by John Ringo
He sank to the ground, moaning, at the white fire that filled his head. He was usually one of the acolytes and his link to the Master was strong. Now it filled him with pain as the Master was filled with pain. But it stopped and he stumbled to his feet, shaking his head to clear it.
“What’s happening?” he yelled as people streamed by. “What’s happening?”
He pulled his shotgun out of the car, heading for the front and then angling to the side. It sounded like the Master was at the back left for some reason. He was trotting around the side when the building erupted.
When he came to, he felt a horrible wash of dread. The link he’d felt to his Master this last six months was gone. It felt as if the Master was gone. He suddenly remembered, unshielded by the power that had filled him, all the things he’d done, all the women he had raped and killed before the Master’s first manifestation and raped and helped to kill since. The pleasure that he’d gotten from it, and still did. He had gone to the Master freely.
But with the Master gone, retribution was sure to fall on all of them. Unless… it would be hard to cover up. But nobody in the town would talk; they were all implicated. A fire in the old church. People dead. They could clean up the remains of the hooker. He wasn’t sure what would be left of the Master.
If…
That bitch. There was one fucking witness. What she would say would seem insane, but she could point fingers, talk about things best left buried.
Where the fuck was she? Dead in the church?
But then he saw a figure, striding across the parking lot. A look, a move.
Her.
He stumbled to his feet, looking around. Many of the Cult of Almadu had not come freely to the worship and apparently, bereft of their cozy link to the Master, many of them had gone insane. Others were sitting with their heads in their hands or stumbling around drunkenly.
He had to stop her. He saw the bitch getting in Claude Thibideau’s red pickup and hurried back to his squad car.
It was a long way to the next town.
* * *
One of the things Barbara had been careful to carry along was the hand-held GPS she used for navigation. She started the truck, put on her seatbelt, pulled the GPS out of her backpack, unfolded the little suction cup thingy and slapped it on the windshield. Then she put the truck in gear and floored it, spinning gravel and squealing tires as she hit the blacktop.
The GPS was taking a while to find satellites, but that was okay. The first possible turn wasn’t for a few miles. She put the headlights on bright, pressed the accelerator down and settled down to put miles between herself and Thibideau. She wasn’t sure what she was going to tell the authorities. Tell them it was attempted rape by the deputy? Anything to get them into the town, asking questions. Or, maybe, just walk away? No, that was the wrong thing in the eyes of the Lord.
Oh… heck. The things she’d said. And done.
“Dear Lord, please forgive me for some of my words, thoughts and actions this night. I really was… Well, I’m sorry…”
She was a half mile out of town, approaching the first curve, when she saw lights behind her, closing fast.
* * *
The parish car was an unmodified Ford Crown Victoria, but there was no way that a pickup truck could outrun it on the bayou roads. It was lower to the ground and could take the turns faster, not to mention being faster in the straightaway. Slowly, he gained ground. And there was nothing around, nowhere for her to go but straight on. He’d push her off the road, put a bullet in her head if she was still alive and then feed her body to the gators. He wasn’t getting anywhere close to the bitch after what she’d done to Claude and Marceau and the rest. What was she, a fucking ninja? Soccer mom, my ass. The truck could get pulled out and dumped. Or fixed up. Whatever. No witnesses meant no witnesses. Probably some of the people in town would have to be… cleaned up as well. More gator food. Save that for later.
He’d closed from better than a mile to less than a hundred yards. All he had to do was run her off the road.
* * *
“You’d think a mechanic would soup up his own truck,” Barbara muttered as the police car started to drift to the left. He was going to try to hit her on the rear end and spin her out. At the speed she was going, she was likely to go into a roll. And that would be that.
“Fine,” she muttered. “You wanna dance. Let’s fu… let’s dance.”
She slammed on her brakes and pulled to the left, fighting the truck as it tried to get away from her.
* * *
The truck suddenly braked, swerving to the left and caught his right front quarter panel. He was going nearly a hundred miles an hour and the slight change in vector pulled the car into an out-of-control spin. The last thing Deputy Sheriff Mondaine saw was the tree-trunk headed for his windshield.
* * *
The impact had jarred the truck and Barbara fought it for as long as she could. She’d gotten it down under forty, skidding all over the road and headed for a curve, when the right front tire hit the grass on the shoulder and sent the truck into a spin. It made it halfway through and then started to roll. Barbara saw grass and trees and then the water reaching up for her.
Epilogue
Barbara lay in the hospital bed, looking up at the ceiling and occasionally rattling the handcuff on her left wrist. For the past three days she had tried to explain to people that she was not crazy. For which act she had been chained to her bed and visited by a stream of psychiatrists.
“Mrs. Everette,” the doctor said, gently. “I know you think you saw what you’re saying you saw. But under extreme stress, hallucinations can occur. You’ve been under a lot of stress, lately. We’ve spoken to your husband and he tells us that you were already acting… erratically…”
“I am not crazy,” Barbara said, trying not to cry. But who was she to judge? The first thing a crazy person was sure of was that they weren’t crazy. Who was she to think that the Lord and Savior would give her the power to dispel a demon? She knew that she tried to live her life in a Christian manner, but she was no warrior of God. She knew that.
