Evil Dark (39 page)

  "She checked it out for herself," Karl said, "when things were slow around the squad. Louise is persistent, especially when she has something to prove. She went from one holding company to the next, to the next. All dummy corporations."

  "And she found out that the Church owns the paper," I said.

  "No, I guess that's not on any public record. She got as far as something called 'Crossman Investments, Inc.' Couldn't find anything else about them."

  "So, how does that get you and Christine to the warehouse in time to save my butt?"

  "When you didn't show up for work, McGuire told me to find you – which I would've done, anyway. Called the Radisson, called your cell, even called the landline at your house. When that got me nowhere, I even called Christine at work and asked if she'd heard from you."

  "Which, since I hadn't, managed to scare me shitless," Christine said. "I made Karl promise to call me back as soon as he learned something."

  "It was pretty clear that something nasty had happened," he said. "The Church had either killed you, or grabbed you. I couldn't do anything about the first possibility, so I focused on the second one. Then I started thinking about warehouses. It'd be just like those fuckers to have you slaughtered in front of their cameras."

  Another nurse showed up at the door and called a name that wasn't mine.

  "Once Louise realized what I was doing, she told me about Crossman Investments, Inc.," Karl said. "After thinking about that for a minute,
I actually made a fucking deduction
– Sherlock Holmes would be proud of me."

  "Go on, Great Detective," I said. "Show us how you did it."

  Karl said, "We knew that the Church owned the
People's Voice
, right? But what Louise showed me was that in the official records, the paper was owned by Crossman Investments. So I wondered what other properties in town had Crossman Investments as the owner of record."

  "Fantastic, Mister Holmes," I said. "I mean it – that was fucking brilliant, Karl."

  "Thanks, but it still didn't get us an actual address. And the property records aren't computerized."

  "They're all in the courthouse basement, right?"

  "Yeah," he said, "and the office was closed for the night."

  "Ouch," I said. "Still, the fact that I'm still breathing means you must've figured something out."

  "I told McGuire, and he called the mayor direct, instead of going through channels. He said the life of one of his best officers was in danger, and we needed to get at those records, pronto."

  "He really said that?" I asked. "One of his best officers?"

  "Yeah, he wanted to make the strongest case possible, so he exaggerated a little."

  I was going to whack him for that, but Christine beat me to it with a punch on the arm.

  "Ow!" Karl said. "OK, so the mayor sent somebody over to open up the room where they keep the property records. You got any idea how many books that stuff takes up?"

  "Um – lots?" I said.

  "Fuckin' A. And it's organized chronologically, by date of sale –
not
alphabetically."

  "Yikes," I said. "So what did you do?"

  "Got some help. McGuire assigned Aquilina and Sefchik to pitch in, and Louise volunteered to take some personal time and help, too."

  "Louise seems like a very nice lady," Christine said. "I think
she's
got a thing for you, too." She shook her head. "My old man, the sex object. Jeez!"

  "Wait – how'd you get to meet Louise?" I asked her.

  "I called Christine, just like she told me to," Karl said. "When I explained where things stood, she said she'd be at the property records office in five minutes."

  "I'm pretty sure I made it in four," Christine said. "Don't tell the cops, but I ran a couple of red lights."

  "All those people, busting their ass to save mine," I said. "I'm touched." My voice contained no sarcasm, because I intended none.

  "It was about ten after midnight when Louise came across a listing that said Crossman Investments had bought a property three years ago, at 647 Montgomery Avenue – a warehouse."

  "Is that where it was?" I said. "I didn't pay any attention to the address when I was leaving – had other things on my mind, I guess."

  "We knew that the Church liked to do their summonings at midnight," Karl said. "So I asked the others to keep looking, in case Crossman owned more than one warehouse. Christine and I hit the vampire afterburners and got over there. Once I saw you were inside, I called McGuire and told him. You know the rest."

