Evil Ways (22 page)

Another man, this one in a State Trooper's uniform, kneels beside the stretcher. "Take it easy, ma'am. You're in good hands, now. Looks like you had some luck." He glances around the ruin of the cabin, which includes the sheet-covered form over near the fireplace. "And I guess you were due. Couple of guys from town decided they'd rather hunt this morning than nurse their hangovers. They passed by your place here, and noticed that the front door was gone. Came in, saw… everything, and one of 'em called 911 on his cell. Otherwise, you could've been here for Christ knows how long."

"Trooper, we've got to get her out of here," one of the paramedics says.

"I know, I know. Just give me a second."

He brings his face close to Hannah's. His breath, she thinks crazily, smells like bratwurst.

"Ma'am, I won't keep you from the ambulance, but can you tell me anything about who did this to… your family?"

When Hannah speaks, her voice is little more than a croak. "Some men came. One was dressed like a monk, said his name was… can't remember. He said, he said… oh my God, where are the children? Marsh, Jen, where are they? Are they all right?"

"There'll be officers at the hospital who can talk to you about that, Mrs. Widmark." Suddenly, the trooper is no longer looking her in the face. "They'll have a lot more information than I do. Try not to worry about it right now."

Then the paramedics lift Hannah's stretcher, and carry her out. They must be rattled by what they have seen behind the cabin, because they have neglected to fasten the restraining straps that are used to keep patients from falling out of the stretcher. That is why, when she hears a man's voice from behind the cabin call, "Hey, Sarge, can we cut 'em down, now?" Hannah gasps and instantly rolls out of
the stretcher before the paramedics can stop her. One of them makes a grab for her and misses, and then Hannah is sprinting toward the corner of the cabin, coming face-to- face with a young trooper, his face ashen, who has just rounded the corner from the other direction. His eyes widen at the sight of her, and he says, almost desperately, 'Ma'am, ma'am, no, you don't wanna go back there! Ma'am!" He reaches for her.

Hannah, who played basketball all through college and even made Second Team All-American, instinctively fakes left and goes right. The trooper falls for the fake and in an instant Hannah is past him and tearing around the corner of the cabin and she runs three more steps then slows, then stops dead. Other troopers immediately surround her, but before one of them can cover her face with his Smoky the Bear hat, Hannah sees what has been left there behind the cabin after the bald man and his minions were finished. She sees… everything.

Hannah Widmark is still screaming when they finally get her loaded into the ambulance, and the paramedics have to hit her with two injections of Thorazine, right into the vein, before she finally stops.

Frank contemplated the mess on his floor, then looked up at the woman in black. "Are you okay, Hannah?"

"Sure," she said. "I was just getting up to go to the John, and I forgot the glass was there. Sorry about the mess, Frank."

"No big deal, don't sweat it," Frank said, and went off to get a mop.

Morris studied Hannah's face. "Did that name, Pardee, mean anything to you?"

"Nope, never heard it before. Excuse me, folks. Hannah's gotta go pee."

After Hannah had left for the ladies' room, Morris watched Frank mop the floor for a while.

"She says she never heard the name Pardee before, Frank. You believe that?"

"Sure, I do," Frank said, with a shrug. "But then, I believe in the Easter Bunny and the Great Pumpkin, and I always set out milk and cookies for the fat guy on Christmas Eve."

Morris nodded his agreement with Frank's skepticism, then looked at Libby. "Seemed like it rang a bell with you, Libby."

"Yes it did. And, unlike Hannah, I'm not disposed to lie about it."

When Libby did not continue, Morris said, "Care to share it with us?"

"Sure, but I might as well wait until Hannah gets back. What I have to tell isn't all that big a deal, but maybe it will jog her memory, a little."

Morris turned to Frank, who had just finished putting the mop away. "I don't know where this whole mess is going to lead, Frank, but it looks like we could use all the help we can get. You seem like a fella who knows a lot about the kind of thing we're dealing with here. Care to saddle up and ride with us? I'm pretty sure I can squeeze some money out of the FBI for you. If not, I'll pay you out of my own pocket."

From a nearby tap, Frank drew a glass of what looked like soda water, and drained half of it in two or three gulps. He looked from Morris to Libby and back again before he spoke.

"I used to work with some people, about ten years ago, who were worried that the turn of the millennium was going to cause all the supernatural shit to hit the fan. You may have noticed that it didn't, and I like to think our group had something to do with that, before the whole organization went to shit. But that was then." Frank sipped the remaining soda water.

"I live a pretty quiet life these days," he said. "Sure, I keep my eyes and ears open, and since I know a lot of people, I sometimes stumble across information that's useful in the struggle
—which continues, as you folks well know. If I come across something interesting, I pass it on to somebody else, who might know somebody who can do something about it. But beyond that…" Frank shook his head slowly. "My daughter Jordan's in college now. I'm the only family she's got left— her mother died quite a few years ago. She's all I really care about anymore."

"Where does she go?" Libby asked. "To college, I mean."

Frank looked at her for a long moment before saying, "Someplace a long way from here. We don't see each other all that much, but we talk on the phone and exchange email all the time."

"If you guys get along so well," Morris said, "how come you don't see each other more often? Air travel makes it pretty easy, these days."

