No Place Like Hell (33 page)

She stopped loosening the bolt holding the spare and turned to face him. Tension draped like an aura around her. She seemed suddenly eager to listen to him. He took a step back.

"Where have you been?" he asked in a suspicious voice. "The funeral ended hours ago."

"The mayor's son, Tad Newell, is missing," she said. "I think Warner and Bronski kidnapped him for Holmes, although I don't know why Holmes wants him. He has nothing to do with Calderon."

Kasker's heart sped up, and a smile curved his lips. He knew exactly what Holmes intended to do with Tad Newell.

"I'll tell you about the van, but only if you promise not to call the pigs. Calderon wants this kept in the family."

The ward bit her lip while she considered, and then she nodded.

"We'll take my car," he said and strode away.

###

Kasker pulled the Mustang over a block from the Temple of Enlightenment. After detecting the trap at the park, he wasn't taking any chances. He'd need to get the ward out of the Mustang long enough to slip the flesh before he'd go closer.

The ward shaded her eyes and squinted into the sun setting behind the building. There wasn't much to see. In a previous life, the storefront had been an expansive record shop. But the neighborhood around the shop had become increasingly industrialized and decrepit, driving customers to more friendly locations.

The windows were painted over with scenes meant to depict Nirvana. Acolytes in green robes worshipped deities or strolled through fields of wild flowers. Kasker couldn't tell if lights were on inside. The large parking lot in front of the building yawned empty and litter-strewn.

"Let's go," the ward said. She slipped from the car.

With reluctance, Kasker opened his door and stepped out. He perused the street. No inset shop doors. No parked cars to shield him from the ward's sight. He trailed after her as she paced quickly toward their target.

At the corner, Kasker stopped. The hair bristled at the back of his neck. Rivulets of sweat trickled over his temples and ran from his armpits. His hands knotted into fists. Under his breath, he cursed the insensitive flesh.

The ward, now four steps ahead, turned back. "You coming?"

Half a block to his left, an alley yawned. The breath he'd been holding whooshed from his lungs.

"In a minute," he said, and marched toward the alley.

The ward's footsteps pattered on the pavement behind him. Ten feet short of the alley, she appeared at his shoulder. He grimaced.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight," she said.

He squinted at her.
Curse the ward!
He walked to a dumpster parked near the mouth of the alley and unfastened his fly, one slow button at a time.

He gave the ward a lecherous grin. "Let me know if you see anything you like."

Scarlet bloomed on the ward's face. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. She scuttled back past the corner of the building.

Kasker darted behind the stinking dumpster and dropped to the ground. He loosed the flesh and stepped away from it, focusing his senses on the temple across the street.

The bright prick of the ward's soul shone just beyond the alley mouth. It was Friday night. Few other points of life flickered in the surrounding buildings. None glowed in the Temple of Enlightenment, nor did he detect any magical essence.

Kasker withdrew to his flesh and stood. He glared at the empty building that the ward was determined to visit. His empty stomach rumbled.

Searching the temple was a waste of time, as was chasing after the mayor's son. If they went to Seve, Kasker could get the contracts for the remaining damned souls. Once he tasted their blood, he could track them to their rendezvous with Holmes. He chided himself for not thinking of the contracts sooner.

Holmes killed after nightfall, when dark magic was strongest. The sun hadn't set yet. He and the ward could stop for burgers and still have plenty of time to locate the damned. All he had to do was convince her to give up this foolish pursuit of Newell.

Kasker buttoned his fly and stalked back to the ward.

57

Sleeth and I weren't speaking. He'd insisted no one was at the Temple of Enlightenment. I'd demanded we get inside to look for Tad or clues to his whereabouts. Sleeth broke out a window, climbed through, and unlocked the door.

We'd found nothing. I'd wanted to call the police. Sleeth reminded me of my promise not to and stopped for burgers. His callous attitude towards Tad's safety left me cold.