  I sat there quietly for a while, thinking about how close I had come to dying in the ugliest way possible. And if it weren't for my friends and my little girl, I would have. Good thing I'm such a tough guy, or I might've even cried a little.

  "What's wrong, Daddy?" Christine asked me.

  "Ah, it's just my allergies acting up again," I said, blowing my nose.

  A few minutes later, a nurse came to the door and said the sweetest thing I've heard a woman say in quite some time.

  "
Stanley Markowski
!"

 

A doctor at Mercy's ER treated my burn – which she described as "second degree" – bandaged it, told me to see my family physician, and gave me some pills for the pain.

  I decided I'd only take the pain pills at bedtime, if at all. I know from experience that they make me logy, and in my job, that can be fatal. As it was, I hoped I wouldn't have to try a fast draw until the burn had healed somewhat. Scranton isn't Dodge City, and I don't go around looking for gunfights. But there are times when I need the gun, and if I don't draw it fast, I may not live to draw it at all. And right now, the burn would slow me up, maybe fatally.

  Christine and Karl had brought me to the Radisson's front door, then taken off, since dawn was only about twenty minutes away. We'd been at the ER so long, Karl hadn't had the chance to go home early and check his place for any nasty surprises Thorwald might have left him. So, after getting my ok, Christine invited him to spend the day at our place. "I'm pretty sure we've got an extra sleeping bag," she'd said, "and there's enough plasma in the fridge to make breakfast for two." After a nod from me, Karl had accepted, with thanks.

  Under other circumstances, having my partner sleeping with my daughter would have bothered me – a lot. As it was, I can't say that it didn't still bother me a little.

  I went up to my room and packed. I was relieved to see that someone had removed Sharkey's head and changed the bedding. They hadn't done much about the smell, though. Good thing I wasn't planning to spend the day there.

  I wanted to go home, get in my own bed, and sleep for a long time. McGuire said I should charge a couple of days to medical leave, and I hadn't argued with him.

  I checked out, thanked Tim for all his help, and carried my suitcase out to where I'd left the car. Dawn was just breaking over the city, and the hotel parking lot was deserted. I was standing at the Lycan's trunk, gingerly digging for my keys, when a man's voice behind me said, "Hello, Markowski."

  My right hand was deep in my pants pocket, so I didn't even try for the gun. Instead, I turned slowly.

  Standing between two cars in the next aisle was Special Agent Greer of the FBI. His hands were out of sight, so at least he wasn't pointing a gun at me.

  I nodded and said, "Agent Greer. Where's that partner of yours? I'd like to have a word with her."

  "Linda? Haven't seen her since yesterday sometime. Word is, there's a material witness warrant out on her, so maybe she's lying low until she gets some legal advice. What's that warrant about, if you don't mind me asking?"

  "Among other things, my boss wants to talk to her about a woman who allegedly went out to the goblin camp to recruit assassins, and sent them after me."

  Greer smiled, which I thought was strange.

  He said, "A woman, huh?"

  "That's what the witness says." I didn't mention that the witness was a goblin who didn't even speak English and would never testify in court.

  "Sounds pretty bad," he said.

  "Yeah, we take conspiracy to commit murder pretty seriously around here," I said. "Agent Greer, do you know anything about the Church of the True Cross?"

  A slow nod. "I might've heard something about them."

  "They're a dangerous organization, or they were. Your partner is also suspected of working for them, as a kind of double agent."

  "Is that right?" The smile reappeared for an instant, then vanished. "Why do you say they
were
dangerous?"

  "Guess you're not up to speed on recent developments. Go on over to the squad – McGuire will fill you in. I'm going home."

  "Just give me the short version," he said. No smiles now.

  "All right. Their head guy, Bishop Navarra, is dead. The power behind the throne, a rich nut named Patton Wilson, is at large and facing a list of indictments longer than
both
of my arms. The members of the Church's praetorian guard – the survivors, I mean – have dispersed and are all wanted for questioning. Get the rest of it from McGuire – I'm tired."

