Evil Ways (21 page)

"The 1930s," Libby said, and her voice contained no emotion at all. "The year 1939, to be exact."

Pardee ground his teeth as he stared in frustration at the blank surface of the scrying pool. He should have located Chastain by now, especially since he knew where she had been as recently as twenty-four hours ago.

The bitch must be putting up some kind of a cloaking spell to frustrate his scrying. Defying him again.

Pardee's lips were pressed together in a thin, bloodless line. He had schooled himself long ago not to give vent to cursing, or any other overt expressions of anger, in his workroom. There were too many Powers close by, watching, waiting, eagerly hoping for an opportunity to pounce.

Well, perhaps in three days' time they would have their chance
— but Pardee would not be their victim.

He tossed a lifeless ball of fur into the barrel he used for waste disposal. Chastain would relax her vigilance eventually. No one of her inferior status could keep up indefinitely the effort needed to keep him blind. She would weaken, and then Pardee would be ready to do some pouncing of his own.

He picked up his phone again. Jernigan being no fool, answered on the first ring. "I'm still in my workroom," Pardee said. "I'll meet you in the hall outside. Bring me another kitten. No, wait
—bring all of them."

As he pulled into an empty slot in Visitors' Parking Lot C, Fenton said to Colleen, "You realize, if he tells you what we want to know before you come across, you could just laugh in his face and leave, and he couldn't do diddly-squat about it. And old Vince knows that, too. He's never gonna go first."

"I know that, Dale. He'll want to
come
first, instead."

"Jesus, Colleen…"

She touched his arm for a second. "I'm sorry, Dale. I don't mean to rub your nose in it. But try not to make more of this than it is, okay? I mean, I haven't got the track record of somebody like Jenna Jameson, but I'm not a sheltered virgin, either."

"A nice, Irish Catholic girl like you." Fenton seemed to be trying for a light touch, which he failed to achieve.

"A nice, Irish Catholic girl, who left home the day after high school graduation and never went back."

"Didn't get along with the parents, huh?"

"I wouldn't say that, exactly. I got along with Dad quite a bit better than I ever wanted to."

The silence that followed made her last utterance seem to hang in the air like an echo.

Finally Fenton managed, "Colleen, are you saying that your
—"

Colleen O'Donnell opened her door, said "Come on, let's get this over with," and got out of the car.

As they walked toward the gate, Fenton tried again. "Colleen, look, what you were saying back in the
—"

In an odd gesture, Colleen slipped her arm under his and held it there, as if Fenton were escorting her to the senior prom. "Leave it be, Dale. The past is dead, as they say, and I'm alive, and that's what's important. I was just trying to make the point that, although this is going to be unpleasant, so is cleaning toilets in a bus terminal. People do that, and I can do this, and I will not be emotionally or physically shattered when it's done. And if we get what we came for, that puts us a step ahead, the way I look at it."

"Yeah, okay, but what if you, uh, do the deed, and then he laughs in
your
face? That's just the kind of thing a bastard like him would do. If you're gonna put yourself through this, it shouldn't be for nothing."

"It won't be, Dale. Trust me. If he knows Pardee's whereabouts, and I believe he does, he'll tell me, and he'll tell the truth."

"How the hell can you be so sure? You're not thinking of… doing something to him to get him to talk, are you? Because that's sure to leave traces
—bruises, cuts, whatever—that he can—"

"Dale, I hate to keep interrupting you, but stop worrying. The only thing I'm going to do to him is what we've been arguing about since yesterday. Now, hush."

They were at the Official Visitors' Gate now. The guard on duty examined their ID, then called the main building, to make sure they were expected.

Once the gate guard sent them forward, and they were out of earshot, Fenton said, quietly, "I just hope the Deputy Warden buys into our little national security story and turns off the surveillance camera in that room."

"He pretty much has to, Dale. He'll probably ask us to sign a waiver of some kind, but then he'll do it. It's no skin off his nose, anyway."

"Yeah okay, you're probably right. Look, once you're in there, I'll talk to the guard like we planned, try to keep him occupied, but if somebody insists on getting in that room that I can't keep out…"

"Argue with them. Loudly, and for as long as you can. That'll give me a warning and buy me some time, as well."

"I'll do my best, but you may not have long to, uh, you know, get dressed."

"I won't have a lot of dressing to do
—no way I'm getting naked for this chump."

"Then, how, uh…"

She laughed, a little. "Stay as sweet as you are, Dale. Look, if I wear a skirt like this one, official business and all, bare legs are a no-no. I've gotta wear pantyhose underneath it, right?"

"Yeah I guess. Never thought about that. But I can see you've got 'em on now."

"No you can't, 'cause I don't."

"Huh?"

"Remember that stop we made at Rite-Aid last night, after dinner? I said I needed to pick up a few things, and you wandered off to look at the paperbacks."

"Yeah, I didn't want to follow you around, figured you were buying some kind of… female stuff."

"You're right, I was. I bought two things. Well three, if you count the pack of Juicy Fruit. I picked up a tube of KY Jelly, and I hope you're not going to ask me what for."

"No, ma'am, I am not."

"Good. Well, the other thing I picked up was a set of nylon thigh-highs. That's what I've got on now. No pantyhose."

"I see."

"No panties, either. That's why I won't have much dressing to do, afterward."

"Uh, Colleen…?"

"Too much information?"

"Fuckin' A."

"I can't believe that I didn't notice that the full moon occurs during Walpurgis Night this year," Libby said. "If nothing else, the Sisterhood should have caught it."

"Maybe they did," Frank said. "Could be that's why some of them have been killed, and you almost were, Libby."

