Evil Dark (20 page)

  "Sounds like you know this dude pretty well, Stan," Karl said.

  "Better than I ever wanted to."

  Karl looked like he was waiting for me to say more, but when I kept quiet, he didn't push.

  "All right, so maybe we know why Sharkey's acting like your guardian angel," McGuire said. "But what we still don't know is who he's guarding you
from
."

  "I'd say it's gotta be related to one of the cases we're working, but so far we haven't got shit on any of them. Suspicions and theories – that's it."

  "If somebody's trying to take you out, maybe that's a validation of your suspicions and theories," McGuire said.

  "Could be," I said. "And that reminds me – in all the excitement I didn't get around to telling you my latest theory – and it's a doozie."

  McGuire sat back. "I'm all ears."

  I told him my idea that the snuff films and murders of supes – and maybe a human, too – were all being carried out by the same people.

  When I'd finished, McGuire didn't say anything. He checked his coffee mug, dumped a mouthful of cold coffee into the wastebasket and poured himself a fresh cup.

  "It's a reach, Stan," he said at last. "Especially the part about the snuff films being part of this big Helter Skelter conspiracy. I don't see how they can get the public all upset if the torture murders are all underground – and that's exactly where they are."

  "They
have
to be sold on the sly," I said. "It's like kiddie porn – just
possessing
that stuff means you're going to jail, let alone selling it."

  "My point exactly," McGuire said.

  "Yeah, maybe you're right," I said. "Could be that whoever killed Milo just hates ghouls for some reason, and that's why he gave them special attention. Although I figure all the mutilation was post-mortem, which means it wasn't torture."

  "Post-mortem?" McGuire said. "How do you know that? The ME's report hasn't come out yet."

  "They weren't restrained," I said. "Nobody who's still alive is going to just lie still while you disembowel him, let alone cut his dick off."

  McGuire thought about that for a second. "Could be that your perp is extremely strong. Or maybe he had help, to hold the vics down while he cut on them."

  "There's something else to consider, too," I said. "Blood splatter."

  McGuire frowned at me. "What about it?"

  "There wasn't any," I said. "Or none to speak of, anyway. You cut somebody like that while his heart's still beating, blood's gonna spray all over the place. It'd be on everything. Plus, the vic is sure to struggle, which would increase the mess." I spread my hands. "I saw the room, boss. No mess."

  "Sounds like you've proved your new theory," McGuire said. "But that doesn't make the big conspiracy true. You can't horrify people with this stuff if they don't
know
about it."

  "They'd know about it if they read it in the fuckin' papers," Karl said. We both stared at him.

  "Papers?" I said. "What fucking papers?"

  "Remember, Stan? I told you the other night. I got a call from this dude at the
Times-Tribune
, asking if I knew anything about snuff films."

  "You didn't say anything to me about this," McGuire said.

  "I didn't figure there was anything to say, boss. I told him snuff films were a myth, and not to bother me with that bullshit again." Karl shrugged. "End of story. Or that's what I thought at the time."

  "What was his name again?" I asked. "The reporter."

  "Mitchell Hansen," Karl said.

  "That's right, I remember now," I said. "He left a message with Louise last week for me to call him – I just tossed it. Haven't heard from him since."

  "Well, now." McGuire took a sip of coffee and put the cup down carefully. "I got a call the other night from a so-called journalist, asking me to comment about snuff films. I told him my comment was to stop wasting my time with fairy tales." He looked at Karl, then at me. "He said his name was Tod Solin, and that he worked for the
People's Voice
."

 

We left McGuire's office more puzzled than when we had gone in – and that was saying something. If the local media had the snuff film story, how much did they have? Who had leaked it to them? And even if they figured out what was going on, how could they turn it into a news story without grossing out all their readers? Maybe that was the whole point of this – to make people sick to their stomachs and eager for payback against somebody, anybody.

  As we reached our desks, I asked Karl, "Did you talk to that detective in Chicago about those knife wounds?"