Sleeth claimed that Calderon would supply people to help stake out the remaining members of the mobster's cult. Since finding Holmes seemed like the only way to find Tad, I agreed.

We'd donned our costumes, and I wheeled Sleeth over the sidewalk to the front door of the Luna Azul. The doorman let us in. For a Friday night, the place wasn't that busy. I maneuvered the wheelchair between tables and guests until we reached the kitchen door.

Calderon met us there, flanked by two of his hulking bodyguards. His flat black eyes regarded Sleeth, and then he walked through the kitchen to his office. Sleeth abandoned the chair and followed.

"Now what?" the mobster demanded when I'd shut the office door.

"We need your help," I replied before the hippie could open his mouth. "Holmes has three potential victims. We think he'll go for one of them tonight. We can't cover them all."

Calderon stared, first at me, and then at Sleeth. "So, sabueso, you admit you're incompetent? You ask me to do your job for you?"

Sleeth squared his shoulders and sneered at the mobster. "I don't need your help. Give me the contracts."

The mobster's face set hard. "It's not their time. If they're harvested now, there will be Heaven to pay."

A sly smile spread Sleeth's lips. "That's not a solution I considered, but it
would
prevent Holmes from breaking more of your precious pacts."

Calderon set his fists on the desk and leaned forward. "No. Now get out."

I wanted to slug Sleeth, but I held my temper in check.

"Okay, Sleeth, you had your chance to do it your way." I gestured at the mobster. "If your buddy doesn't want to get involved, we'll do it my way. I'm calling the police."

I'd taken a single step toward the door when a distant voice shouted "Police! Hands up!" A gun barked. A cacophony of voices shrieked. China shattered. Heavy objects thumped. More shots rang out.

"It's a raid," Calderon said through gritted teeth. "You idiot. The police weren't fooled by your disguise. They've come for you."

Sleeth loomed over the desk. "The solstice is tomorrow noon. If I don't stop Holmes by then, he'll destroy Heaven and Hell. Get me out."

Calderon bared his teeth. He yanked the desk drawer open. I expected him to draw a pistol and plug Sleeth where he stood. Instead, he tossed the hippie a ring of keys and bent to move a carpet beside the desk.

"Go through the barred door," the mobster said. He pulled open a hatch in the floor. "It exits in the vacant shop across the alley."

Sleeth jumped through the open hatch, landing with a thud. I used the ladder. I wouldn't run far on a broken ankle. By the time I reached the bottom, Sleeth had a light on. The mobster dropped the hatch. I'd expected him to follow us.

Sleeth rushed to an iron door in the wall and unlocked it. Then he ran back to a huge old safe and snatched an armload of moldering scrolls from the bottom shelf. He brushed past me into the dark passage.

This was nuts. I'd done nothing wrong and had no reason to run. On the other hand, I'd be forever tainted if I were found here, not to mention the hours I'd lose giving a statement. Heavy footsteps clomped overhead, and a door slammed. I gritted my teeth and ran after Sleeth.

As promised, the passage ended at another ladder that led up to a vacant shop across the alley from the Luna Azul. Through the walls, the sound of the gun battle continued. I thought about the innocent customers caught in the middle of it and felt sick.

Sleeth darted out the front and ran like the wind to the Mustang. I thanked my lucky stars I'd worn plain, sturdy shoes and caught him before he pulled out. I had the feeling Sleeth wouldn't wait for me.

We tore away headed west. Sirens split the night as backup units and ambulances responded.

"Slow down," I said. "You look like you're fleeing the scene."

Sleeth glanced my way with a grimace but eased back on the gas. When we'd driven a dozen blocks, he pulled into an A & W parking lot. I couldn't believe he was making another burger stop.

He reached between the seats, retrieved the crumbling scrolls, and unrolled one. He didn't bother reading. He checked the signature at the bottom and tossed it into the back.

I wondered what the scrolls were and fished out the one he'd tossed into the back. By the time I'd pulled it into my lap, he'd tossed another one and opened a third.