"I go and visit her once in a while," Frank said. "But I've asked her not to come here. I don't want her close by, in case something catches up with me one day, looking to settle an old score."

Libby frowned at him. "In case
something
catches up with you? Don't you mean someone?"

Frank gave her a sad-looking, lopsided smile. "Do I?"

The three were silent for a little while. Frank went off to check on his other customers. When he came back, Hannah had returned to her seat at the bar. Morris turned to Libby and said, "Now that we're all together again, why don't you tell us about your encounter with the mysterious Pardee."

"All right," Libby said. "It was about nine years ago. He's considerably more powerful now than he was back then. Or so I hear."

"I really wish my parents would stop interfering with my life," the young woman says. "I'm twenty-six, which means I'm old enough to make my own decisions. And I'm afraid they've sent you on a fool's errand, Miss… I'm sorry, I'm terrible with names."

"Chastain. Elizabeth Chastain. But my friends call me Libby."

"No offense, Miss Chastain, but I don't think you and I are likely to become friends."

Gabrielle Stafford turns her back on Libby, ostensibly to enjoy the magnificent view of Lake Michigan afforded by her condo's immense living room window. Although her tone is dismissive, Libby notices that she hasn't buzzed for someone to show Libby out (a term the rich use when they have one of their flunkies throw you out on your ass). There are conflicting impulses at work here, Libby thinks.
Good. At least she is not completely in the bastard's thrall
—yet.

"Your parents aren't trying to interfere," Libby says. "But they're very concerned that you may have given your trust and affection to someone who… might not have your best interests at heart."

Gabrielle turns back from the window and gives Libby a withering look. "You don't need to be tactful, Miss Chastain. I know they think Lewis is only after my money, they've made that abundantly clear. As if
I
haven't had enough experience with gold diggers to tell the difference. No, Miss Chastain, Lewis loves me, and I love him. Very, very much. Tell my parents that. They won't take
my
word for it, God knows. Maybe they'll believe it if it comes from one of their… employees."

Libby ignored the snub. "I'm only working for your parents as a consultant, Miss Stafford. They're kind of concerned, because you've given a great deal of money to Mister Pardee over the last four months. That's your right, of course. Your grandmother left it to you, I understand, to do with as you wish."

"That's right, she did! And if I choose to share it with the man I love, that's my business, and none of their own. And certainly not their
consultant's."

"Of course," Libby says. "As you say, it's your own money. But your folks are also concerned that your fiancé has involved you in a lifestyle that may be, um, unhealthy."

"Oh, for shit's sake, is that what this is about? The week Lewis and I spent at Decadence, in Jamaica? It's a beautiful, exclusive resort, all the best people vacation there." She slowly looked Libby up and down. "I don't imagine you've been there, yourself?"

All right, relax,
Libby tells herself.
It's not her fault, not really. Of course, being in thrall to a black wizard doesn't preclude the possibility that you might also be a bitch.

"Since you've relieved me of the burden of tact, Miss Stafford, let's call it what it is. Decadence is a sex club for what used to be called the jet set. Quite notorious in some circles."

"Our sex life is our business. And if Lewis and I choose to invite others to share in it occasionally…" She waved a dismissive hand.

"Uh-huh. You got whacked on a combination of booze, pills, and coke and then let yourself get gangbanged. Three men at once, one for each hole. A number of other people watched the show, including your fiancé, Lewis." Libby just shakes her head. "And somebody in the audience, or maybe one of the employees, took pictures."

"I thought that was all taken care of," she says, sounding more like a whiny adolescent than a supposedly mature woman. Hearing Libby describe her activities so bluntly seems to have rattled her. "My parents paid off that terrible person before he could post those… pictures on the Internet."

"Yes, the combination of a fat check and the threat of legal action did it
—this
time. But you and Lewis have reservations there for next week, don't you?"

"Lewis says we need to experience everything life's rich banquet offers, and what the fuck do you care, anyway?"

Libby catches the note of hysteria in the young woman's voice.
This one's not quite as content with her new "lifestyle" as she claims to be.

"You're right, Miss Stafford. How consenting adults amuse themselves is not my business. As long as you
were
consenting?"

"What are you talking about? Nobody forced me." Her laugh has a bitter undertone. "If you saw the pictures, you must have seen that much, honey. Nobody held me down. I did it of my own free will."

"That's an interesting phrase, 'of my own free will,'" Libby says thoughtfully. "It sounds like a term that certain…
practitioners
use."

"What do you mean, doctors?"

"Not in the classic sense, no. Doctors usually try to help people, or so I hear."

"I'm not going to stand here and play word games with you, Miss Chastain. I'll have to ask you
—"

"I
was
asked to bring you a gift."

That got her attention. This lady isn't the type to turn down presents.

"Really?" Gabrielle says. "Who from?"

"Your parents gave it to me to pass on to you. They said it belonged to your grandmother."

Libby reaches into her voluminous handbag and comes up with a shiny white box, the kind jewelry stores use. She walks toward Gabrielle, the box extended. "Your mom said your grandmother would have wanted you to have it."

Gabrielle opens the jewelry box, with a deft flick of the wrists that bespeaks much practice, to reveal a slim chain that looks like silver, from which hangs a matching pendant. It is heart-shaped, the kind that is hinged to swing open, usually to reveal a picture inside. Gabrielle tries to open it, but to no avail.