  "First explain what you meant by
survivors,"
Greer snapped. It sounded like an order, instead of a polite request from one cop to another. But the simplest thing was just to answer him.

  I said, "Two of the commando boys died last night, and a third one is currently dealing with a little demonic possession problem."

  "I see," Greer said grimly. His face hardened into a mask of hatred. His arms came up, and I saw that he was holding a pistol, and it was pointed right at me. "I told Mister Wilson we should've just put a couple of pounds of Semtex under your house some morning – take care of you and that abomination you call your daughter at the same time."

  "Semtex," I said. "That's plastic explosive, isn't it?"

  "Bet your ass it is," he said. He thumbed back the hammer of his pistol, which looked like one of those new Sig Sauers. Trust the FBI to have the latest model.

  "My only regret right now," Greer said, "is that you're going to die not comprehending the
enormous
damage you've done to your own race's chances for survival against the godless scum of the Earth."

  "It was you all the time, wasn't it – not Thorwald." Even without the second-degree burn, my chances of drawing and firing before Greer could put ten bullets into me were nonexistent. I wondered if I should go for it, anyway. There was always the chance his gun would misfire.
Right. Snowballs in hell, Markowski.

  Greer gave a scornful laugh, but the pistol didn't waver. "Linda? You're joking. She's as clueless as they come."

  Three cars to Greer's left, a door opened and Thorwald slid out, gun in hand. "Maybe not so much," she said. Bracing her elbows on the car's roof, she took careful aim at Greer. "I've been wanting to say this for a long time, Brian," she said. "You're under arrest."

  Greer turned his head maybe two inches in her direction, then I was back in his sights. "Linda," he said. "I wish I could say it's good to see you again."

  "I'll say it for both of us," she said. "Now place your weapon on the ground and step away from it. Do it!"

  The smile reappeared on Greer's face, although it looked kind of strained this time. "I don't think so, Linda honey. What we've got here is what they call a Mexican standoff. If you pop me, with my last heartbeat I'll drop the hammer on your cop buddy over there. Didn't you tell me once you thought he was kinda cute? He won't be with a bullet through his face."

  "Put down your weapon, or I'll shoot!" Thorwald said firmly.

  "I really don't believe you will," Greer said. "I know you've never shot anything except targets at Quantico, Linda. You've never killed anybody in your life, especially in cold blood. I don't think you've got it in you."

  "
But I do
."

  Lacey Brennan, gun in hand, rose from where she'd apparently been crouching, two rows behind Greer and a little to his right. With people popping up from all over, this whole thing resembled a farce – or it would, if somebody wasn't about to die.

  At the sound of Lacey's voice, Greer couldn't stop himself from looking toward her for an instant. And it was in that moment that Lacey fired and blew the top of his head off.

  That's the thing about head shots. More often than not, the motor synapses stop working instantly. Greer fell against a car, then slid to the ground without firing a shot. He died with a look of surprise on his face.

  I was pretty surprised myself.

 

I called 911, identified myself, and told them to send some black-and-whites and an ambulance. I asked the dispatcher to be sure to tell the responding officers that the shooter was already in custody.

  Lacey heard me. She managed a smile of sorts. "Is that what I am, Stan? In custody?"

  "I just said that so the uniforms wouldn't arrive thinking there was an armed suspect lurking around. That makes them nervous, and nervous cops sometimes shoot first and ask questions later."

  "Yeah, I think I heard that, someplace," she said.

  "Better give me your gun, though."

  "Sure. Here." She handed me the compact Walther she'd just used to shoot Greer.

  "Nice piece," I said.

  "It's mine, not the department's. I had to turn in my duty weapon when I went on leave. But I used to carry that for backup."

  "I don't mean this the way it sounds," I said, "but what are you
doing
here?"

  She jerked a thumb toward Thorwald, who was leaning against a nearby car, arms folded. "You said to keep an eye on her, so I did."

  Thorwald gave me a tired smile. "Were you actually having me followed, Sergeant?"