"Yeah, I guess. If I chose to treat it that way. And you know what a tight-ass I can be, sometimes."
"I better not say it, then."
"Just as well. You never can tell how people will react to stuff like that."
"Yeah."
After a minute or so, she said, "Anyway, I don't think they're that great."
"Huh?"
"My tits."
"Oh. Them."
Ten minutes later, the clerk called them over. "Okay," he said. "Looks like we've got two crates for subject Christine Abernathy. Says here, 'Clothing and household items.' Where you want 'em?"
Colleen and Fenton looked at each other. "Two crates," Fenton said. "Jeez."
She looked at the clerk, a middle-aged man with bifocals whose name tag read "Orville Lang," and said, "Is there an empty room around here, or maybe an office that nobody uses? We need to examine this stuff, and we'd prefer not to have to truck it someplace, then bring it back." She stared into the man's eyes, held them with her own, and pushed, just a little. "We'd really appreciate it."
Lang blinked a couple of times. "Uh, lemme check. Just a second."
"Wow," Fenton said softly. "Some smile."
Without turning to look at him, Colleen murmured, "No, I'm pretty sure it's my tits."
Lang returned and said, "Looks like Building Four's about half empty. Should give you lots of room, if you want it."
Colleen looked at Fenton with raised eyebrows, received a nod, and said to Lang, "That will do very nicely."
Half an hour later, Colleen and Fenton were in Building Four, a warehouse that was, as the clerk had promised, only about half-full with stored material. That meant there was enough open space left to play a regulation game of Arena Football.
They had the place to themselves--just them, a borrowed crowbar, and two wooden crates containing the worldly goods of the late Christine Abernathy.
"How come we've got this stuff, and not her family?" Fenton asked.
"There was no family that anybody could find," Colleen told him. "We looked pretty thoroughly, believe me. I realize we could've just left this stuff in the house, let the bank holding the mortgage worry about it. But, I don't know..."
"You had one of your feelings," Fenton said.
"Yeah, something like that," she said with a tiny smile.
"Well, looks like that intuition of yours was on the money, again." Fenton picked up the crowbar. "Might as well get started."
Like the main building where they had started, this warehouse had a long counter running across its front. That was where Colleen and Fenton piled Christine Abernathy's stuff as it came out of the crates.
Fenton started examining the clothing, checking each garment's pockets before putting it aside.
"This is a fuckin' long shot, to say the least," he said.
"Sure it is." Colleen did not look up from the pile of books and papers she was going through. "But, at the moment, what else've we got?"
"I think the answer to that would be diddly-squat," Fenton said.
"Fuckin' A."
They put in three hours, then broke for lunch at a nearby Olive Garden restaurant, and went back to work at a little after 1:00pm.
It was 4:36pm, and Fenton was about to suggest calling it a day when he heard Colleen say, very distinctly, "Well, now."
"Got something?" He walked over to where she was still examining Abernathy's personal papers.
"Could be." Colleen was holding a spiral notebook that had been found in Christine Abernathy's workroom. Without looking up from the page she'd been reading, she said to Fenton, "Does the name 'Pardee' sound familiar to you?"
It was almost nine in the morning by the time Libby and Morris finished giving their statements, over and over, to the police--local, state, and even federal (as represented by an agent from the FBI's Akron field office, who wondered aloud if the bats were a new al-Qaeda terrorist weapon). In an unusual turn of events, the two of them didn't even have to lie to the cops--well, not very much, anyway. They did neglect to mention Libby's abortive attempt at impromptu magic, and, when asked about the scorch mark on his carpet, Morris said it had already been there when he'd checked in.
The police didn't push very hard. They had bigger problems to deal with--like figuring out what to say to the local citizenry, who were even now learning of the attack, courtesy of the gaggle of carefully coiffed TV journalists doing live remotes outside.
