Evil Dark (27 page)

 

The man I wanted to talk to wouldn't appreciate being awakened at 5am for something that wasn't an emergency, and I figured about 8 o'clock was about the earliest I could get away with calling about something that wasn't urgent. I said goodbye to Karl as he left for his day's rest at about 5.30am, but remained at my desk.

  I could've gone home and called Garrett from there, but depending on what he told me, I might want to make additions to the case file, and I had to do that here. McGuire said he'd OK a couple of hours of overtime, and there was always paperwork for me to catch up on while I was waiting for 8 o'clock to roll around.

  I called Christine to let her know that I wouldn't be home in time to say goodnight to her. I got her voicemail and left a message saying I hoped to see her when she got up.

  I was writing my report on the suicide of John Doe, aka commando boy, when Thorwald and Greer, the Bureau's finest, came in to see McGuire. They both looked at me as they passed through the squad room en route to the boss's office, but neither one spoke. Greer glared at me, as I would've expected, but the look Thorwald gave me was… harder to read. Maybe she was letting her imagination create a Spanish Inquisition fantasy, with me as the star attraction. That would've surprised me a little, since no one expects the Spanish Inquisition. Or so I hear.

  I'd reached the point in my report where I was trying to describe the way that commando boy had barricaded himself in the interrogation room when I heard footsteps approach from behind me – just one set, and by the sound, I figured them for Thorwald's. A couple of seconds later, I found that I was right.

  She was wearing a navy-blue blazer over a pair of khaki pants that might've been a little tighter than regulation. Female law enforcement officers don't wear dresses or skirts on the job – not if they're street cops. Skirts make it hard to run, and even harder to fight.

  Her black hair was cut in front into bangs that went about halfway down her broad forehead. Beneath them, the ice-blue eyes were looking at me without the glare I'd started to get used to.

  "Long night," she said.

  "For both of us, I guess."

  "I thought your shift ended a half hour before sunrise," she said. If there was anything in her voice besides mild interest, I didn't catch it.

  "It usually does," I said, "for the sake of my partner. But I'm putting in a little overtime."

  "Did something new break in the case?"

  "Nothing you don't already know about." If she thought I was holding out on her, she'd raise the roof. "There's a guy I need to call," I said, "and he won't be available until about 8am."

  She nodded, as if this was actually interesting to her. Then she said, "It looks like Greer and I got off on the wrong foot with you and your partner. The two of us came into town very focused on nailing the people behind this butchery, but we may have pushed a little too hard. If we did, I apologize."

  I didn't change my facial expression, but I fancied that I could hear the Hallelujah Chorus being sung by angels in the background. An apology from Thorwald, as far as I was concerned, was right up there with that old trick involving the loaves and fishes.

  "It's not necessary," I said, "but thanks. Having to watch this stuff on video, over and over, would put anybody on edge."

  "Yes, on edge," she said. "And with damn few ways of blowing off steam."

  "Yeah, I know," I said, just to be saying something. What was I going to do – suggest she take up bowling?

  She looked past me for a moment, I assume at McGuire's office, where her partner was still yakking with the boss. Then she glanced at the big clock on the wall. When she brought her gaze back to me, there was something in her face that hadn't been there before. I couldn't have said what it was, exactly, but she looked softer, somehow.

  "It's almost 7.30am," she said. "After you talk to your guy at eight, are you going off duty?"

  "Yeah, I was planning to," I said, "unless he gives me something I have to act on right away, and I don't think it's gonna be that kind of conversation."

  She nodded again. "We're going off duty, too – as soon as Greer gets done whining to your lieutenant about interagency cooperation. We're staying at the Hilton, downtown. I'm in room six-oh-four."

  I gave her a nod of my own. I kept my poker face but my mind was going
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot
?

  "If you're not too tired, why don't you swing by after you get off – shift, I mean?"

  "To discuss the case, you mean?"

  The look she gave me said she thought I'd probably be able to tie my own shoelaces after a few more months of training.

