surviving the recession.”

“As long as there’s superstitious old women living on Social Security, you’ll always make out in this town, right?”

Here we go, I thought. I lifted my head and smiled. “Wow. This from the woman who sucks the blood of human misery in order to further her career in public radio.”

Shelley laughed, a high, light tune that revealed nothing unpleasant. Maybe she was perpetually PMSing, or maybe it was because the Phillies had lost to the Cardinals last night, but she had that whole angry newshound thing going on. Cassandra’s disappearance had really brought it out in her. “You ought to write that shit down. You could make a fortune writing fiction.”

“You are such a fucking cunt.”

She looked at me then with something akin to surprise. “And you’re a fucking hypocrite, Englebrecht. Why are you really here?”

I could have fired off about a half dozen things in response, but I held my tongue. When I found that lost camper, I hadn’t let the papers report my name. I’d given Ben the credit for that, not because I was feeling particularly humble that day but because my dad had dropped by and warned me not to let my name into the papers. He said it would cause me too much trouble, that I was already attracting unwanted attention. Not long after, Malach had shown up for the first time trying to bust my balls. I hated my dad, but I had to admit he was right most of the time. As a result, Ben was half of the mind that I was dirty and/or on the Tri-State mafia’s shit list. Shelley, who had been on the scene when the camper was found, was of the same mind and convinced I had a filthy past I should be ashamed of. Of course, she wanted the details of that filthy past. That was one half of the reason why she loved to hate me. The other half was more elemental; after all her hair had fallen out, she’d become convinced that I’d been somehow responsible for that—which, incidentally, I had been.

It was the irony of my life that the one time I turned down a nice piece of ass it insisted on following me around town, trying to make my life a living hell. But it illustrated a truth I was only recently becoming acquainted with: No good deed goes unpunished.

“I’m here to help the Bergers find their daughter,” I told her simply. “Same as you.”

“Did Thom Berger hire you?” she asked in full talk-show hostess mode. I’d heard Shelley drill guests into their seats on her show. I knew what she thought, that the whole psychic detective thing was a bullshit front, that I was doing sleazy business in her hometown, she just didn’t know what kind yet.

“It was nice talking to you too, Shelley.” I started walking away.

“That wasn’t much of an answer,” she called after me.

I waved her away. “It wasn’t much of a question.”

Shelley laughed. “You know, it’s a damned shame, Englebrecht. The outside package is real easy on the eyes, but inside I know you’re just as much of a fucking cunt as I am.”

Amazingly, my day got worse.

Yeah, I know. It surprised me too.

While Ben settled down in the breakfast nook with his notepad, I requested permission from Thom Berger to search Cassandra’s room. I didn’t really have to—police had been through her room several times—but I thought I would be courteous and ask. Thom, sitting opposite Ben, looked up at me uneasily. “Everything was already fingerprinted. The cops were through everything yesterday.”

“I’m not a cop, Mr. Berger. I’m a clairvoyant. I’d like to see if I can get a psychic imprint of her,” I said, which sounded nicely metaphysical, I thought. I had other plans, but the Bergers didn’t need to know about any of that.

Thom spread his hands in a way that seemed to state he couldn’t stop me. I looked around the kitchen area, searching for Mrs. Berger, but the only one here with us was the Hispanic housekeeper, Zanita, busy preparing tea and coffee. I met her eyes but she quickly looked away, and, I think, crossed herself. That wasn’t necessarily an admission of guilt, just good sense.

I went upstairs. The house had that white, shiny, open spaciousness that only new houses have. Even the paint smelled new. I followed a long hallway decorated with a bright Chinese runner. The Bergers’ various bedrooms and guestrooms lined the hallway on both sides, but Cassie’s room was marked with yellow police tape up ahead.

I ducked under the tape and flipped on the lights.

Nice room. It was done in lavender, instead of the traditional pink, with a poufy canopy bed full of pink and purple stuffed animals. Disney wallpaper arched across the walls in shocking pastel colors, full of various flying creatures like Dumbo and Peter Pan. It was a little too much, the only place Mrs. Berger had gone overboard with the decor, in my humble opinion. At a glance, there was nothing overtly weird or standoutish about the room.