Very soon now, John Q. and Sally Public would be demanding to know why thousands of bats had descended in fury on the Shady Tree Motel, leaving behind the corpses of two elderly people staying in a room at the far end of the building. Mr. and Mrs. Robert McKittrick, seventy-two and seventy, respectively, had been found sprawled on the floor. Both had apparently bled out after being slashed and bitten a number of times that the Medical Examiner would only quantify as "more than a hundred" each. The McKittricks were the only fatalities, and the most serious injury among the survivors was the damage to Morris's left arm, which had already received medical attention. However, several other motel guests were found by paramedics to be showing recognizable symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.
Another puzzlement was why the bats had suddenly broken off their attack and flown away. No similar incidents had been reported anywhere else in North America during the night. That being the case, the authorities were prepared to tell the public, with apparent confidence, that the bat invasion had been some freak of nature, as yet unexplained, but unlikely to be repeated.
No one had yet suggested sending a team to look for evidence in the hills overlooking the motel. Eventually, someone would.
The Shady Tree had temporarily closed down by order of the police, so Morris and Libby went back to their rooms to pack. Morris had just finished latching his suitcase when he looked up and saw Libby Chastain standing in the connecting doorway. "Hey," he said, in a neutral tone.
"Hey," Libby answered. She did not sound neutral, but was instead giving a good demonstration of the DSM-IV's profile of "Depression (severe)." "Quincey, about what happened last night... I just don't know what to say."
Morris sat on the edge of the bed. He did not invite Libby to join him. "I was just coming into see you, to talk about that very subject," he said, harshly. "You really fucked up, didn't you, Libby?"
Libby stared at him, her mouth half-open.
"Jesus Christ, we could've both been killed. If those damn bats hadn't decided to call it a night for some reason, we'd both be at room temperature now. And all because of you."
"Quincey, that's not--"
"What the fuck happened, Libby? Did you forget how to do magic, all of a sudden? Or have you just lost your nerve?"
"Quincey, all my fucking gear was in there." She jerked a thumb back over her shoulder toward her room. "All of it. Along with a few thousand bats, as you might recall."
"So, now you can't improvise anymore, when our lives depend on it?"
"I tried, damn it! I used what was available, and I tried. I knew it was a fucking long shot. I didn't have the proper materials, and no tools at all--just toothpaste, deodorant, and your stupid aftershave, which by the way, went out of fashion somewhere around 1993. The odds were ten to one against, at least. But I did what I could, you ungrateful bastard!"
Morris looked at her thoughtfully, then nodded. "Yup."
"Yup? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Morris said, in his normal, calm voice, "that I agree with every word you said, apart from the unkind remark about my aftershave. I just wanted to hear you say it. More important, I wanted you to hear yourself say it."
Libby looked totally out of her depth. "But... but, you were--"
"Everything you just said was true, Libby. Despite being scared shitless by the bats, which is a ridiculous phobia for a witch to have, if you ask me, and despite having nothing but crap to work magic with, you did the absolute best you could, Elizabeth Catherine Chastain." Morris's tone softened. "And I'm proud
of you. Furthermore, if your Sisters knew, they would be, too."
Libby stared at him a little longer, then turned and stormed out of the room. As she left, Morris heard her say, loudly and distinctly, "MEN!"
Pardee closed the book he had been consulting, a 1584 version of the Grimoirum Verum. He dropped it onto the long, mahogany table in front of him, which was littered with old books, manuscripts, and scrolls in several languages. He began to pace the room slowly, occasionally looking out the huge window onto the grounds of Walter Grobius's estate, but not giving any attention to the work that was still going on down there in preparation for the Ceremony.
Then the pacing stopped. Pardee stood dead still; a smile sprouted on his face and quickly grew into a grin. It was time to go and see Grobius.
The old man sat at his enormous desk, nine brown prescription bottles lined up before him like soldiers at attention. They were joined by four oddly shaped containers whose contents were not the products of modern medical science. Grobius, a large bottle of Perrier open next to him, was systematically working his way through the collection, taking two pills from one container, four from another, and so on down the line.
