No Place Like Hell (38 page)

65

I sat in the empty canteen nursing a cold cup of coffee, waiting for the interrogation to begin. Seven hours after the cavalry's arrival at the commune, the station was still in an uproar.

The ME was overwhelmed. Three innocent bystanders died in the assault on the Luna Azul. The mayor wanted to know whether they'd been hit by friendly fire or cut down by Calderon's thugs. Their autopsies were a priority.

The ME'd barely started the postmortems when he'd been swamped by bodies from the commune, too many of whom were VIPs in the community. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes.

Lt. Mack appeared at the door of the canteen. He nodded to me but made a beeline to the coffee urn. When he'd filled a mug, he trudged to my table and sank into the chair opposite me. His face was lined with fatigue and had a gray pallor.

"I need to ask you some questions," he said.

"Do I need legal representation?"

Mack ran a hand over his tired face. "No. There are a few things about the Slasher case I hope you can clear up, but you're not a suspect."

"Ask," I said, wanting very much to go home and mourn the loss of so many friends.

"Why were you at the compound?"

"Sleeth and I got a tip from Calderon about who the Slasher's next victims might be. We followed Warner and Bronski when they picked up Colleen Hobert."

"You worked with Sleeth and the mobster? That list you left me was from Calderon?" Mack looked both surprised and unhappy at the company I'd kept.

"I would have worked with Satan himself if it meant I could collar the person who killed Dave."
And maybe I had
. "How did you know about the compound? Did you follow Frank Zachary?"

"No. By the time we wrapped up at the Luna Azul, Zachary was gone, and so was Colleen Hobert."

I tilted my head and gave him a puzzled look. "Then how did you know to come?"

"We had Calderon in interrogation. We'd been at it all night, but he wasn't saying a word. Then just before noon, he had a fainting spell or something. When he came to a minute later, he told us about the arrival of a drug shipment at the commune. Said we'd have to hurry or the supplier would slip through our fingers. He didn't ask for anything in exchange."

Mack took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. "I thought it was fishy, some kind of trap. But after the botched takedown at the Luna Azul, we had nothing on him. If it meant I could nail him on a drug charge, I couldn't afford to ignore him. So we rolled."

I nodded. Maybe Sleeth was psychic after all, and he'd broadcast a message to the mobster. Or maybe Sleeth had a hotline to Hell and his 'master' interceded. It seemed unlikely that Calderon would risk a long prison stretch unless, as Sleeth claimed, the mobster was a demon.

"How did Calderon know who the Slasher would go after next?" Mack asked.

"Calderon formed a cult. He made members sign over their souls as part of their membership. In return, he helped them achieve their goals." I pitched my voice for derision. "Maggie thought her sacrificial ritual would free them from their pacts. She had a personal vendetta against Sleeth, which is why she lured him to the bookstore, framed him for Haskell's murder, and set the trap at the freight warehouse."

Mack blew out his cheeks. "That's nuts."

My shoulders relaxed. He'd arrived at the conclusion I'd intended, and I hadn't told a lie.

Tad's questions still niggled at the back of my mind. "Tad wondered how the Slasher bypassed the alarm system at the bookstore. Maggie moonlighted at the alarm company, didn't she?"

Once again, Mack looked unhappy. "We saw her name on the list of people with access to the alarm codes and never checked her out. She was one of our own—and a woman. Why would we?"

We both stared at our coffee cups and thought about what ifs and unintended consequences.

What if Maggie's unfaithful husband hadn't cheated on her? Would she have turned to the occult? Would she have slaughtered so many people?

What if Mack had checked Maggie out? Would he have discovered the money Decker and the others paid to escape their fates?

What if I'd waited for backup at the freight company? Or taken the time to call for help before sneaking into the commune? How many of the dead would still be alive?

"Sleeth didn't kill Susan Brown," I said. "He has an alibi for the time of her murder. He thinks she stole Decker's appointment diary and tried to blackmail Maggie."

"Ballistics matched the bullet that killed Brown to Warner's gun," Mack said. "We found Decker's partially burned ledger in Maggie Tisdahl's fireplace. We're no longer interested in Sleeth."

Mack sighed and sipped his coffee. "You were right to raise a stink about Merkel's death. We found his jacket in the van at the commune, his nitro prescription in the pocket. Since everyone involved is deceased, we won't reopen the case."

Mack shifted in his chair. "The mayor wants to know how his son died."

His son got mowed down by a Camaro a week ago
. But the mayor wouldn't believe that. I wasn't sure I did either.

"I tried to stop Maggie. She ordered Warner to shoot me. Tad jumped him. If he hadn't—" I swallowed a lump in my throat. "He's a hero. That's how the mayor should remember him."

"We wanted to believe she'd kidnapped him along with the others. But in the aftermath at the crime scene and considering who we found there… things were a little confused. We had trouble telling the victims from the perps." The lieutenant looked me in the eye, searching for the truth and finding it. "That news will give him some comfort."

"I'm not coming back," I blurted.

Mack nodded. "I didn't think you would. You have a nose for investigation and a hell of a lot of tenacity, but you don't follow orders worth a damn. You were too focused on rocketing up the promotion ladder and showing what a woman could do, and not enough on making sure of your facts. Things aren't always what they appear to be at first glance. I hope you've learned your lesson. Actions have consequences."

His backhanded compliment left me without a retort. I twirled my cup of cold coffee.

"I want a full report on my desk first thing Monday morning," he said as he heaved to his feet. "Now go home and get some rest.

66

The morning sun warmed the pavement outside Hawaiian Mike's Meditation Center. I had so many questions. I wondered why I thought this merchant might have the answers.

