Evil Ways (20 page)

The Ouroboros Bar and Grill occupied the middle of a block on one of downtown Cleveland's less busy side streets. Business was slow around four o'clock in the afternoon, as Libby and Morris followed Hannah Widmark through the door. The sunny day made the interior gloom of the place seem darker than you'd expect, even for a bar.

As soon as they were inside, Hannah made a head gesture toward a nearby empty table. "Just sit and chill for a second, while I have a word with Frank. He's kinda jumpy sometimes, and he gets nervous when strangers come in."

"You mean he might run?" Morris asked quietly.

"No," Hannah told him. "That's not what I mean."

She walked over to the bar and took a seat. After a moment, the bartender wandered over. Morris couldn't see him clearly, since his eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, but Hannah's friend looked tall and thin and very pale. But there was nothing about the way he moved or stood to suggest weakness.

The bartender served Hannah a beer that she let sit on the bar in front of her. The two of them spoke quietly, and once Morris saw the man looking toward the table where he and Libby waited. Finally, Hannah turned their way and made a beckoning gesture.

They sat at the bar, one on either side of Hannah, who performed introductions. "Frank, this is Quincey and Libby. Guys, meet Frank."

Morris was a little surprised when Frank leaned over to shake hands. He found the man's grip to be very strong, but Frank didn't use it as if he had anything to prove. As they shook, which took a second or two longer than it should have, Frank looked carefully into Morris's face, then gave a little nod and released his hand.

He did the same with Libby, only he extended the handshake even longer than he had with Morris. Frank released Libby's hand gently and looked at her with open curiosity. "Hannah didn't tell me you were a witch." The man's quiet voice made it a fact, not an accusation.

Libby returned the interested look. "I won't ask how you know, because I felt something, too. Um, you should also know
—"

Frank gently raised a forestalling hand. "It's okay, Libby. You're one of the good guys. I could tell that, too." He took a step back. "Now, what are you folks drinking? On the house."

Morris ordered bourbon and water. Libby said, "Vodka, please. Ice cold if you've got it, on the rocks otherwise."

Frank filled the orders promptly. He placed a frosted glass of vodka in front of Libby. "Gray Goose," he said. "I think you'll like it." Frank wasn't serving the house brand, Morris realized. Gray Goose was top-shelf. Morris took a sip of his bourbon, and could tell by the way it caressed his tongue that Frank hadn't given him the cheap stuff, either. Hannah still hadn't touched her beer.

Hannah's friend Frank looked to be in his mid-fifties. He had the kind of lived-in face you associate with dissolute rock stars like Mick Jagger and Steven Tyler, but Morris would have bet that the lines and creases Frank bore hadn't come from years of hard partying. His forehead was broad and high, below straight brown hair that was combed back to reveal a severe widow's peak. Morris noticed that Frank's brown eyes seemed to move constantly. Morris would have bet that they noticed everything, and were surprised by nothing.

Frank took a quick look around the bar, probably to see if any of his half-dozen other customers needed a refill. Satisfied, he reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of filtered Lucky Strikes. Holding the pack up so the other three could see it, he asked, "You folks mind?"

Nobody did, and Frank lit up, then produced a heavy glass ashtray from beneath the bar.

Frank leaned on the bar, thus keeping their conversation private, but Morris noticed that he turned his head away whenever he exhaled smoke. He could have blown it in their faces, if he'd wanted. It was his bar, and his booze, and Hannah's friends were coming to him for help and thus in no position to object. But Frank chose to blow his smoke away from them, and Morris thought he kind of liked the guy for that.

"Hannah says you folks are looking for some information," Frank said. "I don't know if I'll be able to do anything for you
—I've kinda been out of the loop, the last few years. But still, I hear stuff once in a while." Frank pondered the glowing tip of his cigarette. "What is it you want to know, exactly?"

Libby and Morris took turns summarizing the two areas they'd been investigating, which had now apparently merged into one. Hannah chimed in from time to time.

Two cigarette butts, smoked down to the filter, were squatting in the ashtray by the time they all finished. Frank lit up his third smoke, pensively.