The paper was rough, dry, and gave off an ancient, musty smell. I recognized Calderon's awful scrawl from the list he'd given us. I turned it toward the window and began to read.

By the time I reached the signature, my hair stood on end. Sister Magda had said she'd sold her soul to Calderon. I thought she'd meant it as a metaphor. But the paper I held in my hands was a contract for Matthew Shertleff, the Tuesday night Slasher victim, to hand over his soul in exchange for a guarantee that he'd become a best-selling author.

Sleeth held a contract in front of him. His long pink tongue flicked out and touched the rust-red signature. My stomach rolled. His eyes drooped closed, and a look of bliss transformed his face, as though he'd inhaled the vapors of a fine wine. When he opened his eyes, they glinted red.

A dark, primal fear raced up my back, the kind that made my ancestors throw another log on the fire and huddle closer. Every inch of my skin crawled. I would have gotten out right there, but paralysis set in.

"What the hell's going on?" I whispered.

Sleeth looked at me and smiled. It was the kind of smile a panther gives its prey just before it leaps. I stopped breathing.

"I'm the hellhound," he said, his voice laced with pride, superiority, and drunkenness. The red in his eyes flashed like hot coals, and a dark shadow passed over his face. He rattled the parchment at me. "I collect the souls of the damned when they die."

I didn't believe him. He and Calderon were kooks. They were deranged, playing at crazy games where people signed away their souls.

"Calderon thinks he's Satan?" I asked. My voice trembled. I was trapped in a car with a lunatic.

"No, just a garden variety demon sent to entice humans to sign on the dotted line." His eyes narrowed and the smile vanished. "He's very good at it because he cheats."

"And Holmes?"

Sleeth shifted, uncomfortable with the topic. "America's first serial killer. Or at least he's the first serial killer the pigs caught. He murdered dozens of women, children, and even male business associates who thought they could trust him."

"
H. H. Holmes?
The man who ran a murder hotel during the Chicago World's Fair?" I edged against the door. "He's been dead for nearly seventy years."

"His soul escaped Hell three months ago. I'm here to retrieve it—again."

I'd humor him until I could get away. "Escaped Hell. Does that happen often?"

Sleeth jerked back like I'd slapped him. "Never. He must have had help. Someone opened the way, perhaps with the magic book that explains the ritual to transfer the souls of the damned. Whoever it was, he wears their flesh."

I nodded like I agreed with every word while I kept an eye out for a passing citizen who might help me escape. A magic book. What other delusions lurked in his insane mind?

"So Holmes is moving souls around between bodies. That's what the murders are about?"

"He kidnaps a recipient. At the same moment that he finishes the ritual on the damned soul, the recipient is sacrificed. The damned soul transfers to the still-warm body."

The red in Sleeth's eyes dimmed. I wondered how he pulled it off. He must have contacts, and it was a trick of the light.

"Emmett Merkel was meant to be a recipient. He died too soon, and the transfer failed. Haskell's soul was lost to the universe." Sleeth shifted the Mustang into gear and drove toward the exit. "If Holmes grabbed Newell, then he intends to use Newell in the ceremony tonight."

"Won't these 'damned souls' of yours still go to Hell eventually anyway?"

Sleeth shook his head. "Their blood binds them to the contract. Once they leave their body and take new flesh, the blood no longer binds them. Seve thinks Holmes needs the damned to destroy Heaven and Hell."

Destroying Heaven and Hell sounded like a darn good idea to me. I was no fan of religion.

"You killed Judge Richards," I said.

My hand clutched the door handle, and I prepared to roll out before the car picked up speed on the street. Sleeth was too fast for me. He screeched out of the driveway.

"Killing humans is strictly forbidden," Sleeth said, expression solemn. "Richards perished at the roller rink. I found his lingering soul in the alley. Once Matthew Shertleff 'died' to leave his body, his soul became mine. I removed it from Richards' flesh."