Reign of Evil - 03 (11 page)

Through the mask of trees, Laws could be seen approaching the front door and knocking. The house was Tudor-style with a pitched roof, dormers, and timbers offset by the white cottage covering. It appeared perfectly suited for its secluded position, deep within the San Gabriel Mountain woods.

They waited.

Laws turned and looked around, but not in the direction of the vehicle.

He knocked again.

The door was opened several seconds later by an older woman, dressed in a housedress, apron, and sensible shoes, right out of a 1960s
Better Homes and Gardens
photo.

Laws smiled, held out his hand to shake, and waited.

The woman ignored it, however, and seemed about to close the door when—

The tablet came to life as YaYa’s equipment came online. A zoomed-in side shot of Laws and part of the woman’s face appeared along with audio. “But ma’am, I’m just a courier from Loyola Marymount.” He spread his hands apologetically. “I have a registered letter that I have to deliver to Mr. Van Dyke regarding an emergency meeting of the Board of Trustees.”

“Again, Mr. Van Dyke isn’t here at the moment. If you can leave it with me, then I can—”

Laws shook his head and frowned sadly. “That’s unfortunate. The board requires an immediate response. It’s why they sent me out here.” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “It has to do with a windfall they want to distribute among the board members. I don’t know any details, but it’s supposed to be a considerable sum.”

The woman was silent for a long moment, then said, “Wait one moment,” and closed the door.

Laws turned to where YaYa was sitting and gave a huge grin.

“Show-off,” Holmes said quietly.

Yank noticed that despite the word, his boss had a secret smile on his face. They were lucky to have Laws. Not only did he have a photographic memory, but he could also speak several languages. Yank was just happy to be able to speak a little L.A. Spanish, much less Chinese.

A minute later, the woman returned to the front door. She opened it. “Come in, Mr. Fogbottom. I’m sure you understand we get people wanting Mr. Van Dyke’s autograph all the time.” She smiled softly and stepped aside. “He asks me to keep them out.”

“I’m sure you do an excellent job, ma’am.” Laws stepped inside.

With no one outside, the image snapped off, but the audio continued, provided by Laws’s wire. “Sure glad he’s here. It was a long drive and that road—”

She chuckled. “Rim of the World. It keeps many from coming, thank the gods.”

Yank and Holmes glanced at each other.

“It also keeps me from getting down to L.A.,” she added. “I can’t stand those sheer drop-offs.”

“Me neither.” The sound of several footsteps on a hardwood floor.

“This is Mr. Van Dyke’s sitting room. If you’ll wait a moment.”

The sound of a single set of footsteps retreating.

Laws whispered, “East-facing window. Walls lined with floor-to-ceiling built-ins, except for one wall with pictures with movie stars and … is that Schwarzenegger?”

“Yes,” came a raspy voice. One could tell it had once been deep but now was edged with sickness.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’m not one to clomp around my own house like Ms. Murphy. Plus, these slippers don’t make much noise.” After a pause, “Ms. Murphy said you had something for me.”

“I do.” The sound of paper ruffling. “If I could see an ID, though, Mr. Van Dyke.”

Rasping coughs. “Look at the man in the pictures and look at me.” More coughs. “What you see is a younger, handsomer version. Plus, that young man doesn’t have my particular sickness.”

“Very sorry for your—illness, sir.”

“It comes and goes. Now the correspondence.”

Sounds of papers shuffling. “If you can sign here, please, sir.”

“Fine. Give.”

More paper shuffling.

Then a sharp intake of breath.

“There you are. And thank you very much for your time.”

“Leaving so soon?”

“I have several more of these to deliver.” Sound of footsteps on a wooden floor. “I’ll let myself out.”

“You don’t understand,” began the raspy voice. “You can only leave when—”

The door opened, then slammed shut. “Start the engines. We need to leave. Now.” Laws was walking as fast as he could.

YaYa picked himself up from the ground, then began to run.

They made it to the SUV at the same time, jumped in, then Yank sped away.

Holmes turned around in his seat.

“What was it?”

For one of the first times Yank noticed fear in Laws’s eyes. They’d been in plenty of situations and the man had seemed always in control and capable of taking anything thrown at him. Seeing his fear stirred the butterflies in Yank’s stomach.

