Evil Dark (30 page)

  Barney Ghougle looks like somebody you'd see in a painting by the great American portrait artist, Charles Addams, although Barney always reminds me of the late actor Peter Lorre – short, a little stout, with hair plastered over his head with too much gel. Barney owns a funeral home, and even in Renfield's he wears the professional outfit – black suit, dark gray tie, white shirt. I guess in that place he never knows when he'll encounter a future customer – or a former one.

  As he reached me I said, "Hello, Barney – buy you a drink?"

  "Certainly, Sergeant," he said, with grave formality. "A bourbon and water would be most enjoyable."

  Yeah, he really talks like that. Occupational hazard, I suppose.

  When his drink arrived, Barney took a sip and said, "Now, then – what pressing matter has brought you to this fine establishment tonight?"

  "Goblins."

  "Oh, yes?" Barney wrinkled his nose. "Unpleasant creatures." Like I said, there's not always a lot of love lost between different varieties of supes.

  "You'll get no argument from me," I said. "In fact, a bunch of them were extremely unpleasant around me the other night. With knives, no less."

  "Yes, I heard of that dreadful incident." Of course he had. "I was also relieved to learn that you came through the ordeal unscathed."

  "Unscathed, maybe, but distinctly pissed off. I don't want something like that happening again."

  Barney permitted himself a tiny smile. "My understanding is that those six impertinent goblins will not trouble you – or anyone else – ever again. My congratulations, by the way, on your prowess in combat." He raised his glass to me, then took another sip. "I did not receive any of their custom, alas – goblins bury their own."

  If Barney thought I'd taken down all six greenies by myself, then let him. My reputation as a badass can always use a little polishing.

  "Whoever sent those six could always send more," I said. "That's why I'm very interested in finding out who exactly
did
send them."

  Barney gave me raised eyebrows. "You believe they were hired to kill you, and not simply paying off a grudge? There is bad blood between you and the goblin community that goes back some years, I understand."

  I gave him a look. "Barney, when's the last time you met a goblin who could remember what he had for breakfast yesterday, let alone something that happened eighteen months ago?"

  The little ghoul nodded slowly. "That is a reasonable point you raise."

  "More important, can you imagine six goblins, acting alone, who could stay organized long enough to build a campfire, let alone plan and carry out a hit?"

  "When you put it like that, I cannot help but agree. Someone would appear to have used the goblins as stalking horses against you."

  "Finally, the light dawns," I said. "So what I want to know is, what human's been hanging out with the goblins lately."

  Barney frowned into his glass. "Oh, dear."

  "Don't give me 'Oh, dear', Barney. This is me, remember? The guy who keeps getting your brother out of jail?"

  "I am well aware of your efforts, Sergeant. And I hope I have not proved ungrateful in the past. I am thus most distressed that I cannot be of assistance to you on this occasion."

  "Can't – or won't?"

  "I most certainly would, were it within my capabilities. But I have no lines of communication into the goblin community. They are very secretive, and do not mingle much outside their own numbers. Except for their cousins, of course."

  "Their
what
? Cousins?"

  "I refer to the ogres, naturally."

  "Ogres?" I almost spilled my drink. "The giants and the greenies – are you fucking
kidding
me?"

  "I grant you there is little physical resemblance. But they are both creatures of the fey, and feel a certain kinship with each other. It is rather like the Russians and Serbs, in human society. Different countries, different languages and cultures. Yet in 1914, the Russians came to the defense of Serbia, thus igniting the First World War."

  "Goblins and ogres. Jesus, why didn't I know that?"

  Barney shrugged those well-tailored shoulders. "It is not a fact that either side advertises. Ogres are, in their own way, rather secretive, too."

  "Son of a bitch."

  "I am thus most regretful of my inability to offer you assistance on this occasion. But perhaps if you know a friendly ogre…"

  I put my glass down so suddenly that I sloshed ginger ale over my hand. "Mother
fuck
," I said. "I think I just might."