"Yeah," he said. "I might know something that'll help you."

Pardee had a workroom set up at Grobius's Idaho mansion, separate from the spacious office he used for administrative and recreational purposes. Pardee's office was relatively accessible to the staff, when Pardee wanted it to be. But this room, with its boarded-over windows, had a good, stout lock on the door, to which Pardee held the only key. It was also protected by other, less obvious measures.

Even Grobius did not come here. Pardee could not, of course, forbid the man access to a room in his own house, but he had implied that any interruption while a wizard was working at his craft could have disastrous consequences for everyone in the vicinity
—a claim that was not very far from the truth.

The scrying was almost ready. Pardee had filled the big, intricately decorated bowl with distilled water, then added the necessary ingredients while reciting the words of the spell, which he had memorized long ago. Soon he would be able to learn where that bitch Chastain was now, and determine the best method of overpowering her for transport back to Idaho. And if the man Morris, or anyone else, tried to interfere
—well, Pardee wanted Chastain alive, but that courtesy did not extend to anyone else of her acquaintance.

Pardee had misled Grobius, and not for the first time. The wizard did not, in fact, believe that sacrificing Chastain at the climactic moment would add anything significant to the power of the summoning spell contained in Alhazred's
Book of Shadows.
But after she had frustrated his attempts to have her killed, not once but twice, mind you, Pardee had decided that a quick death was more than she deserved. The cunt had just pissed him off once too often. Besides, he owed a little something to Chastain, a debt that went back a number of years. In three days, or, more precisely, three nights, he would make payment, in full and with interest. And Pardee was always generous when it came to paying that kind of interest
—crossing him always brought a high rate of return.

Pardee now needed just one more ingredient to complete the scrying spell. It didn't have to be from a human, but it must be fresh.

There were a few members of the staff whom Pardee had allowed to know the location of his sanctum, although they would never, of course, be allowed inside. He picked up his cell phone and called one of them, a small oily man named Jernigan. When the man answered, Pardee said, "That stray cat that's been hanging around the kitchen and people have been feeding
—someone mentioned that it had a litter the other day." Pardee listened for a few seconds. "That's what I thought. I'll meet you outside my workroom in ten minutes. Fetch one of the kittens and bring it to me."

"Forget it!" Fenton said. "No fuckin' how, no fuckin' way! If that's not the dumbest, most depraved fuckin' idea I've ever heard, then it's for sure in the top ten, and moving up the charts fast."

He stopped pacing
—which is just as well, since the typical room at a Holiday Inn affords little room for that activity—and faced Colleen, who was seated on the edge of the room's king-size bed, waiting for the storm to blow over, or at least to wind down a bit.

"I don't know if you've lost your mind or what, Colleen, but that's just insane. I forbid it!"

Colleen, who had been in her normal slouch, sat up straighter at once.

"Forbid,
Dale? I'm not all that sure you're in a position to
forbid
anything. And stop talking like my father!"

"I'm not your father, I'm the senior agent, damn it!"

"You were two classes ahead of me at Quantico, which doesn't amount to one hell of a lot of seniority, does it?"

"Doesn't matter, I was named the senior agent on this team, and you know it."

Colleen took a very deep breath, and let it out. When she spoke, most of the edge was gone from her voice.

"Dale, this isn't the way we deal with each other, you and me
— yelling and pulling rank, all that crap they did when we went through training. We're a team, Dale, aren't we? And a pretty damn good one."

Colleen had been tempted to add a little magical
push
to those words, to make Fenton more receptive. But she quickly rejected the idea. This was her partner, and a man she considered her friend
—not some two-bit informant on a street corner somewhere.

Fenton glared at her a moment longer, then took and released a deep breath of his own. He turned away, and dropped into the room's single easy chair. He cleared his throat and said, almost calmly, "I'm sorry I flew off the handle, Colleen. I apologize for the way I talked to you. I was pissed off, but that's no excuse to treat my partner that way."

She inclined her head, graciously. "Accepted, Dale. Now let's just forget it happened."