  "I haven't had the chance to track her down yet, but I'll do it now – as long as McGuire doesn't send us on another call."

  "Didn't get the chance? Our shift's half over – what've you been doing all this time?"

  "Well, uh…" If vampires could blush, I'm pretty sure Karl would have been.

  "Karl – come on, this is me, remember? I don't give a shit if you were buggering a goat on the front steps of City Hall."

  Karl shook his head. "That's not fair, Stan – it wasn't a goat, and, besides, we're just good friends. Anyway, those weren't the front steps. There's two side entrances, you know."

  "You crack me up, Karl. Now cut the crap. What have you been up to?"

  He wouldn't look at me. "Watching your house."

  "Watching my – what the fuck for?"

  "To make sure nobody came back and set any more traps for you while you weren't home. I figured one attempt on your life is enough for one night, even for a tough bastard like you."

  "But how did you–"

  "I was here when the OIT call came in. And once I found out the officer in trouble was you, I figured I'd better get over to your place, pronto."

  "McGuire OKed that?"

  "I didn't bother to ask."

  "Jesus, Karl, you took–"

  "Just let me finish, all right? When I got there, a couple of black-and-whites had already arrived. I could see that you were OK, and that a bunch of goblins weren't. I didn't figure you noticed me."

  "No, I didn't."

  "So, after a while," Karl said, "they take you away in a black-and-white, and Forensics does their thing, than a couple of ambulances cart off the dead goblins, then – nothing."

  "What do you mean, 'nothing'?"

  "I mean no cops stayed around to secure your house. Whoever sent those gobs could've come back and planted a fucking cobra under your welcome mat, and the first thing the department would know about it would be when somebody found your body. So I stayed in the yard and watched. Nothing happened, by the way."

  "Shit, man, I–"

  "I'm not done," Karl said. "McGuire finally got hold of the patrol commander, who agreed to send a couple of guys over to your place. When they got there, McGuire called me on my cell and said to get my ass back here. So here I am – with my ass intact, in case you didn't notice. Doesn't look like McGuire's too pissed at me, either. Maybe because he'd have done the same thing, if he'd thought of it."

  "Can I talk now?" I asked.

  "OK, as long as you don't make any fucking speeches."

  "No speeches. Just – thank you."

  He looked at me for a few seconds. "You're welcome."

  "So, are you gonna try to find that Chicago chick now?"

  "I'm on the case, Ace."

  "Somebody told me that Rachel Proctor is back from her conference. I'm gonna pay her a visit."

  "Maybe by the time you get back, I'll have some news from Chi-town."

  "Here's hoping."

  The office assigned to the department's Consulting Witch was on the floor below us. I took the stairs instead of the elevator. I'd been doing a lot of sitting tonight, with one thing and another. Of course, after those goblins had tried to kill me, sitting down had seemed like a real good idea.

  Rachel tends to work nights, for the same reason I do. Her door was open, but I knocked on the glass before walking in.

  Rachel's not a very big woman – five foot even and probably 105 soaking wet. Not that I've ever seen her soaking wet – I think she likes me, but not that way. She was wearing her thick auburn hair swept back in a ponytail, and she wore reading glasses that made her look like a schoolteacher – but the kind of schoolteacher who could turn you into a toad instead of giving you detention, if provoked.

  At my knock, she looked up from the thick old book she was reading and smiled. The smile seemed genuine – proof of her good nature, considering the kind of trouble I'd got her in some time back.

  "Hello, Stan," she said, pushing back her chair and standing.

  "Hey, Rachel. Welcome back from, uh…"

  "San Diego. The weather was beautiful." She looked at me more closely. "What's the matter, Stan? What happened?"

  "What makes you think anything special happened? I'm a cop – stuff happens around me all the time."

  "No, this is personal to you. Your aura's usually a strong turquoise, but there's some gray in it tonight. It's pulsing, which means a reaction to something recent."