"It's like a perfect storm of the occult," Morris said gloomily. "Either one of those alone can be bad
—I mean, werewolves transform under the full moon for a reason, and murder rates go up, worldwide—but on Walpurgis Night…"

"Yeah, I hear you," Frank said. "The Witch's Sabbath." Frank reached for the pack of Lucky Strikes. "Feasting, dancing, initiations, and a whole lot of crazy sex, topped off by a visit from Old Nick himself." Lighting up his smoke, he dropped the spent match into the ashtray, which was starting to get pretty full. "At least, that's the legend."

"You believe that last part?" Morris asked. "About Satan showing up?"

"No, I don't." Frank said. "Most of the authoritative writings say that Satan doesn't come to this plane of existence. Minor demons, sure. They'll show up, if invoked properly. Even major players like Lucifuge Rofocale or Baal sometimes, if you know how to call them, and you're willing to take the risk. But the big guy?" Frank shook his head. "He doesn't visit, even on holidays. Which is probably just as well."

"Why's that?" Hannah asked. Although saying little, she appeared to have been following the conversation closely.

"If Satan were ever brought to Earth," Frank said, "who would have the power to send him back?"

The others contemplated that in silence for a while, until Morris said, "Were you just pointing out this confluence of events as an interesting phenomenon, Frank, or do you know anything specific?"

"I've heard something," Frank said, "although it's not real specific. But an event's been planned for Walpurgis Night this year, some kind of big deal, and it's supposed to take place in North America. There have been stirrings for months among people who follow the Left-Hand Path. Nobody seems to know much, but all of them have heard something, it seems like. And, most likely, those who know the most have the least to say."

"I'm afraid that doesn't really help us too much Frank," Libby said.

"Well, there is one name that's cropped up a couple of times in different places. I don't know if it means anything, or even if it refers to a real person. Any of you guys ever hear of somebody called Pardee?"

Libby Chastain gave a little gasp, but the loudest response to Frank's uttering of that name was the sound made when Hannah Widmark's still-full beer glass hit the floor behind the bar and shattered into a million pieces.

Hannah thinks all the fuss over this Y2K business is a lot of nonsense, hyped either by hucksters with something to sell, or the kinds of professional doomsayers who are forever seeing the Apocalypse around the next corner. But Martin is a little concerned, especially about the computers.

"The world's run by computers these days, honey, and the people who programmed 'em didn't think ahead to the turn of the millennium. Computers, when you get down to it, are just big dumb adding machines, and if they don't know what number comes after 1999, they might just shut down."

"But haven't the people who program these things been working on the changeover for years?" Hannah asks. She's just making conversation, really. Having the family spend New Year's Eve at their cabin in the hills sounded like a fine idea to her
—
a nice change from the boozy parties that their friends throw and expect the Widmarks to attend. This year, they have an excuse that might amuse a few, but would offend nobody.

"Some have been working on it, yeah, but others didn't start taking it seriously until this year, and that just might be too late. Several of my clients have been very concerned."

As a patent attorney, Martin spends a lot of his time with inventor types, some of whom might charitably be called "eccentric," or, less charitably, "a little nuts." Martin is a good husband, a great father, and Hannah loves him utterly. A little paranoia once in a while is a small price to pay for the life they have made, together with their two children.

Marshall and Jennifer are actually quite excited about the departure from mid-winter routine. And Hannah has promised they can stay up this year and listen to the Big Moment on the radio she is bringing to the otherwise low-tech cabin
—
always assuming the two of them can manage to remain awake that far past their usual bedtime.

Which is how the Widmark family finds itself spending the turn of the year/century/millennium in their isolated cabin. It is the last New Year's they will ever have together.

At a little past 11:00pm, Hannah is readying some popcorn for the kids to heat over the wood-burning stove, when the front door of the cabin, reinforced to keep the bears out, and double-locked besides, bursts open with a terrific crash.

As parents and children stare open-mouthed at the empty doorway, three men stride through it and into the cabin. Two are dressed in ordinary winter clothing, and there is little remarkable about them.

The third man, however, would be remarkable anywhere. He is tall and very thin, head shaved, wearing a rough robe of the kind she associates with monks and friars.

Brave, foolish Mark does his best to defend his family. There are no firearms in the cabin
—
out of deference to Hannah, who hates guns
—
so Mark grabs up the axe they use to chop wood and charges at the man in the robe, who is clearly the leader of the invaders.

Mark has barely taken two quick paces when the robed man points his left index finger at him and shouts a single word in a language that Hannah has never heard before. Poor Mark drops like a steer in a slaughterhouse, the autopsy later revealing that his heart has simply burst within his chest.

Her husband is dead and her children are screaming in terror and Hannah Widmark, who has never in her life hurt anything bigger than a spider, and that only reluctantly, screeches like a banshee and attacks her husband's murderer with her bare hands.

She half expects to be struck dead like poor, dear Mark, but the man lets her reach him, only to sidestep her rush, then grab her around the throat with a grip like a steel trap.

"Sorry for the intrusion," he says, like a party guest apologizing for dropping an hors d'oeuvre on the rug. "But I have need of these two brats of yours. This is a most propitious night for a little celebration of my own devising."

He lifts her off her feet with strength no one his size should possess. Looking into Hannah's face with little interest, he tells her, "My name is Pardee. I just thought you'd like to know."

Then the sensation of flying through the air that seems to last forever until she crashes into the woodpile, and she vaguely feels something slash her face on one side before the world, blessedly, goes dark.

Hannah returns to consciousness to find other men on the cabin, two of whom wear paramedic uniforms and are gently lifting her onto a stretcher. She feels a thick gauze bandage tight on one side of her face. "Don't try to move, please, ma'am," one of them says. "The way you were lying, we thought at first your neck was broken. It's not, but we won't know what kind of damage you're got until you're X-rayed at the hospital. Please, just lie still, now."