I sighed and reached for the door. Bells tinkled as I pushed in. The place was empty except for the big Hawaiian waiting behind the counter.

His brows lifted in surprise, and he looked over my shoulder. "No dog?"

My steps faltered. How did he know I'd seen a dog?

I walked to the counter and laid the book on the glass top. "Maggie Tisdahl came here, didn't she?"

He gave a sage nod. "Once or twice. She didn't get what she came for, though."

"What was that?"

"What everyone wants—a sense of self-worth. Of purpose. Like we're here for a reason. The stuff you have to find inside yourself."

I fought against rolling my eyes. "And Sleeth?"

"He's a dog," he said. "A party animal. Chasing women, breaking rules. He needs a trainer with a firm hand. Sure wouldn't want him running loose."

"I saw—" I couldn't make myself say it. "—things that weren't there. Things I don't believe in. Why?"

Hawaiian Mike shrugged. "Our lives are the stories we tell ourselves. What we believe shapes our stories. Each story is a chapter in the bigger story of the universe. Since we all got human brains, there's a lotta overlap in what we create. If enough people believe the same thing, that thing can manifest in the story of the universe."

"That's nonsense!" It sounded like a load of New Age hooey.

"You can see the manifestation even though you know it isn't real. Kinda like watching a magician. You see the trick, but you don't believe it's real."

I held up a hand and shook my head. "But I influenced the dog. If it isn't real, how can I do that?"

His expression became serious. "Every now and then, the stars align, the astral planes intersect at just the right angle, and someone is born who has a lotta influence. What that person believes influences the universe more than what dozens of others together believe. People like that can change things in a big way. The power leaks out in everything they say or do. Even the most inconsequential remark can have unintended consequences to create or destroy."

I frowned at him. "You think Maggie—the Slasher—was one of those special people."

"No, Nicky." His voice had the patience of an ancient teacher. "It's you that's special. You can send the dog away with a wish, destroy Hell forever, make everyone stop believing in religion if you work at it."

I laughed, but the pain came through. "I couldn't stop Maggie. I couldn't keep her victims from helping her."

"Changing other people's beliefs is hard and takes practice. But the dog, he's another story—an insubstantial story easily influenced by belief. You wished him out of her grasp. Temporarily out of existence."

"So many people died." Tears welled in my eyes. I blinked them away.

His voice softened. "Maybe you forgot winning has a cost, too."

Anger and grief bubbled in my chest. "If I could, I'd wish away Heaven and Hell. I'd get rid of cults that take advantage of the weak. I'd make everyone stop believing in superstitions that make them hate people they don't understand."

"You sure about that?" he asked. "You'd take away people's faith in Heaven when maybe that's all that comforts them through the loss of a loved one, an illness, a disaster?"

"Okay, they can have their damned Heaven and their angels," I grumbled. "We can do without Hell."

Mike's eyes twinkled. "The universe seeks balance. Yin and yang, Heaven and Hell, angels and demons—and hellhounds. When someone does great good, it has to be balanced with great evil. Better to stick with small acts that help individuals than big ones that save the world, 'cause payback's a bitch."

I scowled at the shopkeeper. I didn't want to be special. I didn't want to believe any of what I'd heard.

"That… thing that came out of Sleeth, I could get rid of it by wishing?"

"The hellhound came for Holmes. Once he knew where to find Holmes' soul, he shoulda given up the flesh, taken Holmes, and gone home. But you called him back."

My mouth dropped open. "No I didn't. I'd be thrilled to never see that thing again."

Mike grinned. "You mean you saved Sleeth by accident? 'Cause when you told him to live, you bound him to you. He's your dog now."

"My dog!? I don't want anything to do with him."

Mike leaned on the counter and chuckled.

I rubbed the back of my hand over my mouth. "He's evil, and he hurts people."

"That depends on who you ask. Lotta cultures have a hellhound myth. In some, he's the embodiment of evil. In others, he protects the recently departed on their trip to the afterlife. Seems like who he has as a master—or a mistress—makes all the difference." He quirked an eyebrow at me. "You know anything about dog training?"

I raised my hands, horrified at the thought of taking responsibility for Sleeth. "Why can't he just go back to Hell?"

"You upset the balance, the natural order of things. Maybe you should ask him where he wants to go."

I felt more confused now than when I'd walked in the door. I tapped a finger on Maggie's book.

"What's this?" he said.

"It's the magic book Maggie used to justify the murders." I flipped the book open. "It's blank. There's nothing on any of the pages."

The Hawaiian gave a sage nod. "Course not. There's no such thing as a magic book."

67

The hellhound rested his head on his paws and stared into the enveloping white mist. The trill of an anxious whine slipped from his throat. He knew this place. He'd crossed it thousands of times retrieving the souls of the damned.

But those crossing were like pushing through a thin curtain. This space was vast and empty. He'd wandered lost for hours, unable to find the way to Hell, and that worried him.

The ward had sent him here. Her actions confused him. First she'd freed him by pushing him out of the flesh. Then she'd called him back. He'd devoured Holmes and all the damned souls. The memory of his drunken feast still resonated.

But then she'd stopped him from taking Decker's soul. Moments later, the angels appeared. Had she called them? When they'd gone, she'd ordered him away. Was this what it was to perish?

The muffled clop of hooves approached, and he lifted his head, hope kindling in his chest. Out of the swirling fog, the demon that had worn the flesh of the mobster, Calderon, materialized. The hellhound rose on his paws, his tail wagging with excitement.

"Demon," the hellhound said, "you've left the realm of souls?"

"Observant as always," the demon said, his skeleton jaw sagging open in what might be construed as a smirk. "I bring word from our master."