“What was it?” Holmes repeated.

“I think … I think it was a vampire.”

CHAPTER 15

WOODY’S BOATHOUSE, LAKE ARROWHEAD, CALIFORNIA. AFTERNOON.

Laws still wasn’t certain what he’d seen, but the uneasiness it had created within him had sent his Spidey senses thrumming. He’d seen Ms. Murphy lock the door from the inside behind him when he’d entered, but what she hadn’t seen was the wad of Silly Putty he’d shoved into the space where the lock would go. It was a good thing too, because it had appeared that Mr. Van Dyke hadn’t intended for him to leave.

Van Dyke’s appearance was that of a two-hundred-year-old version of the man in the pictures. The man standing next to Schwarzenegger and Nicholson and Magic Johnson had a vibrancy the man who’d stood before him lacked to such a degree, he might as well have been the husk of who he’d been. And why?

They sat in a booth in a corner of the bar by windows facing the water. They’d only ordered waters, much to the displeasure of the sixteen-year-old waitress who snapped gum like it was an Olympic event.

“Let’s go over it one more time,” Holmes said.

His back was to the corner, and he occasionally glanced up to see who was entering and leaving. So far no one had sat by the booth next to them. It was mid-afternoon and there wasn’t much traffic.

Laws took a drink of his water as he glanced at his three teammates. He was normally cool and collected, living by the dictate WWSMD—What Would Steve McQueen Do. Growing up in Hollywood, Laws had been surrounded by the uncool, the wannabe cool, and the supercool. Although he’d never met McQueen, Laws’s father, who’d worked on several of his films, including
Bullitt
, told him that the man was the coolest he’d ever met.

Laws began slowly describing the man’s appearance. “I just thought he was sick, but then as he was signing the document, I happened to glance at one of the pictures. I could see my reflection perfectly, but his was smudged. I remember blinking my eyes several times, thinking it was me, but no, it was as if someone had come and wiped their hand across his image.”

“I thought vampires didn’t have a reflection,” Yank said.

“That’s fiction written by people following the tradition of Stoker,” Laws said, unable to keep from being the Encyclopedia Supernatural.

“Our mission logs reference human smudging in reflective surfaces,” Holmes said. “But it could refer not only to a vampire, but to someone possessed, like with a demon.”

“Like that makes it better,” YaYa said. “Thanks for the clarification.”

Holmes sipped thoughtfully at his water. “No problem.”

“Let’s talk this out, though. If it is a demon, what kind? Given we’re dealing with druids, it could be anything, not necessarily those from Christian ideology. Perhaps like the thing that had you,” Laws said, nodding his head at YaYa.

The young man absently rubbed his prosthetic hand. “The
obour,
” he said softly.

YaYa had been infected with an ancient forest demon on his first mission while they were operating in Myanmar. The creature’s malignant influence had become so bad, YaYa had been co-opted by a shape-changing Los Zetas hit man, which almost led to the death of the entire team. In the end, the only way YaYa could fight the demon was to remove the site of infection, which was his left forearm.

“Although we have the entire pantheon of demons from which to choose,” Laws began, “considering we’re dealing with druids, one would have to believe it would be a nature spirit of some sort. Remember any readings on those, Boss?”

Holmes shook his head, then held up a hand.

A family of four, mom, pop, son, and daughter, trundled by and took a seat two booths down. Both kids were sulking. The waitress was on top of it and took the orders for two double martinis like it was a military operation and was moving fast toward the bartender before Laws continued.

“Me neither.” He leaned back. “Then I guess we follow SOP.”

“Wait,” Yank said, looking from Laws to Holmes. “There’s a Standard Operating Procedure for dealing with demons?”

“Of course there is. Why wouldn’t there be?”

“Well, it’s just that…” He seemed to fight for a way to articulate what he wanted to say. “It’s just that we’ve been flying by the seat of our pants for the last few missions, so the idea that we have manuals and SOPs for these things is … well, incredible, I guess.”

Laws grinned for a moment, then turned to Holmes. “FNG just said it’s incredible. What do you think about that, Boss?”

Holmes shook his head. “Remind me when we get back to the shop that we’re going to begin practicing immediate action drills.”

“Like how to remove someone’s head from their ass?” YaYa said, staring plainly at Yank.

“Or how to remove someone’s foot from their mouth?” Laws added.

“More like weapon improvisation against catalogued supernatural enemies.” Holmes sighed. “Yank’s right in a way. Although I prefer to call it operational flexibility instead of flying by the seat of your pants, we’ve barely had a breath since our last op. Last time we practiced at all was in New Orleans against the undead.”

“Scenario development?” Laws asked.

Holmes nodded. “Think about how we’re going to build the training around specific circumstances and environments.”

“I can get Musso to begin working on that for us. I hear we’re getting a replacement for Jen as well. Someone named Riley Ferguson.”

They all stared at nothing for a moment; then Holmes spoke. “Everyone order something. I’m going to call back for our go bags to be delivered. We’re not leaving this mountain until we’ve engaged the demon.” He stood up and pulled his phone from his pocket as he headed out the door.

“You heard the man,” Laws said. “Let’s eat.” He kept his smile on and his eyes bright, but inside he felt the darkness in the creature known as Van Dyke. Soon they’d know it was his real name.

CHAPTER 16

BANKS OF THE KENNET RIVER, MARLBOROUGH, ENGLAND. DUSK.

Adam Neville’s passion had always been fishing. The major contributing factor for him quitting his job in London ten years ago had been the lack of acceptable trout fishing nearby, not to mention the sheer mass of shuddering humanity. He’d moved to the country, bought a home on the Kennet River, and proceeded to spend his days telecommuting to the brokerage and his mornings and evenings communing with the fish. It was in these moments as he slung a nymph into a ripple of water that he felt the most content.

Of course his mates would be on him for using flies, since the season ended October 1, but being a coarse fisherman wasn’t in his veins and he couldn’t stand trying to catch anything other than trout or her cousins, salmon and char. Carp and perch and dace and sanders were dumb enough to eat empty hooks. With flies it was a game of strategy, in which sometimes the fish won and sometimes he won. With bait and other techniques it was hardly a challenge. If he’d wanted to fish merely to catch fish he would have learned how to net the fish and spared the cost of a decent rod.

He glanced back at the warmth of his house, his wife, Sarah, staring blithely at him through the patio door, glass of chardonnay in one hand, cigarette in the other. She’d detested the move from the city. He smiled weakly as he shivered from the cold. He couldn’t be sure if it was the weather or her stare. She sent him a steely grin, then turned away from the window to the fire. He sighed, realizing it was only a matter of time before she left him.

But of course he’d always have the fish.

He cast a small unweighted nymph in the clear water and let it drift over the ripple. A swirl of silver, then it hit. His rod bent double as his heart soared. The feeling never changed. Not from the first fish up to this most recent one. It was always a luxurious and rewarding feeling.

He reeled the fish in, letting it play long enough that it could have gotten off if it had shaken its head and body the right way, then pulled it onto the bank. It was a brown, probably eighteen inches. He put his left hand gently on the body.

The fish stared at him, its mouth opening and closing in exhausted gasps.

Adam slid the barbless hook free, then released the brown back into the water. He watched as it disappeared. He stayed squatting, watching the poetry of the river for a time before he stood.

Maybe just once more.

He moved fifty feet down the river, leaving the shadow of his own home. He noticed fog coming from the west, hugging the water. He cast toward it, as if it were a geological feature rather than a weather phenomenon. He let his nymph drift a moment, then recast. By the time his fly hit the water, the fog had moved to obscure its position. Then the fog covered him and the river, moving on.

He sighed, reeling in the nymph and hooking it to the place just above the reel on his pole designed to hold it. Although his fishing was done, he didn’t want to go home. So instead he stood in the cold, shivering slightly, listening to the land and trying not to remember the words of his wife just an hour ago.

“You’re bound and determined to drive me bloody insane. How can you pass the opportunity up? It’s double your salary!”

“But it’s in Hong Kong,” he’d said. “There aren’t any trout in Hong Kong.”

“Trout. Trout. Your fucking trout. I think if you could find a trout with tits and a slit, you’d get rid of me in a second.”