  "No, dummy – for a couple of hours of good hard fucking. It'll do us both good, and I'll spring for breakfast after. The Hilton's room service is pretty good. We can discuss the case then, if you want."

  I won't claim that I was incapable of speech – it's just that I couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't going to get me in some kind of trouble with somebody.

  So I decided to go pragmatic. It seemed safest, and would buy me a little time.

  "What about your partner?" I managed to keep my voice level, I think.

  "What about him?" She shrugged. "His room's down the hall. And if you were thinking of having him join us, don't bother. Greer's as gay as San Francisco – couldn't you tell?"

  Before I could reply to that bit of news, she held up a hand, palm toward me like a traffic cop.

  "Don't say anything more. You'll either show up, or you won't. If you do, fine. If you don't, it's your loss" – then her voice returned to the tone I was familiar with – "and this conversation never happened."

  "What conversation?"

  She nodded one last time and walked back to McGuire's office. As for me, I remained at my computer, but I can't claim that I got much more done on my paperwork.

 

I waited until 8.05am before I picked up the phone. I won't say the past half hour had gone by fast, exactly – but time passes quicker when your mind is occupied, and I hadn't exactly lacked for stuff to think about. And I only spent a small portion of that time imagining Thorwald naked.

  I tapped in the number I'd looked up, and it was answered on the second ring.

  "This is Father Garrett."

  "Morning, Dave. It's Stan Markowski from Occult Crimes. Hope I'm not calling too early."

  "Not at all, Stan – how've you been?"

  "Can't complain, I guess. How about yourself?"

  "Reasonably well, I like to think. I haven't seen you since that messy business over on Spruce Street last summer."

  Garrett is a Jesuit who teaches theology at the U. He's also a volunteer member of the city's SWAT – Sacred Weapons and Tactics – unit. And not the prayer team auxiliary, either. When there's a SWAT call-up, Garrett straps on his body armor, grabs his weapon, and kicks supe ass with the best of them. The order not only says it's OK – they actually encourage him. Warriors for God, and all that.

  "Yeah, it has been a while, hasn't it?" I said. "Dave, I've got what is going to sound like a dumb question for you."

  "I always tell my students that there's no such thing as a dumb question, Stan. What's really dumb is not asking what you need to know. Fire away."

  "OK – what's the motto of the Jesuit order?"

  There was a pause. He said, "Well, that's not what I'd expected, but the motto is 'For the greater glory of God'."

  "And in Latin?" I asked.

  "It's
Ad majorem Dei gloriam
. What's this about, Stan? You thinking about joining up?"

  "No, not yet. I'm asking because in a case I'm working, I came across a phrase in Latin that sounded familiar."

  "And that's what it was? The Jesuit motto?"

  "Almost, but one word's different. It's
ad verum Dei glo
riam
– for the
true
glory of God."

  Another pause. "Really? Well, now, that's interesting."

  "Interesting how?" I asked. "Have you heard it before?"

  "Oh, yes – far too often. Don't you know what that is? It's the motto taken on by that bunch of heretics who call themselves the Church of the True Cross."

  This time, the pause was mine. "No, I didn't know that. It
is
pretty interesting, now that you mention it."

  "They haven't been trying to recruit you, have they?"

  "Not exactly, no," I said. "I met a guy recently who, I guess, was one of their members."

  "Give those people a wide berth if you can, Stanley. They've got some rather… disturbing ideas. And some of them, I think, may be flat-out crazy. The way fanatics are."

  "Looks like I need to find out some more about these guys," I said. "All I know about them is what I've read in a couple of their flyers. They seem to hate practically everybody."

  "Not a bad description, really. Listen, Stan – the guy you want to talk to about this so-called church is Pete Duvall. He's our comparative religion expert, and I believe he's written a book – or a series of articles, I forget which – about those people."

  "Sounds like a man I ought to see," I said. "Where can I find him? Please tell me the order hasn't sent him to Peru, or someplace like that."