 

Now I needed to see an ogre about a goblin, but it was almost time for Father Duvall's office hour, and that was an opportunity I didn't want to miss.

  Just inside the main entrance to St Thomas Hall was a building directory, which informed me that Peter Duvall, SJ, had his office in room 309. Turned out I didn't have to worry about room numbers as I reached the right hallway. Only one room had light streaming from an open door, and I was glad to see that Father Duvall, unlike some profs I've heard about, actually kept his office hours.

  I stepped into the doorway and rapped my knuckles against the open door. When the man in black with the clerical collar looked up, I said, "Father Duvall? I'm Stan Markowski, from the Scranton Police Department's Occult Crimes Unit." I showed him my ID. "Dave Garrett said you might be able to help me with a case I'm working on."

  Father Duvall had manners. He stood up and walked around his desk, hand outstretched. Once I got a good look at him, I knew what thought often ran through the minds of his female students. It was the same feeling I'd had in high school, whenever I looked at beautiful Sister Mary Alan.

  What a waste.

  Father Duvall reminded me of nobody so much as JeanPaul Belmondo, who was the essence of French cool in the 1960s. He had the same disarrayed black hair, hooded eyes, and thick, sensuous lips. Duvall even had the same kind of dimple on his chin.

  What a waste.

  "Good to meet you, Sergeant," he said, shaking hands with a smile. "I don't know what you're working on, but if Dave thinks I might be able to help you, then I'll give it my best shot."

  He invited me to sit in one of the wooden visitor's chairs that faced his desk. I told him that I was interested in the Church of the True Cross, but I didn't go into why. I just said that the Church had come up in an investigation of mine, and that I wanted to learn more about it.

  "The Church of the True Cross," he said softly, sitting back in a big leather chair that looked a lot more comfortable than mine. "You know, back in the Middle Ages, when Mother Church was the toughest kid on the block, heresy was punishable by death. We live in a more enlightened age, I'm very glad to say, but while most heretics these days are merely annoying, those who constitute the Church of the True Cross are, I suspect, truly dangerous."

  "Dangerous in what way?" I asked.

  "In the same way that Islamic fundamentalist terrorists are dangerous. Both share a sense of utter self-righteousness combined with an often violent contempt toward those who are different, either in beliefs or in nature."

  I put a hand to my forehead for a moment. "I'm just a simple cop, Father, who hasn't had much sleep in the last three days. Can you put that into words of one syllable for me?"

  Duvall tilted his head and looked at me. "'Simple cop'? I'm not so sure about that, but I'll try to stop talking as if this is a theology seminar. Fair enough?"

  When I nodded, he leaned forward, placing both hands on his desk. "What I meant by that last bit was that the Church of the True Cross will hate you if you either
think
differently than they do, or if you
are
different from them."

  "Different, you mean, the way supes are."

  "Yes, exactly."

  "But hasn't the Pope declared all supes to be anathema, too?"

  "Yeah," he said, and sighed again. "But that's not going to last, especially if the next pontiff isn't a Neanderthal like the current one."

  "Nice way to talk about the Big Boss," I said. "Not that I'm disagreeing."

  "The Big Boss is the Lord, my friend," Duvall said. "He's the CEO and Chairman of the Board. His Holiness is more like the corporation's president. Presidents come and go – only the Big Boss, as you call him, is eternal."

  "So you think the Church is likely to change its position on supes?"

  "Yes, inevitably. How soon depends on who the next pope is, but there's already a lot of sentiment in the College of Cardinals that Paul VI's condemnation of supernaturals was shortsighted, as so many of his views were."

  "How about you, Father?" I asked him. "What's your view of supernaturals?"

  "My view is that we are all God's creatures, and thus worthy of His love. If God did not want vampires, for instance, to exist, then they wouldn't."

  "But that's not an opinion shared by the Church of the True Cross, I take it."

  "Hell, no. Those guys would like nothing more than the return of the Inquisition – but with them in charge, of course. They'd be burning vampires and werewolves left and right."

