Hard Spell ocu-1

by Justin Gustainis

  "Hey, that's terrific," I said, and pulled from my pocket a sheet of paper where I had copied the three sets of symbols we'd found on the murder victims.

  Prescott popped the shrimp into his mouth and took the paper from me. I signaled Karl with my eyes, and he took a slow step to the side, blocking Prescott from a quick exit in case he tried to walk away once he realized we'd conned him.

  Prescott's eyes narrowed as he stared at the symbols on the paper. After a few seconds, I said quietly, "Those were found carved into the bodies of three recent murder victims. Rumor has it they were taken from a spell that's part of the Opus Mago. You remember the Opus Mago, don't you, Professor?"

  His eyes wide open now, Prescott looked up from the paper and stared at me in shock and anger. He drew in breath to speak, but I'll never know what he intended to say.

  • • • •

  Prescott's mouth was open, but instead of angry words, what came out were a series of hoarse grunts. His fleshy face began to turn a deep shade of red.

  "Christ, he's choking on the shrimp!" I said to Karl. "Your arms are longer – quick, Heimlich him!"

  Karl immediately slipped behind Prescott and threw his arms around the big man's midsection, clasping his hands together in front. He gave the quick, hard squeeze that was supposed to constrict Prescott's diaphragm with enough pressure to send the shrimp back out of his windpipe.

  Nothing happened. Other guests were starting to converge on us now, asking urgent questions that I paid no attention to. I whipped out my badge and held it up. "Police officer, get back!" I yelled. "Somebody call 911!"

  Karl shifted his grip a couple of inches and tried again. Still nothing.

  Karl moved his hands again, took a deep breath, and squeezed hard.

  Nothing came out. Prescott's knees were starting to sag now. There was no way Karl could keep him on his feet and work the Heimlich maneuver at the same time, so I moved in, directly in front of Prescott, so close that our chests were touching. I grabbed a handful of his belt on each side and braced my elbows against my hips, trying to hold up what was quickly becoming four hundred-some pounds of dead weight.

  "Go on!" I grunted. "Do it! Quick!"

  Karl adjusted his grip once more and I heard him grunt as he gave another desperate squeeze.

  And a piece of half-chewed shrimp popped out of Prescott's gaping mouth and hit me right in the face.

  A moment later, it was followed by the remains of his dinner.

  Must have been a hell of a big meal. Spicy, too.

  Back at the squad, I took a long, hot shower, then put on the set of spare clothes I keep in my locker for times like this.

  I figured that some of the smell of Prescott's vomit must be still clinging to me, the way Lieutenant McGuire's nose kept wrinkling while Karl and I told him about our little adventure in academia.

  Or maybe he just thought it was our story that stank.

  "So, I assume after the professor stopped choking to death, he was in no mood to answer any of your questions," McGuire said sourly.

  "We never got the chance to find out," I told him. "He could breathe okay, but couldn't stand up or speak. Somebody called 911, and the EMTs showed up and took him to Mercy Hospital."

  "But he turned out to be okay, right?" The way McGuire said it, there was only one correct answer to that question.

  Too bad we couldn't give it to him.

  "Actually, uh, no," Karl said. "The docs think maybe he had a stroke."

  McGuire gave Karl a look that would've raised welts on some people. "A stroke."

  "They're not sure if it was brought on by the choking, or if something else caused it," I said.

  McGuire gave me some of the same look, and it's a wonder I didn't start bleeding right there.

  "So, I assume Professor Prescott is planning to sue the city over what you two morons did?" he said, finally.

  I took a deep breath and let it out. "We don't know," I said.

  McGuire blinked. "What – they wouldn't let you in to see him?"

  "No, we got into his room at the ICU for a couple of minutes," I said.

  "So what's he got to say for himself?" McGuire asked.

  "Not a lot," Karl said. "See, he's, uh, kind of in a, well-"

  "A coma," I said. "Prescott's in a coma."

  McGuire didn't say anything to that. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. Using the first two fingers of each hand, he began to rub his eyelids, very gently.

  "There's one thing more, boss," I said.