  "No, he's a little closer than that," Garrett said. "When I said 'our expert', I meant here at the university. You can find him in St Thomas Hall, three doors down from my office."

  "He teaches at the U? Well, that's good news. When's he likely to be around?"

  "I can check his office hours for you on the university's webpage," Garrett said. "I know you could do that yourself, but I'm already online, so it's quicker for me. Hold on."

  He wasn't away long. "Stan?"

  "I'm here."

  "Since you're a night owl by necessity, this should work to your advantage. Pete teaches an evening class that meets three nights a week from 7pm to 7.50pm. He's got an office hour posted for right after class, from eight to nine. You won't even have to stay up past your bedtime to see him. Feel free to use my name, although you shouldn't need to."

  "That's great, Dave – thanks a million. Now I've got just one more dumb question."

  "Only one? You're a lucky man. Go ahead."

  "What day is it?" I said.

  "Today's Wednesday, Stan. And I recommend you spend a good part of it getting some sleep. Sounds like you've been pushing too hard, as usual."

  "Yeah, I know. I'm going home as soon as we finish here. No, wait – I think I have one more stop to make, first."

 

The Hilton has its own parking garage, but I prefer to park someplace I can get out of in a hurry. I was able to find a space on the street, not far from the hotel's main entrance. And the main entrance was what I sat there looking at, for several minutes.

  I tried to remember the last time I'd gotten laid – not the day, but the year. I revisited my fantasies about Thorwald's naked body, and she looked fine indeed. I thought about my wife, dead these last six years, and found that didn't help at all. Finally, I let go a sigh and reached for the door handle.

  And then "Tubular Bells" started playing in the car.

  I got my phone out and looked at the caller ID.
Lacey
Brennan.

  "Markowski."

  "Hi, Stan – it's Lacey." No dumb supe joke this time, I noticed. Her voice had a raspy quality I hadn't heard before. A lot of crying will do that to you.

  "Hi. How're you doing?"

  "I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question." Her tone was about as light as mercury.

  "Yeah, sorry."

  "I want to talk," she said.

  "I'm listening."

  "No, I mean face-to-face. Can you meet me at the Skyliner on Route 315 outside Pittston? That's about halfway for each of us."

  I hesitated, but only for a second. Maybe two. "Sure, no problem. When do you want me there?"

  "Five minutes ago."

  Morning rush was in progress, so it was about twenty minutes before I pulled into the parking lot of the diner/truck stop/motel/local landmark that is the Skyliner. It's the only eatery – if I can call it that – around that's open twenty-four hours. I used to go there when I was a teenager sometimes, and the place was an area fixture back
then
. The food's pretty good diner chow, but you'd be a fool to stay in one of the motel rooms, and an even bigger fool to patronize one of the hookers who sometimes worked out of the place. Both were known to have bugs.

  It occurred to me that I didn't know what Lacey's personal car looked like, so I just went inside. A quick look around satisfied me that she hadn't arrived yet.

  The place is self-seating, so I took a booth that gave me a clear view of the door. When a waitress, who looked like Regis Philbin, asked if I wanted coffee, I said, "Absolutely." I had the feeling I was going to need a lot of coffee today. The doctors say that caffeine's no substitute for sleep, and they're right. But sometimes in my job, sleep's a luxury – and I can't afford many luxuries on my salary.

  A couple of minutes later, Lacey came through the door, looking like something no self-respecting cat would drag in. Her blonde hair hadn't been washed in a while, she was pale, and I was betting that her blue eyes were bloodshot.

  As she sat down opposite me, I saw that I'd been right – if her eyeballs contained any more blood, she'd have every vampire in the Valley hitting on her. How much of the redness was due to crying, and how much from vodka, I wouldn't even try to guess.

  I stifled the usual "How're you doing?" I didn't need any more comebacks about rhetorical questions. Instead, I just said, "Hey," and got the same in return.

  She was sitting there, elbows on the table and head in both hands, her eyes closed against the fluorescent glare, when the waitress came over and asked her about coffee.