  She sat down again. "I'm not trying to pry. If it's something you'd rather not talk about, that's up to you. But you can't hide your emotional state from me."

  Auras. Jeez. I sat down in one of her visitor's chairs. "I had a little trouble earlier tonight, is all. Some goblins tried to kill me."

  "My goddess, Stan! Are you all right? Physically, I mean."

  "They never laid a glove on me – or a knife, which is what they had in mind."

  Her brow furrowed. "Goblins aren't usually aggressive, unless attacked. I assume you weren't the one doing the attacking."

  "Not six of them, I wasn't. But you'd be surprised how aggressive goblins can get when they're pumped full of meth."

  "
Meth
." She tilted her chair back and studied me. "There was a problem with some meth-addicted goblins a couple of years ago, wasn't there? You asked me for a potion that would make them compliant."

  "Yup. Worked like a charm, too, if you'll pardon the expression."

  She looked at me some more. "That was the night Paul DiNapoli died."

  "Uh-huh."

  "You're still blaming yourself for that, aren't you?"

  "Who says I'm blaming myself?" I said that maybe a little louder than I'd intended.

  "You did. Just now. But it was already apparent."

  "Rachel, no offense, OK? But I didn't come here for psychotherapy, or whatever witches call it."

  She nodded calmly. "All right, Stan."

  "I'm actually here to warn you."

  "
Warn
me? About what?"

  "Somebody in the area has been abducting and burning witches," I said.

  "Yes, I know. The first one happened before I left. I read about the other one while I was away."

  "You checked out the
Time-Tribune
's online edition?"

  "No, the news was posted to a discussion board that I follow," she said.

  "Witches have discussion boards?"

  "Why not? Everyone else seems to. Sometimes technology is better than magic. But only sometimes."

  "Did you… know either of the victims?"

  A deep sigh escaped her. "Not personally, although I'm friends with the sister of one." She moved a small paperweight from one part of her desk to another. "And here we thought the burning times were over."

  "This isn't the state doing it this, time, Rachel. Or the Catholic Church. It's some lunatic, or a group of them."

  "I doubt that made the flames any less painful for the victims, but I take your point. If you don't mind me asking about police business – are you close to catching whoever's responsible?"

  "It's not that I mind telling you," I said. "But the answer is kind of complicated, and I've got to get back upstairs. The short answer is, we don't know who's been doing the actual murders, but we may be getting a handle on why it was done. And knowing
why
brings us one step closer to who."

  "I understand – I think. And I appreciate your candor."

  "So, if you already heard about the burnings, you know enough to take precautions until we nail these bastards."

  "Yes, I've got a spell prepared to defend myself. I can invoke it instantly by using a single word of power."

  "If you have to use it," I said, "try not to kill the perp. I need him alive and talking."

  "I can't kill anyone, Stan. White magic, remember?"

  "Just checking." I stood up. "Well, thanks for your time. Good to see you again."

  "Stan, before you go…"

  "What?"

  "Come here a second, will you?"

  "Mrs Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?"

  "You should live so long." When I stood in front of her desk she said, "Let me see your right hand."

  I held it out to her, saying, "You haven't added palmistry to your talents, have you?"

  "That stuff's bunk. Turn your hand over."

  She gently held my hand with her left, and with her right index finger she began to trace some kind of pattern on my palm.

  "That kinda tickles," I said.

  "Sssh." She bent over my palm and said a few words in a language I didn't recognize. Then she looked up at me. "Stan, do you remember that night in the liquor store? The night Paul died?"

  "Damn right I do." My throat felt tight as I spoke.

  "Good." She said a few more words in that unfamiliar language. "Now close your hand and squeeze it.
Tightly
! Tight as you can!"

  I did what she asked, feeling foolish.

  And then something loosened deep in my chest, like untying a knot I never knew I had in there. I felt like I could take a full breath for the first time in – well, in a year and a half.