Grobius did not look good today. His complexion had taken on a gray tint, and the flesh under his eyes looked unhealthy, even for someone his age. The old man's hands shook slightly as he made himself ingest the medicines.
He looked at Pardee and said sourly, "I'll need another treatment from your magic fingers sometime today. For all the good it's likely to do."
"It's kept you alive so far, along with the wonders of modern science and my own humble apothecary skills. Anyone else, if I may slightly flatter myself, would have succumbed years ago."
"Yes, I expect so." Grobius shook four green and white capsules from one of the bottles and gulped them down with a swig of the spring water. "But I'm glad it's almost over. We're on schedule?"
"Yes, essentially."
Grobius looked up at him, and there was sufficient intelligence and will left in the rheumy blue eyes to remind Pardee of how the old man had accumulated one of the world's great fortunes.
"Explain essentially," he said to Pardee.
The wizard lowered himself into one of the chairs that faced the desk.
"We want everything to go exactly right on the thirtieth," Pardee said. "This confluence of factors won't occur again for twelve years."
"Which I would be highly unlikely to see, yes. Tell me something I don't already know."
"I've been studying the ancient texts again, which, oddly enough, caused me to remember the advice of Ulysses S. Grant."
"And that's relevant? Grant was hardly an exemplar for the office he held, as I recall."
"Grant was a mediocre president, true. But he had been a superb general. He claimed in his memoirs that the secret of his success was tilting as many factors as possible in his favor. Not just the big things, like choosing terrain and placing artillery, but the smallest details, as well. For instance, the day a battle was planned, Grant would not only make sure that his troops had been given breakfast, but that the food was a cut above the usual quality, to ensure that they would eat, and gain strength for the fight to come."
"I assume there's a point that you'll be getting to, in time."
"There is, indeed. I've been taking the same approach to the Ceremony that Grant took to his command. One might argue that the stakes are even higher, at least for you, than those Grant faced at the Battle of Shiloh. And the danger of failure is even greater, for some of us."
"I thought you said we had everything we needed. The grounds are almost ready. The black witches are preparing to join us, and the others, the white ones, are either dead or in hiding. You said all that, Pardee."
"I did, and I spoke truly. But I am a perfectionist--fortunately for you, if I may say."
"We'll see how fortunate I am, on the thirtieth."
"Indeed, we will," Pardee said quietly, and there was something in his voice that might have given Grobius concern, had the old man not been too sick to notice.
"So, what's the problem?" Grobius asked, reaching for more pills.
"The sacrifice, which I will offer at the climactic moment."
"You said we needed children. So I've had people find a dozen that nobody cares about, and made arrangements to have them brought here on the day."
"Thirteen. I wanted thirteen."
"I'll get you thirteen hundred, if it's what you need to get him here."
"I know. But I've been doing some additional research, and there may in fact be a sacrifice that he would find more pleasing."
"Along with the children, or as a substitute?"
"Oh, as a substitute, I think. No need to bloody the lily, to coin a phrase."
"So, what do you need, then?"
"A white witch. Someone who represents the antithesis of what we will be accomplishing that night."
"I suppose that makes a certain amount of sense. But I thought your idea was to kill them all, as a precaution."
"Not all of them, just enough to avoid any significant interference. And I believe that's been accomplished. But there's one in particular whom I would like to add to our program, as it were. Her death should please him immensely. And she has proved to be a thorn in my side of late, somehow managing to survive several attempts to eliminate her. I sent someone very skilled, very powerful, after the stupid assassins had failed twice. I don't yet know all the details, but she still lives, and the man I sent has disappeared. I must assume he's dead."
"I thought the white ones couldn't use their magic to kill."
"Not in most cases, but there are occasional odd exceptions. Besides, she's got a companion now, a man named Morris, whom I've heard of. He has made a nuisance of himself in the past."