"Be happy to do that," Fenton said. "But that doesn't mean I'm gonna go along with this idea of yours, which I swear is gonna be used as an example in the next Merriam-Webster's, right under the definition for 'stupid-ass brainstorm.'"

"I didn't just give it to you off the top of my head, Dale. I gave it a lot of thought, during our drive back from Walpole."

"Wondered why you got so quiet. You'd have been better off talking
—about anything, except this nonsense. Colleen, you can't just go back in that interrogation room and
do
this guy."

"It's not something I look forward to, Dale. Not even a little, tiny bit. But if you've got a better idea, believe me, I am all ears."

Fenton leaned back, resting his head on the back of the chair, and closed his eyes. After a while he said, without opening his eyes, "If you really think giving this creep what he wants is going to get us anywhere… okay, then, we bring him a hooker. A high-class working girl in a business suit, carrying a briefcase."

"Interesting," Colleen said. "But, to get into one of those private interrogation rooms, as opposed to a public visiting area, you've either got to have a law enforcement ID, or pass a federal background check. What do you suppose will happen when they run your hypothetical working girl's prints?"

"Jesus, Colleen, your way, there's about a zillion things that can go wrong. And the worst one, and I mean this, is the effect it's going to have on you. You're
not
a working girl, Colleen. Or a porn star. Having sex with a stranger just because you want something from him… that's gonna change you, inside where it really counts. It's not worth it."

"It just might do that," she said. "If I were really there."

"Say
what?"

"I've studied Zen meditation techniques most of my adult life, Dale. I know all kinds of ways to manipulate my consciousness. Mentally, I'll hardly be there at all. I'll keep just enough Mind focused on the here and now to do what has to be done." She gave him a lopsided smile. "It won't require very much, trust me. And an hour later, it'll be like a dim memory of something that happened to somebody I used to know a long time ago. I'll be all right."

"Colleen, Jesus, you can't just
—"

"Dale, I want you to do something for me."

His face became wary. "What?"

"Open up your laptop."

He gave her a suspicious look, but went over to the closet shelf where he had stored his computer, took it down, and returned with it to his seat.

He opened it up and said, "Okay, now what?"

"Access the NCIC database."

A couple of minutes went by before he said, "Okay, I'm in."

"Now go to 'Reports of Crimes by Local Jurisdictions,' or whatever it's called."

"Yeah, that's what they call it. Okay."

"For timeframe, choose 'Prior forty-eight hours.'"

"Got it. Colleen
—"

"You're indulging me, remember? Select category 'Homicide.'"

"Done."

"Sort by 'Age of Victim.'"

"Okay."

"Select 'Juvenile.'"

"Colleen come on, you don't have to
—"

"Are you going to work with me, or not, Dale?"

"Yeah, yeah, all right. 'Juvenile.' Got it."

"Eliminate 'Gang-Related.'"

"Done."

"Eliminate 'Domestic Abuse.'"

"Done."

"How many does that leave?"

"Um, twenty-four."

"Cross-reference with 'Abduction.'"

"Got it."

"How many now?"

"Eight."

"Ante-mortem removal of bodily organs would be classified under 'Torture,' wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Cross-reference with 'Torture.'"

"Done. Before you ask
—three. Three cases."

"Give the case summaries a quick scan. You know what to look for."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

When he finally looked up from the keyboard, his face told her what she wanted to know.

"Remember the term they used to use in the Con. Law class at Quantico, Dale?
Res ipsa loquitur?"

"'The thing speaks for itself.' Yeah, I remember."

There was silence in the room then. They could hear the growl of rush hour traffic in the street below.

Finally, Fenton said, in a near monotone, "We are gonna lose our jobs over this, you know."

"Only if we get caught, Dale. Only if we get caught."

"All right, let me start by telling you what I
don't
know," Frank said, "and that covers a lot of territory. First of all, I have no idea who's behind the organized murder and mutilation of these poor kids
— although I wish I did." As he said those last few words, something changed in Frank's face. It was nothing dramatic, but it might suggest to you, if you knew what to look for, that Frank had not always been the owner of a sleepy little bar in Cleveland, Ohio. Quincey Morris
knew what to look for. It told him that Frank had once been, and might still be, someone you really don't want to get on the bad side of.