  "Of course there is," McGuire said dully, still massaging his eyeballs. "Who could possibly think that I've suffered enough already? What is it?"

  "You're going to be getting a couple of letters," I said. "Probably tomorrow, or the next day."

  "I don't suppose those would be your letters of resignation?" McGuire said. Without waiting for an answer he went on, "No, of course not, how silly of me. My luck never runs that good." He rubbed his eyesme more. "What letters?"

  "One's from the president of the U," Karl said. "Father, uh…"

  "Monroe," I finished for him. "Father Monroe. And the other one's from the mayor."

  McGuire still didn't take his hands away from his face. "The mayor was there," he said. "Of course, he would be. He likes that intellectual stuff, or pretends to. I assume these are letters of complaint, maybe even demands for your badges?"

  "No, sir, not exactly," I said. "They're letters of commendation."

  That got McGuire's eyes open. " Commendation?"

  "For Karl's and my, uh-"

  "Heroic efforts, they said," Karl said.

  "Right," I went on. "Our heroic efforts in saving the life of an honored guest of the University and the city, who, uh, tragically forgot to chew his food before swallowing it, and nearly died as a result. The mayor mentioned some kind of award, too. He said he'll call you tomorrow."

  McGuire looked at me, then at Karl. For a couple of seconds, I wasn't sure if he was going to kiss us right on the lips, or draw his weapon and shoot us.

  Finally, he said, "Get out of my office. And light an extra candle the next time you're in church, you stupid, lucky bastards, because somebody up there sure as shit likes you, for reasons that beat the shit out of me. Now get out."

  We got.

  • • • •

  The rest of our shift was spent at our desks, for which Karl and I were thankful. We'd both had enough excitement for one night.

  It wasn't until we'd signed out and headed for home that one of us almost died.

  Like everybody else in the precinct, we parked in the lot behind the building. It's surrounded by chainlink fence that's topped with razor wire, and there are surveillance cameras trained on it from a couple of different angles. A friendly wizard put a protective spell on it for good measure. Quite a few people (and some others who aren't, strictly speaking, people) don't care for cops. Our personal cars might make a tempting target for some slimeball out for a little cheap revenge.

  Karl and I each grunted "See ya later" and headed off to our cars. I drive a Toyota Lycan. It's old, a little beat up, and rusted in spots, but it still runs fine – kind of like me, give or take the rust.

  Getting behind the wheel of your car doesn't require much concentration, and I was thinking about the twists and turns of this case as I slid into the driver's seat. A small portion of my brain processed what I was seeing – magazines, fast-food wrappers, statue on the dashboard, an empty soda bottle I don't keep a statue on my dashboard.

  My eyes were moving toward the strange object before my mind could scream out a warning. That's what I get for not staying alert.

  The statue was four inches high and made from some kind of gray stone. It depicted a woman wearing a robe, the kind they wore in that cable series about Rome. The finely detailed face was beautiful, but above that the hair was thick and ropy. After a moment, I realized it was supposed to be a bunch of snakes laying atop the woman's head, in place of hair. Then those stone reptiles st
arted coiling and writhing and I knew what I was dealing with – but by then, it was too late. Far too late. I swear the evil little thing smiled at me, as I felt my whole body start to stiffen and harden.

  I had locked eyes with a Gorgon statue, modeled after the creature of Greek myth that could turn anybody who looked at her into stone. Charged with the proper spell, the statuette could duplicate the powers of the original, at short range. And I knew that whoever had cast the spell on this little charmer had done it right, because I was turning into stone – and there wasn't a goddamn thing I could do about it.

  The transformation hurt like a bastard, as my bones, muscles, and blood all began to take on the qualities of solid rock. But the pain in my body was nothing – I knew, with sick horror, that I was well on my way to becoming something that was going to be useful only in a public park. Or maybe as a lawn ornament.

  Then the windshield exploded.

  I couldn't move, or even blink, so I was powerless to avoid the shower of safety glass that filled the car for an instant after the window's detonation. What was left of my brain was still processing the sensory overload when Karl Renfer's second bullet blew that Gorgon statue into a million harmless little pieces.