"So you want this woman... what's her name?"
"Chastain. Elizabeth Chastain."
"You want her as some kind of ultimate sacrifice during the ceremony? You're not just doing this because she's pissed you off, are you?"
"No, I'm not. My research convinces me that her death, at the right point in the proceedings, will be a perfect capstone to the ritual. Granted, almost of any of these Wiccan cunts would do. So perhaps my choice of Chastain is... personal, but the desired effect will be achieved, nonetheless."
"All right, you're the expert. But if this Chastain has managed to avoid all your efforts to kill her, what makes you think it will be any easier to take her alive?"
"Because," Pardee said, "that is a task I intend to take on, myself."
For the second time in twelve hours, Morris made the turn onto the street where Tristan Hardwick lived. Glancing at Libby, he said, "You're sure you're up to this?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Libby told him, sounding like she meant it. "Your little pep talk helped quite a bit, although for a few moments there you had me wishing that I could use black magic."
"Turn me into a toad, huh?"
"Oh, something much worse than that... Hey, what's all this?"
There were flashing red lights up ahead--lots of them. As they drew closer, Morris counted three police cars and an ambulance, all with their light bars going like mad.
They were parked in front of Tristan Hardwick's house.
Traffic was slowed to a crawl by all the curiosity seekers who had come out, in cars or on foot, in the hope of seeing something nasty. "Hardwick?" Morris asked. "Has to be, right?"
"Most likely," Libby said. "And here's a news flash for you: I'm getting almost nothing from the house now. Just the slightest trace of residual energy, which can last for days after somebody powerful leaves a place. But whoever it was that I was sensing out here last night is gone, baby, gone."
"Gone as in dead, or gone as in left for parts unknown?"
"Could be either one, Quincey. It's impossible to say."
"Well, then, what do you say we get out and join the rubberneckers? One of us might pick up something useful."
"Works for me. I think I'll bring my bag--you k
now, just in case."
"Yeah, good idea," Morris said. "Just in case."
Morris went with the slow-moving traffic stream, past Hardwick's house and a couple of blocks beyond. They didn't want to be seen getting out of a car too close to the crime scene, or accident scene, or whatever it was back there.
They approached the small crowd of onlookers at a slow, steady pace, just another couple out for a walk who've come upon something interesting. By prior agreement, they split up. Somebody who might talk to one stranger might not feel quite as chatty around two of them.
The angle from where he was standing now allowed Morris to see past the ambulance that he had passed earlier in the car. There was a UPS truck parked in the driveway of Hardwick's house. Morris slowly scanned the area for somebody dressed in brown work clothes--and found the uniform being worn by a skinny blond man who appeared to be in his early thirties.
Morris looked more closely. The UPS guy reminded him of somebody who has just finished puking his guts out after a particularly bad drunk--he had the same pallor, the shaking hands, and the look on his face that seemed to combine disgust and weariness in equal measure. He was seated sideways on the front passenger seat of an open police car. Crouching next to him, talking calmly, was a concerned-looking man in civilian clothes. He appeared a little older than the UPS driver, but Morris thought he detected a family resemblance.
After a while, the older man slowly stood up, clapped the UPS guy on the shoulder gently, and walked off, a little unsteady on legs that had probably lost some circulation while he'd been in that cramped position.
Without being obvious about it, Morris placed himself at the edge of the crowd, so that the man would pass close to him on his way back to the street. As he drew near, Morris stepped forward, waving to an imaginary woman and calling, "I'm over here, honey."
The two men collided, but not very hard. Morris immediately said, "Hey, buddy, I'm sorry, my fault completely. I was yellin' to my wife and didn't see you, I'm really sorry." Morris could lose his Texas accent when he wanted to, and he spoke now like most people in the Northeast do who aren't from New England.
Evil Ways (Morris and Chastain Investigations) Page 17