I started at the bed and moved my way clockwise around the room. If it’s one thing I know how to do, it’s toss a room. When I was a cop, I did vice, not homicide. The two are completely different animals, regardless of what primetime TV will have you believe. I didn’t do the stuff you see on
Dexter
and
Hawaii Five-O
. I didn’t look at blood splatters or cadavers. I didn’t parry with ME’s or my boss. For eight hours a day I basically ripped coldwater flats, motel rooms and septic project apartments apart, looking for evidence of possession. I got shot at by pimps, pushers, hookers, and kids so high they couldn’t aim straight and so young it was enough to make you cry.

I didn’t bother to move the mattress. I cut it open using the athame in my boot. By the by, you don’t use athames in such manners, but it was sharp and it was what I had at hand. Finding nothing of interest, I went through the bureau and then the hope chest at the foot of the bed where Mrs. Berger kept her daughter’s diapers and other care products, looking for false bottoms. I checked the closet, then got down on my knees and started examining the carpet, looking for places where tacks were missing, or were newer than the rest. And that was how Zanita found me, on my knees, folding back a piece of beige carpeting in the closet.

I knew the exact moment when she entered the bedroom. I could feel her like a fluttery touch between my shoulder blades. I let the carpet flap down and climbed to my feet, turning. It was pretty appropriate, I thought, me stepping out of the closet. That’s where the monsters always come from, right?

“En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo. Amén.”
Zanita crossed herself, then raised her hand and made the sign of the Evil Eye, extending her index and little finger while holding her middle and ringer finger down with her thumb. She said, quite clearly, “
Diablo.
”

I held very still, not wanting to spook the woman. “You are a bruja?”

It took the woman a long moment to answer. “No—but my
abuela
—my grandmother—she was powerful.” She said this like a talisman, no doubt in an effort to summon her grandmother to her side and protect her from the big, bad demon-man.

“I won’t hurt you, Zanita,” I told her in Spanish. “Your grandmother
was
powerful. She has given you a great gift.”

Zanita looked unimpressed. “You will leave this place. You are not welcomed here, devil. You will not hurt the girl.”

“You say that like you know the girl is alive.”

She watched me carefully, frightened half out of her wits, though I sensed nothing like malice or deception from the woman. Brujos—witches—are generally very easy for me to read. The closer they are to the occult, the closer they are to me, and that makes it very difficult for them to lie to me. Zanita thought me evil, but I could sense great love and concern for little Cassandra. She seemed to weigh her options, ultimately deciding the life of a child was worth speaking to a devil. “My grandmother came to me and told me the girl is alive. That is all I know.”

I took the angel poppet out of my pocket. “Do you know what this is, Zanita?”

Her eyes widened and she made the sign of the cross. “You would curse me, devil?”

“I am not interested in cursing you, Zanita, or this house. I just want to find out what happened to Cassandra.” Unfortunately, by the time I had finished speaking, Zanita had turned and fled the room. She said something frantically in Spanish as she made her way down the stairs, nearly tripping over her own feet, and I had a funny feeling she was going to give notice before the day was through.

Great going, Nick, I thought. Scary much?

There was a good chance Zanita was going to be talking crazy-like and upsetting the household, so I thought it would help if I hurried up. Before going back downstairs, I ducked into the most well-used bedroom I could find, what I thought was Thom and Rebecca’s. I might as well have a glance around before they threw my ass out.

Unlike Cassie’s room, Rebecca had outfitted this one with a more localized theme. I saw a Chippendale four-poster bed without a canopy and old time prints of vintage cars on the walls. The bed was covered in what was likely a real Amish quilt in a wedding-ring pattern, and there was another quilt in a star pattern hanging on the wall behind a pane of glass. A small plaque stated that Rebecca had won a contest sewing it. There was prescription medication on the bedside table, a cross on the wall, and books on the bookshelves. I went to examine the books and immediately recognized a few as “recipe” books likely written by Thom Berger’s own ancestors. His ancestors, like mine, had been deeply into magic and the occult. I was looking over what was likely his ancestor’s Book of Shadows when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs.