Half a mile away, his phone rang. It was three hours later on the East coast, though he imagined that Director Newquist had been stewing for a while, waiting for the time to turn decent in Phoenix.
“Russ,” he said simply.
“Eliot died on the plane,” his boss said. “They managed to revive him, but things looked dicey there for a while.”
“Not the first time,” Val said with a dismissive air. “It never seems to stick. He’s a tough old boy, for a Yankee.”
The director sighed. “Valentine, do you take anything seriously?”
“At my age?” He thought about it. “No.”
“No sign of Helen yet?”
“Nothing so far. I’ve got every cop from here to Amarillo on the lookout, though—with strict orders not to engage. We get a sign of her, we’ll be on her, right quick.”
“What’s this I hear about detainees?”
“Couple of groups,” Valentine confirmed, making the turn down the road to headquarters. He cast a baleful eye on the stack of donut boxes, daring them to slide. They remained still. “Kent Sikora, a local cop. His wife, a priest from out in California named Rosado. They were all in the house, got whammied by Helen Locke before one of the other witches set the place on fire. They got out okay. Minor burns, smoke inhalation—that sort of thing. Paxton and his girl shacked up in the guest room. Next group was pretty cagey—we caught them trying to sneak around the back of the property. Esteban De La Rosa, Javier De La Rosa, Esteban Ramirez, and Carlos Gallardo.”
Val could almost hear Newquist counting the names off on his fingers. “Two Estebans?”
“Yeah, one’s older, the other’s younger. In-laws, or something. All employees of the same PI firm that contracts Paxton Locke. They’re not talking yet, but I’m planning on splitting them up and getting to that while we wait for leads.”
“Pretty big crew working with young Paxton,” Newquist mused.
Val pulled down the ramp leading to the underground parking garage. “Every witch has their coven, Director.”
“You’re still convinced he’s playing for the other side?” The debate was a long-standing bone of contention between Val and his boss. If Val had gotten his way, he’d have arrested Locke a few weeks back, when he was stuck in a hospital room. Who knew how much of the current mess they might have avoided had he done so?
He waved his ID badge under the reader, then tapped his access code into the pad. As the gate rumbled to one side, he said, “Of course I’m not sure, but the best way to find out is to get in his head, wouldn’t you say? We need to find out what he knows.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Valentine.”
“Who better? Where do things stand, now?”
“We’ve got his powers damped down, but we’ll fry his noodle if we keep pumping the juice into him. We moved him into one of the warded cells so we can interrogate him when he wakes up. I’d hold him for you, but it sounds like you’re busy.”
“Send me the tapes,” Val said. He nosed the car into a spot near the elevator and killed the engine. “You almost sound like you admire the kid, sir.”
“I’ve seen some of the field reports from Missouri and Phoenix.” A humorous note entered Newquist’s tone. “If you piss him off enough, he might be up to your lofty standards, Agent.”
Val shrugged, even though he knew the boss couldn’t see it. He might have taken the bait with less on his mind, but he knew Russell was just trying to lighten the mood a bit. Division M had been through a rough few days.
“A few days downstairs will soften him up. If we can’t roll up the mother in the next few days, he’ll be ready to talk by then.” The subterranean prison beneath the Division M field headquarters in Leesburg, Virginia served as a temporary containment venue for troublesome pests until the powers-that-be made an official determination on their status. In the paranormal sense, it was the equivalent of a county jail. Business was booming, of late, and they were running out of spare cells. Plans were in motion for a much larger facility outside of Bluffdale, Utah.
For a variety of reasons, it was a horrible idea to keep a prison full of monsters both human and inhuman right near one of the most populated metropolitan areas on the East Coast. When they’d first built the warehouse, heavy woods surrounded the entire complex. Despite subtle pushes back against changes in zoning, the demands of urban sprawl had turned the warehouse into an island in a literal sea of people. Out west, the facility would still be close to Salt Lake, but the population of that entire county was a fraction of the size of the DC Metro area. If they’d asked Val for a suggestion, he would have asked for Alaska, maybe, or some island they could erase from charts and GPS. As with many other official policies, he was not consulted.
“Thanks for the advice,” the director said. “Keep me posted on what you get out of his friends. We can use that. We’ve got an all-hands-on-deck meeting tomorrow morning to roll up the task force on this side of the country. I’m pulling in all the regional heads in for a brainstorming session.” His boss coughed a tight laugh. “The Attorney General is going to have kittens when he sees the bills for airfare.”
“Should I take offense that you think I won’t catch her by my lonesome?”
“As of this moment, Helen Locke is Division M’s number-one most wanted. If Phoenix was her attempt at subtle, God help us if she goes off the reservation. I’ll get you the conference link. We could use the insight.”
“Will do,” Val promised, ending the call. Glancing at the stack of donuts, he cursed as he realized he’d forgotten coffee.
Chapter Five
Cassie—Sunday morning
Texas Panhandle
Twenty miles out of Amarillo, something squealed under the hood of their third car.
Helen leaned forward over the wheel, squinting at the lights on the dashboard. “What is that?” she muttered. Cassie opened her mouth to answer the rhetorical question before realizing that the other woman’s last order for her to remain quiet was still in effect.
“If you know something, say it!” Helen snapped.
Cassie took a deep breath, considered the noise and all the time she’d spent in the garage with her dad, then shrugged. “Sounds like the fan belt is going out. Maybe worse, if your check engine light is on.”
“Lovely.” Helen had used the push on the driver of this vehicle a hundred miles back after parking their first replacement behind an abandoned muffler shop. The previous owner, a lizard-slim guy with a belt buckle bigger than his head, was going on a magically-directed bender at the nearest bar.
I hope he hasn’t been going to meetings, Cassie thought with a wince. After the all the hard work she’d put in to get her own sobriety token, Helen’s magical puppet act and her own resulting loss of control hit close to home. “Guess we should have asked how well he takes care of his car,” she said, unable to resist needling the other woman. Compared to the nearly-new sedan the witch had stolen in Phoenix, Belt Buckle’s battered Ford Taurus had a vague scent of corn chips and, apparently, some bearings going out.
“We’re getting off at the next exit,” Helen declared, and Cassie felt the familiar tingle as the witch exerted her influence. “Speak to no one. No funny facial expressions to communicate your distress. Do you understand?”
Cassie opened her mouth to say yes, found the ‘not speaking’ order was already in effect, and settled for a nod. Damn it.
Helen signaled to take the exit. The truck stop looked pretty ratty from the highway, but it wasn’t like they had a variety of choices—Interstate 40 was pretty much an ocean of flat, empty ground interrupted by the occasional city.
She’d come this way with Pax, but Cassie hadn’t spent much time looking at the passing landscape on the way west. And, on the bright side, Helen’s command about facial expressions helped her keep from smirking as she thought, Sidekick, hell. You’ve got it bad, girl.
Taking the turn into the automobile parking lot, Helen pulled the Taurus down to the
end of the lot. The squealing under the hood had only grown in intensity. It felt like a mercy killing when the witch cut the engine and pitched the keys into the backseat.
“Do you need to use the restroom?”
Cassie considered the grimy-looking building, imagined what the facilities inside looked like, and shook her head in a firm no.
Their only luggage was the leather satchel Pax used to transport the grimoire. Helen opened it up and considered the contents. “Here,” she said. She handed Cassie a twenty. “Five minutes inside, get us some supplies. Healthier stuff, if that’s even possible. I’ll figure out transportation.”
She was halfway to the entrance before she realized that Helen had made a mistake. There was a push to the time limit, but she’d eased off after that. Cassie was half-tempted to buy twenty bucks worth of Reese’s Cups, but that was short-sighted.
A bell tinkled overhead as she pushed her way into the small convenience store. Ignoring a greeting from the clerk, she plunged down the aisles, searching out anything coming close to Helen’s request. Based on the fact that she looked even younger than Cassie due to one of her magic spells, she doubted the witch would suffer any ill effects from a poor diet. Have to see if I can pick that spell up. Cradling a pack of bottled water and some freeze-dried fruit chips, she was still racking her brain when she turned the corner and saw the stand for the lottery.
She’d never been much for the whole PowerBall thing, but she knew that you could get tickets one of two ways—a randomly-generated set of numbers printed from the machine, or your own chosen numbers, selected by filling in the bubbles on a form. Kind of like the old Scantron tests they took in school.
I can’t talk and I can’t make faces but I can damn well write.
Something inside told her that her time was running out. Setting her groceries on the floor, she grabbed a slip of paper and the stub of a pencil attached to a chain and tried to think. What could she write? The police back in Phoenix were thoroughly corrupted or had been. She realized at that moment that she didn’t know if Paxton had won or not.
He did, she told herself, and he’s going to ride in on a white horse to save the day—I just have to help him find the way.
Call it childish, call it simplistic—she’d been kidnapped by a witch. Telling herself fairy tales seemed like a fitting thing to do, far-fetched or not.
She scribbled across the ticket. CASSIE HATCHER KIDNAPPED BY ESCAPED FELON. CALL DETECTIVE SIKORA PHOENIX POLICE AFTER I’M GONE. NOT A PRANK.
Who knew if it would work or not, especially since she couldn’t emphasize the note with any sort of non-verbal communication, but it was all she had time for. She collected her things and headed for the register.
The clerk was a gum-popping brunette not much older than Cassie, but after she didn’t respond to her chipper, “Hey, sweetie, how you doing?” the girl went silent. The beeping of the cash register replaced conversation for a moment. “Fifteen sixty-five,” the clerk announced finally.
Cassie laid the twenty on the counter between them but kept a finger on it as she took a quick look outside. Helen was nowhere in sight. Quickly, she pulled the lottery ticket out and laid it beside the twenty. She tapped the note, making eye contact with the clerk as she collected the bagged items.
“Don’t you want your change…” The clerk trailed off. Cassie was halfway to the door and assumed she’d read the note. “Hey!” the clerk said.
Be cool, Cassie told herself. Nothing happened.
She stepped outside and looked up and down the sidewalk in front of the store. Helen stood on the corner opposite from where they’d parked, and she beckoned her forward when she saw Cassie.
Swallowing, she headed that way. At the corner, Helen led her across the parking lot for the tractor-trailer rigs. She pointed out a bright red long-nosed semi. “No more driving for us. We’ve got a chauffeur, now.” She took the bag of supplies from Cassie, holding it open as they walked. “Banana chips, lovely. Excellent choice.”
Helen led her around to the passenger side of the truck. “In the back,” she said as she pulled the door open. “Say hello to Troy.”
The driver was a barrel-chested guy with curly hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. Cassie saw a hint of panic in his eyes as he looked over at her. “Hello,” she said, as directed, and hoped that he saw something in her eyes to give him comfort. Hang in there, Troy. We’ll get out of this.
Helen climbed up after Cassie. “Put these away,” she said to her.
The instruction at least gave her an opportunity to get the lay of the land. The sleeper was, to her surprise, pretty nice. A twin-sized bed took up one side of the area, and the opposite side had a dorm-style refrigerator and microwave, with an LCD television hanging on the wall near the ceiling.
She got the bottled water and snacks stashed in the fridge—Troy’s supplies showed his fondness for Rip-Its and peanut M&Ms, then took a seat on the bed.
Helen buckled her seatbelt and adjusted the passenger seat until the fit satisfied her. “Let’s go, Troy. East.”
She must have silenced him, as well, because he simply started the truck and headed toward the exit without a word. Cassie licked her lips and tried to keep her breathing slow and even.
“Hey,” someone shouted from outside. Oh, no, she thought. Helen turned to look out the passenger window. Cassie stood up and pressed her face against the small port in the side of the sleeper. The clerk stood out in the parking lot, holding a phone in one hand. She waved her other arm in the air, flagging the semi down. Troy’s commands evidently didn’t extend to running over any pedestrians, because he braked and pulled to a stop well short of the shouting girl. “I’ve called the cops! Stay here until they show up to sort all this out!”