“No, you’re not crazy, Barbara,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “Apparently there was a group of rapists and murderers that were keeping the town under their thumb. But the only person who saw this god-monster was you. Now, the police are aware that you may have committed some acts that you could be charged with. But they’re willing to overlook that, given that you stopped the Ripper killings. However, with your continued delusionary state…”
Barb tuned him out. They were going to let her go, only if she promised not to talk about what she’d seen. Realistically, there wasn’t anyone she could tell. Who would believe her?
“Barbara, I’m going to come back in a while,” the psychiatrist said, standing up. “If you’d like, I could prescribe a sedative…”
“No, thank you,” she said. “My body is a temple of God. I’ll take a pain killer if I need it, but no mind-altering drugs.”
“I’m sorry, but it may come to that,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “We’ll talk later.”
She lay back, closing her eyes against tears, her abdomen shuddering with the need to cry. Kelly was dead, his chest flailed by the monster. She’d failed him. That was the thing that kept coming back to her, not the victory, if there had been one, but the sight of his pain-ravaged face telling her to “go, go.”
She opened her eyes and glared at the door as there was a light knock.
“Come in,” she ground out. She was done with being Mrs. Nice to these people. Maybe God would forgive her that as well.
The man who entered was not, apparently, a doctor. And older guy, very well preserved, though, with distinguished gray at his temples and black hair. Nice suit.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Augustus Germaine. I’m here to congratulate you.”
“On what? Being crazy?”
“You’re not by any means crazy, Mrs. Everette. And I’m s
orry it’s taken me this long to pull the strings to get you out of here. A warrior of the Lord who dispels an avatar of Almadu deserves far better. However, up until yesterday I was in Serbia tracking a werewolf that was causing a spot of trouble. Would you consider having dinner with me? I have a job offer I think you might entertain.”
BOOK TWO
THE NECROMANCY OPTION
Chapter One
The picture on the flat-screen projection was of a pretty young woman, slightly overweight, with black, obviously dyed, hair, lying on her back with her throat cut from ear to ear. Her lips and eyelids had been painted in black and there was a symbol painted on her right cheek in what appeared to be permanent marker.
“Victim Number Nine, Sharon Carter,” Special Agent in Charge Jim Halliwell said. “Age, sixteen. Home, Newberry, South Carolina. MO standard for case R-143-8. Found in a remote, wooded, area. Anal, vaginal and oral sexual assault. Markings drawn on the body with magic marker. Marks of stakes in the ground and remnants of military parachute cord ties. Ligation marks on hands and ankles. Biological tracings of a white male with brown hair. Footprints indicate somewhere between five foot seven and six feet in height. Stake marks are of a military type stake. Perpetrator may be current military or of military background.”
“So, basically, we’re where we were with victims four through eight?” Agent Donahue said. “All the clues in the world and no idea who the perp is?” Greg Donahue’s six foot four, heavy-set, frame was leaning back in his chair, frankly sprawled, in contrast to the other six agents watching the briefing, all of whom were sitting erect with every sign of attentiveness. They put Halliwell in mind of a group of well-trained Dobermans with one sprawled St. Bernard in the middle.
“Not quite,” Halliwell replied with a note of satisfaction. “Agent Griffith might have an idea,” he added, gesturing at the young man at his side.
Griffith was twenty-six, medium height and overweight with brown hair that was already receding. Unlike everyone else in the room his clothing was rumpled and his tie pulled down and askew. The FBI liked clean-cut agents with an almost military bearing. But over the years they had learned that certain types of personalities did not grow on trees. So for the Griffiths of the world, an exception was made.
“I’ve been comparing known similarities in all the cases,” Griffith said, throwing up a complicated chart. “All of the victims have been in their teens, female, all the rest. However, what got me was that most of them had a ‘Goth’ look to them.”
“Victims four and seven didn’t,” Donahue pointed out.
“Goth?” Agent Laidlaw asked.
“Black eye make-up,” Donahue answered. “White face powder, black clothes and hair. Sort of a vampire look. Really common with disaffected middle class suburban kids of a certain type. Generally they’re a bit more intelligent than the norm in their school, don’t fit in very well, tend to not be druggies but try to set themselves off. If they read much, it’s vampire stuff like Anne Rice.”
“Anne who?” Laidlaw asked. “I’m getting lost here.”
“Rice,” Donahue sighed. “Interview with the Vampire? Ring any bells?”
“No,” Laidlaw admitted.
“So a lot of them were Goths,” Donahue said, giving up. “What’s the point?”
“Well, it was a point of similarity,” Griffith said. “So I ran it down. It turns out that all of them had attended a con within two months of their deaths.”
“Con?” Laidlaw asked.
“A science fiction, fantasy or gaming convention,” Griffith answered. “Actually, in seven of the nine cases, it was a science fiction literary convention. One media convention and one gaming. Each of them, though, has had a horror track and LARPing.”
“Goth LARPers?” Donahue asked, frowning. “Horror fans?”