  "And witches, too?" I asked quietly.

  "Yes, witches, of course." He stopped and looked at me for a second or two. "That's what this is about, isn't it? Those poor women who have been burned alive in the last few weeks."

  "That's
part
of what it's about," I said. "But there may be more going on than that – a lot more."

  "I wish I could say that I'm surprised," Duvall said grimly.

  "How did these True Cross guys get started, anyway? I tried to look up the Wikipedia article on them, but it's been taken down."

  "That's because the True Cross propagandists keep trying to rewrite it to conform to their own cracked version of history."

  Duvall steepled his fingertips and looked at them for a few seconds. "OK, you know how the Puritans came over here and settled New England because the old England just wasn't holy enough for them?"

  "John Winthrop and all those guys."

  "Right – and the logical conclusion of the Puritans' extreme self-righteousness was the Salem witch trials of 1692, in which, uh–"

  "Twenty," I said.

  "Yes, twenty innocent people were executed. You know your history," Duvall said.

  "That's the kind of history I'm supposed to know, just like I know that something like twelve other people were executed for witchcraft around New England, years before Salem."

  "Not many people know about those," Duvall said, nodding his approval. "But it all goes to show the lengths fanatics will go in order to preserve their power."

  "You're saying the Church of the True Cross is like the Puritans?"

  "In some respects, yes. Their church was founded in 1994, when a group of people broke with the Society of St Pius X, which was founded by Marcel Lefebvre, himself a defrocked archbishop and heretic."

  "He was the guy who thought the Second Vatican Council was a Commie plot to take over the world, right?"

  "Something like that," Duvall said. "He came out of the tradition of right-wing French Catholicism, and there's nobody more reactionary than
that
crowd."

  "Except for the Church of the True Cross," I said.

  "You got it. They decided that Lefebvre and the Society were too accommodating, because they weren't calling for John XXIII to be lynched after the reforms that brought us out of the Middle Ages. All Lefebvre did was put on his boogie shoes and leave Mother Church. But that wasn't enough for 'Bishop' James Navarra – he wanted a more militant posture. So he split, and took a bunch of the Society's members with him."

  "How big a bunch?" I asked.

  "Seventy or eighty, something like that."

  "I take it they've grown some since those days."

  "Oh, sure," Duvall said, "although they refuse to release any membership numbers. In terms of people who regularly attend his services here in Scranton, maybe a couple of hundred. That doesn't count the curiosity-seekers who go once and are so turned off that they never go back. And there are a number of people from outside the area who send him money, although how much is between him and the IRS."

  "Some folks will send money to anybody," I said.

  "Sad, but true – but here's the ironic thing: Navarra and company don't even
need
it."

  "Why the hell not?" I asked.

  "Because he's got a sugar daddy – a rich nitwit who's been bankrolling the Church for years."

  "Anybody I might have heard of?"

  "Probably not," Duvall said. "But I bet you've heard of one of his kids. The guy's name is Patton Wilson. He's got six kids, one of whom is Matt Wilson."

  "Mister Kiss-Kiss-Bang-Bang? The movie star?"

  "The very same. Although I don't think Matt talks much about his dad in public – he's probably too embarrassed."

  "Is that the source of Dad's money – his movie star kid?"

  "Not at all," Duvall said. "Dad's filthy rich all on his own. Used to own a chain of newspapers in the Midwest, I understand."

  "Used to?"

  "Far as I know. He cashed in and sold all the papers years ago, or so they say."

  "I wonder," I said. "So Dad's a true believer, is he?"

  "Hard-core, all the way. Some say he's even more extreme than Bishop Navarra, although I figure that the good bishop is exactly as extreme as Patton Wilson wants him to be."

  "It's like that, huh?"

  "I believe so," Duvall said. "Wilson pulls the strings, and Navarra dances as required."

  "You said these guys are dangerous? Why? There's no shortage of religious nuts around."