Helen turned and stared daggers at Cassie. “What did you do?” she spat.
She tried to hold back, but the words spilled from her lips. “I gave her a note.”
The other woman laughed. “Not bad—you should have been a lawyer, girl. I want you to remember that everything after this is your fault.” Turning to the enthralled driver, Helen continued, “Wait here a moment, Troy. I’ll be right back.”
Helen opened the passenger door and stepped down into the parking lot. Not knowing exactly what the witch would do was almost as crushing to Cassie as knowing that she’d come so close to pulling it off.
The clerk stopped waving her hands, transfixed by Helen. They were too far away to hear what was being said, but after seeing it too many times, Cassie had a good sense of what someone under the effect of the push looked like.
Don’t hurt her, she urged, unable to speak. Please, don’t.
Light flared out in the parking lot. Helen cradled a rolling ball of liquid flame too intense to look at directly. With exaggerated care, she held her hand out. The clerk pocketed her phone, cupping both hands together. Cassie winced, waiting for the fire to consume her, but nothing happened as the witch passed it off. She turned on her heel and walked back toward the truck while the clerk stared at the living flame in her hands with an awed expression.
Taking her seat, Helen announced, “Let’s go. Be quick about it.” She turned and looked at Cassie, one corner of her mouth curled up in a wicked smile.
Troy pulled the truck past the clerk. As the truck moved by, the clerk raised her head and strode across the parking lot with intense purpose. They turned right, heading back toward the on-ramp, and the bulk of the trailer behind them and the change of the angle cut off Cassie’s view of the truck stop.
“Go ahead and ask,” Helen said. “I’m sure the suspense is killing you”
“What did you do?” Cassie said. Her voice was hollow in her ears.
“I left her something beautiful and precious to give to some friends of mine. They’re in a tough spot—somehow they managed to get trapped in the gasoline storage tanks under the parking lot.”
Cassie’s heart sank with the knowledge that she was complicit in the deaths of the clerk and countless othe
rs.
Halfway up the on-ramp, nose pointed to the night in the east, a new and horrible sun dawned behind them.
Chapter Six
Valentine—Sunday morning
Phoenix, Arizona
“I’m not going to lie. I’m impressed,” Val said. “You guys had enough hardware in that van to overthrow a Central American government.” He made a show of flipping through the pages in the folder in front of him. “Forensics is still tied up, but I’d lay even odds that the shell casings Phoenix PD found down in the cavern complex will match up with the heat you boys were packing. Thoughts?”
The slim Hispanic sitting across from him had the stillest features he’d ever seen. That, if nothing else, would have impressed Val. The file they’d managed to scrape together in the few hours since the local Division agents swept up the man and his crew was even more impressive. Back in the day, he’d have waited weeks for the type of biographical information he had at his fingertips.
Receiving no response, Val continued, reading off of the page. “Esteban Ramirez. Honorably discharged from the Army in 2005, received California private investigator license two years later.” He flipped through the pages and whistled. “Good money in that, it looks like.”
Val cocked his head, but his subject just looked bored.
“So, tell me this, then, Esteban. Why does a San Diego private eye come to Phoenix at the beck and call of a white-haired punk with delusions of grandeur?”
That got a reaction. The other man’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward in his chair. The handcuffs holding his wrists to the table complicated that somewhat, but he didn’t seem to mind. “First of all, asshole, the only person who calls me by my given name is my abuela. Second, you’re so in the dark you can’t even recognize light.”
“Enlighten me, then.”
“Doesn’t work that way. This isn’t the kind of thing you can tell.”
Val pushed down the smirk. Esteban was right, of course. He debated for a moment, trying to decide the best way to keep him off balance, then said with a shrug, “I agree. Even then, I’ve seen a lot of men freeze when they do see. The mind locks up. Can’t reconcile the image in front of you with the stories your mama told you your whole life about there not being any monsters under the bed.”
Come, Seeling Night Page 3