  With the ensorcelled object destroyed, the spell was broken. I could feel myself returning to flesh and blood and bone. That hurt some, too, but I wouldn't have traded the feeling for anything this side of Angelina Jolie.

  Karl stuck his head through the opening that had once contained my windshield. "Jeez, Stan, are you okay?"

  To my great joy, I managed a small nod.

  "Sorry I took so long," Karl said. "I was parked over the other side of the lot. Turns out, somebody left me one of these little prizes, too."

  I commanded my arm to move, and it did – a little slowly, a little stiffly, but it moved, allowing me to start brushing pieces of glass out of my hair.

  "I saw my statue through the rear window of my car," Karl said. "I knew it didn't belong there, but it took me a couple seconds to figure out what the fuckin' thing was. Then I figured I'd better haul ass over here and see if you'd got one, too."

  "One of the better ideas you've had lately," I said. My voice was husky and my lips felt numb, but I could talk. "Thanks for the rescue mission, kid," I said. "Perseus couldn't have done a better job himself."

  "He used a sword, haina?" Karl asked. "Saw the reflection in his shield, then just closed his eyes, and swung."

  "Something like that," I said. "Well, I'm glad you kept yours open. That was some damn fine shooting, Mr…" I let my voice trail off. The kid deserved it.

  Karl grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. He was still holding his gun, so he brought the arm across his body, cupping the elbow with his other hand so that the pistol was pointing in the air. In a passable imitation of the young Sean Connery he said, "Renfer. Karl Renfer."

  We'd originally been heading home, but Karl and I decided to have breakfast together, instead. I bought.

  As we sipped our first cups of coffee in Jerry's Diner, breathing in the good breakfast smells of coffee and cholesterol, I noticed that Karl was frowning into his cup.

  "What's the matter?" I asked. "Something swimming in your java?"

  He looked up, the frown still in place. "No, I'm just trying to figure out who wanted to turn us into lawn ornaments."

  I added a big slug of milk to my cup. We'd ordered what Jerry's menu calls Ranger Coffee, a special blend with double the caffeine. I liked the jolt, but poured straight, the stuff was strong enough to dissolve a badge in. "I was assuming the Evil Wizard Sligo," I said. "But I haven't given it much thought, yet. I think some of my brain cells are still a little rocky."

  Karl smiled. "That's a good excuse. I'd stick with that one – it oughta be good for ye." Then the smile faded. "Yeah, I figured it was Sligo too, at first. But think it through. Why would Evil Wizard Sligo want to off us – or turn us to stone, which is even worse?"

  I drank some coffee and ignored the urge to go scale a cliff barehanded. "Standard answer is, we're getting too close to him. He wants to stop us before we get the chance to stop him."

  "Yeah, but we ain't got shit. This case is no closer to being cleared then it was when they found Kulick's body."

  "We know a lot more than we did then," I said. "We know why Kulick was killed, and we've got a pretty good idea why the vamps are being murdered."

  "Yeah, we're pretty sure about the why, but we come up nearly empty on the who."

  I started to speak, but Karl waved a hand to cut me off.

  "I know, one of your snitches overheard some dude saying that there's a new wiz named Sligo in town. We've been running with it cause it's all we got, but it's thin, Stan. Not even enough probable cause to get a search warrant, assuming we had someplace to search. Which we sure as hell don't."

  "Well, if you got some great idea that we haven't tried yet-"

  "That's not what I mean." Karl leaned toward me. "We're doing what we can with this bitch kitty of a case. But right now, we don't have anything worth killing us over. If Sligo, or whoever it is, knows so much, how come the motherfucker don't know that?"

  Our food came, and I started into my eggs-overgreasy while I thought about what Karl had said.

  After a while I put my fork down. "Okay, so maybe Sligo doesn't know we've got shit. He knows we're on the case, but thinks we're doing better than we are. Guess he doesn't know us too well."

  Karl swallowed a mouthful of French toast before saying, "I dunno, Stan. The Evil Wizard is slick enough to find out who's investigating the murders, and a good enough magician to get in and out of that parking lot without tripping an alarm – hell, he even knows which cars we drive. But he hasn't figured out that we're going nowhere with this case?"