“Maybe,” Griffith answered. “Since we just got the connection, we haven’t run down all the leads. I don’t know what they were engaging in at the cons. Might be LARPing, might have been gamers, might have been general con-goers.”
“What in the hell is a LARPer?” Laidlaw asked. “Now I’m getting totally lost.”
“LARP,” Donahue said, sighing again. “Live Action Role Play. Basically a role playing game where people wander around the con playing it. Goes on all night and all day, damned LARPers sitting outside your room at four in the morning talking about how to ambush the werewolves or whatever. It’s a pain in the ass.”
“You’ve been to cons?” Griffith asked, surprised.
“A couple,” Donahue admitted, shrugging. “Mostly to get signatures from authors I like. And, hell, there are people there that you don’t have to explain who Anne Rice is,” he added with a chuckle. “Or Robert Heinlein or Poul Anderson.”
“We’re trying to build a suspect list based on this connection,” SAIC Halliwell said. “The profilers think we’re looking at a person between the ages of eighteen and thirty. With the other items, hair color, skin color and height, we can begin building a suspects list. If we can find out who has been attending the cons. Besides the victims, obviously.”
“Depending on the con, you could be looking at anywhere from six hundred to forty thousand attendees. That doesn’t narrow it down much. Even if you just look at the ‘white males with brown hair.’ ”
“It’s more than we had,” the SAIC said.
“No traces of makeup left by the perp,” Donahue pointed out. “So our perp might be mildly intelligent and not dressing the part. Or he might not be a Goth. Goths generally hang out with Goths.”
“Which is why I’m thinking LARPer,” Griffith argued. “Goths interact with non-Goths more in LARPing than anywhere else. And there are non-Goth look people that hang with the Goths.”
“Hell, all of the conventions will have lists of who attended,” Donahue said, shrugging. “Get those and you can narrow it down quite a bit.”
“We tried that,” Halliwell admitted. “The first problem is the people that run the conventions were pretty unwilling to cough up the lists…”
“I can imagine,” Donahue said, grimacing. “Con-goers and organizers tend to be… well, I guess it could best be put as either libertarian or liberal. Giving the FBI lists of their attendees has to really go against their grain.”
“The other problem is that most of them don’t have good records of people that just show up,” Halliwell said. “They don’t require ID for example. And although we had matches on people at several of the cons, no matches on all of them that met the description and profile of the perp. Also no across-the-board matches on hotel reservations.”
“So now what?” Donahue asked.
“We’re going to insert agents at cons,” Halliwell said, shrugging. “Undercover, obviously. Their task will be to try to ID suspects that meet the description and profile. Pictures and names when possible.”
“We’ll be looking for people that are ‘day-trippers,’ “ Griffith pointed out. “Most of the cons have a different badge for that. But it’s not guaranteed; they might be rotating names some way. Someone who is interacting with the Goths but may not be dressed as one.”
“Each of you will be assigned a con,” Halliwell said. “And we’ll keep sending agents to others, trying to build a list, until we close the case or the con angle proves to be a bust.” He paused and frowned then shook his head. “Donahue, Griffith, you got any suggestions on how to go undercover to a con?”
“Yeah,” Laidlaw said, grinning. “Where do we get our Klingon outfits?”
“What you wear doesn’t really matter,” Donahue said, frowning. “But you have to have a reason to be there, other than to laugh at the geeks. Or you’re going to stand out like a God damned sore thumb and blow the investigation. Just the FBI look is going to make you stand out. The clean-cut, short-hair, erect bearing is going to peg you as a military guy, maybe cop, right away. You’d be amazed how many of both go to the cons — about half the guys who wear Storm Trooper armor are local cops for example — but t
hey generally try to keep a low profile in that area. And if you’re going to be going around asking questions, you’re going to have to have a reason for it. Depending upon the con, and who is going, I’d suggest an intensive reading course in one of the author guests. Or if it’s a media con, get familiar with one of the TV shows or movies that one of the guests was in. Get a book or a picture signed. Go to a couple of the panels. If you’re gothing, get to know some of the bands and understand the attitude, even if you don’t have it. If it’s a gaming con, you’re going to have to be able to game and that’s a skill I don’t know if any of you have. Don’t laugh at the geeks. Don’t go around with the ‘get a life’ attitude or, again, you’re going to blow the investigation. Laidlaw, you golf, right?”
“Sure,” the agent said, frowning.
“Can you explain why you go out to chase a little white ball around a course?” Donahue asked. “You get paid money to do that? No. You do it for fun. Your friends do it. When you’re done you get to hang out at the nineteenth hole and drink beer and lie about your game. That’s all that cons are. It’s where people with similar interests come together. They’re not your kind of people, they’re their kind of people. And they’re just as… disparaging of golfers as you are of them. And since most of them have a better vocabulary than you do, they can be disparaging better, trust me. Get that in your head, get some background, and you’ll be fine. Dress casual, really casual, and take good walking shoes.”
“There’s one other potential link,” Halliwell said. “An author called K. Goldberg has been a guest at seven of the nine conventions. You read any of his stuff, Donahue?”