"And I'm afraid I don't know who's trying to kill you, Libby, or why." Frank took another long drag of his cigarette, and his face had resumed its normal, melancholy expression. "But I have heard a few bits and pieces that might bear on your problem
—both aspects of it." He looked directly at Libby. "Have you considered that you may not be the only one who's being targeted? Could be, you know, they're after you not because of
who
you are, but
what
you are."

Libby seemed to think about that, then shook her head in puzzlement. "I'm not following you, Frank, sorry. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night, what with one thing and another, and I'm probably not as sharp as I should be."

"It's my fault for being cryptic, Libby," Frank said. "What I'm getting at is, I've heard that two white witches have been murdered over the last ten days or so. Maybe you were intended to be number three."

Libby's face lost a lot of its color, in a hurry. "Who? Did you get names? Who died, Frank?"

"I never heard any names, Libby, sorry. One was in Cincinnati, I know that… the other one was someplace out west
—Oregon, or maybe Washington."

Libby drained the remains of her vodka in one gulp. "Do you think I could have another one of these, Frank? I'm happy to pay for it."

Frank took her empty and returned shortly with another frosted glass. "No charge, Libby. Consider it medicinal, and don't worry about it. I'm tight with the owner."

Libby didn't touch her fresh drink immediately. "I can't think of any Sisters who live in Cinci." She spoke softly, almost as if talking to herself. "We don't all know each other, of course. It's not like we have yearly conventions, or anything. "She took a sip of vodka before saying, "I do know two or three who live in the Pacific Northwest, but that covers a lot of territory, so…" She looked at Frank and said, "As it happens, the Sisterhood is having a kind of… conference call tonight. I'll be sure to give them the news, and hear what they have to say."

Morris leaned forward and, talking past Hannah said, "Have you considered that 'as it happens,' may not be the case at all, Libby? What if the reason for the confab is to discuss the fact that somebody is apparently having members of the Circle murdered?"

Libby nodded slowly, her face pinched with worry. "Quite right, I hadn't considered that. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I'm sure that's exactly the reason for the 'confab,' as you call it, Quincey."

Hannah glanced at Libby, than said to Frank, "Why would someone want to kill white witches? They don't hurt people
—they can't. It's part of their code."

Frank stubbed out the butt he was holding and sent it to join the others. "Just because they don't make voodoo dolls, or something, doesn't mean they can't make enemies. Way I hear it, Libby's sisters often tangle with those who follow the Left-Hand Path
—getting in their way, and so forth. So revenge isn't out of the question."

Frank had the deck of Luckies in his hands and was absently tapping another cigarette out when he said, "Maybe it's not even revenge, but
—what's that word—preemption?"

"Stopping the Sisterhood from doing something?" Morris shook his head. "I don't know Frank, that sounds like a bit of a stretch."

Frank got his cigarette going and said, "Maybe it is. But there's something else that may be a relevant factor." He looked at each of them, in turn, before saying, "Can I assume that everybody here knows what the thirtieth of this month is
—after sundown, anyway?

Morris and Libby said, almost together, "Walpurgis Night," and Hannah nodded.

"Walpurgis Night comes around every year, Frank," Morris said. "Sometimes bad stuff happens, but nothing catastrophic." He looked at Frank closely. "There's more to it, isn't there, podner?"

"Well, yeah. There is," Frank said, "especially if, like me, you keep track of the phases of the moon."

Libby was the first one to catch his meaning, and did a quick calculation in her head. "Oh, dear," she said. "Oh, goodness, gracious me."

Morris found his stomach tightening. Most people swore when they were angry or upset. Although Libby could toss obscenities around with the best of them, when she was really thrown by something, she
would sometimes revert to an excessively dainty and refined mode of speech. Morris had never understood whether it was supposed to be some kind of ironic understatement, or simply something the Sisterhood had taught her.

Then his mind caught up with hers, and he suddenly knew the cause of her reaction. "The full moon,"he said. "It's going to be full during Walpurgis Night this year. Christ, that's the first time since…"