  "Well, when you put it like that…"

  We ate in silence for the next few minutes. Then Karl said, "Look, could be I'm full of shit. Wouldn't be the first time. Maybe Sligo's just paranoid, and decided to take us out as a precaution."

  Brave man that he is, he signaled the waitress for more coffee.

  "Or maybe," he said, "somebody else besides Sligo wants us dead."

  The next night, we hung around the squad room just long enough to check messages and make sure that Rachel Proctor hadn't turned up yet – alive, or dead. After that, it was just like the old song: we were off to see the wizard.

  Jonas Trombley made magic, and maybe worse, out of a big old house in Clark Summit, a borough just east of Scranton. When we rolled up a little after 9:30, there was no light showing anywhere. That didn't mean anything; if the wizard was working tonight, it would most likely be in a room with no windows at all.

  I rang the doorbell a couple of times, with no result. So I put my thumb on it and kept it there. Even from the porch, I could hear the buzzing sound the thing was making inside. I was prepared to keep my thumb on that button for an hour, and I was betting that Trombley knew it, too. "So," I said over my shoulder to Karl, "You been watching that documentary series on HBO, True Blood?"

  A couple of minutes later, Karl was describing a book he'd been reading about some scientists who'd accidentally opened a doorway to Hell. I was about to asif it was fiction or nonfiction when the big wooden door finally cracked open.

  A man's voice said from inside, "Do you realize what I could do to you, without lifting a finger, for disturbing me like this?"

  "Nothing, I hope," I said. "If you did, that would be black magic, wouldn't it, Jonas? And that stuff's illegal. Now open the, uh, darn door, so we can get this over with."

  I heard the voice mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "asshole," but the door opened wider. There was enough light from the street for me to make out a human shape inside. Then it waved one hand, and at once the house was ablaze with light.

  Once we were inside, Jonas Trombley said, "Close the door."

  I was tempted to say, "Why don't you show off some more, and close it yourself?" But the visit had already started on a negative
note. No point in growing that into a symphony.

  "In here," Trombley said, and motioned us into what turned out to be a living room furnished in what I think of as Thrift Shop Modern. Whatever money Jonas Trombley was making off the practice of magic, he wasn't spending it on an interior decorator.

  Once we were seated, he looked at Karl, then at me and said, "So?"

  I didn't answer right off, which is an old cop trick. Sometimes, if you don't tell them what you want right away, citizens will fill the silence with some interesting information. I took those few seconds to study Jonas Trombley, who I hadn't seen in three years.

  He didn't seem to have aged any, which could be the result of magic or just good genes. Blond, slim, and fit-looking, he looked to be in his late twenties, although I knew he was thirty-four. He wore a zippered velour shirt in what I guess is called royal blue above a pair of designer jeans that were no tighter then the skin on your average grape. The sandals he wore displayed what I was sure was a professional pedicure.

  I didn't know, or care, if Trombley liked girls, boys, or both – but whatever his preference was, I would have bet that he got more ass than a rooster, even without the magic.

  Once I realized that he wasn't going to blurt out anything useful, I said, "Made any Gorgon statuettes lately, Jonas?"

  He tilted his head a little and looked at me, not answering right off. Maybe Trombley wanted to give me a little of my own silent treatment, but most likely he was taking a few seconds to think. I'd always figured there was a lot going on behind those hazel eyes of his – maybe too much.

  A smile made a cameo appearance on his lean face before he said, "Those nasty little things require black magic, detective – which, as you pointed out a moment ago, is illegal."

  "Can we take that as a no?" Karl asked.

  Trombley turned to him and raised one eyebrow, a trick I've never been able to manage. "You may."

  "Well, somebody's been making them – two, to be exact," I said. "And I'm thinking that he – or she – probably did it for hire. Would you know anything about that?"

  More silence. I could almost hear the wheels turning in Trombley's brain as he weighed how much to tell me, and what it might be worth to him – as well as the cost, if I caught him holding out on me.