Evil Ways (Morris and Chastain Investigations)

by Justin Gustainis

  Morris decided to spend the time until action doing something useful. He prayed.

  8:12pm

  It was full dark, now. Pardee strolled the grounds, trying to keep his excitement under control by running down his mental checklist, to see if there was anything he had missed. He could not think of a single thing.

  Several of the invited black witches had arrived by car during the afternoon and early evening. Each had been greeted with great courtesy, shown to a spacious private bedroom with bath, and told to call housekeeping if she needed anything at all. But now that it was dark, the others should...

  Pardee looked up, just in time to see a silhouette pass between him and the risen full moon. A grin split the wizard's thin face. The figure he had glimpsed in outline had not been wearing anything as silly and impractical as a conical hat.

  But she had been riding a broom.

  8:59pm

  "My sisters in Satan, I bid you welcome!"

  Pardee stood upon the highest of the marble steps that led to the great altar, and looked down at the twenty women who stood in a ragged semicircle before him. Their ages ranged from twenties to fifties, and their garments spanned the gamut from goth, to biker chick, to hippy, to punk, to almost nothing at all. Most of them had animals of various species either in their arms, on their shoulders, or by their sides.

  "By these revels tonight, we bring about a new age of our faith, for we shall, by making use of this ancient ritual, which has been hidden for centuries, successfully call upon the one whom we all worship, and whose favor we all hope to gain, both in this world and in the next."

  Pardee made a sweeping gesture to include several long tables that had been covered in white cloths, which were even now being removed by trusted servants.

  "For our revels, I offer you the finest drink, the most sumptuous food, and the most intoxicating herbs, and I bid you eat, drink, dance, get high, fornicate, and enjoy yourselves any fucking way you wish, until the witching hour is almost at hand, and the true work of the evening can begin. Until then..." Pardee drew in a deep breath, and what followed was a joyous shout: "Let's party!"

  That was the cue for the music, which instantly boomed from a dozen huge speakers spaced around the area. The first song on the playlist was, appropriately, by Black Sabbath.

  9:02pm

  As the first strains of "Heaven and Hell" blared forth from inside the compound, Morris shook his head. Then, after a moment, he checked his watch. Well, at least they're punctual. Trite, but punctual.

  He reached for the airline carryall bag he'd brought with him and unzipped it. Not wanting to show a light, Morris rummaged past the boxes of rifle ammunition, a St. Christopher's medal, a large revolver, and other necessities to find an energy bar, which he brought out along with a bottle of water. Might as well chow down and enjoy the show, if enjoy was the proper word.

  Look on the bright side, Quincey. If those assholes are planning to make us listen to almost three hours of heavy metal, getting shot at when it's over is gonna come almost as a relief.

  9:03pm

  From her concealed position 180 yards from the north gate, Hannah Widmark was bobbing her head to the beat coming from the other side of the wall. She quite liked heavy metal music, and was glad to learn that the Forces of Evil had decent taste in something.

  Even though she knew it was likely to be several hours before she got to kill anybody, Hannah checked her equipment, using touch alone. Ammo--check. Combat knife--check. Tampax (just in case)--check. She spent extra time on the two Colt .45 automatics that she wore, butts forward, in twin holsters under her armpits.

  Her pistol craft instructor, a shadowy, enigmatic man named Cranston, had insisted that the .45 Colt, although foolishly abandoned by the U.S. military ten years earlier, was still the best combat handgun in the world. Its rate of fire was as fast as anyone could want, it would never jam if you kept it clean, and the big, slow .45 round was a guaranteed one-shot stop, no matter where on the body you hit.

  Cranston had taught her, with care and patience, how to fire both weapons simultaneously and hit what she was aiming at, with either hand, every time. Two hours a day, every day, for more than a year, Hannah had watched and learned and practiced. Cranston used to say, with that weird laugh of his, "The weed of Satan bears bitter fruit, Hannah. And these are your weed-cutters."

  Hannah hoped they'd play some Def Leppard over there before the evening was done. Those guys were her faves.

  9:28pm

  Sitting in his darkened office, Walter Grobius watched the witches' revels through state-of-the-art binoculars that showed him every detail. He could almost have counted individual strands of pubic hair, except many of the ladies of the Left-Hand Path seemed to prefer having none at all.

  Grobius watched the witches as, in various pairs and combinations, they got it on with each other, with familiars in the forms of baboons and large dogs, and with bizarre-looking creatures that he assumed were the minor demons Pardee had referred to.

  It was the most erotic thing he had ever seen in his life.

  For the first time in years, Grobius found himself getting an erection. Something so rare was too good to waste. He reached for his telephone.

  "Send one of the secretaries up here. No, I don't care--whoever's handy."

  Grobius put the phone down and smiled contentedly. Getting your cock sucked a few hours before achieving virtual immortality was not a bad way to spend an evening. Not bad, at all.

  11:21pm

  "Well, dear Libby, it's time," Pardee said.

  Libby Chastain looked at him impassively. She had heard the music start a few hours ago, knew what it portended, and had estimated the passage of subsequent time with fair accuracy. She had not been surprised when Pardee, shit-eating grin in place, had opened the door.

  She had spent most of the day in meditation, so her mind was calm and clear. She had practiced several other mental disciplines, as well. The last hour or so had been given to a series of muscle contraction routines, including some Kegel exercises that Libby thought might prove very beneficial in a short while.

  Pardee approached the bed, and sniffed loudly. "What's this--you haven't soiled yourself? Such discipline! However, I fear it will prove all for naught. When I plunge my sacrificial knife in your lower belly and start working my way up, I'm afraid both your bladder and bowels will give up all their contents."

  He stood next to the bed now, and was staring into her eyes. "But do you know what?" he said. "I'm not going to let it spoil my enjoyment, not even a little bit. In fact, your sudden incontinence might even add to it. Now, then."

  Pardee reached out one hand and cupped it over the top of Libby's head. He noticed her right hand suddenly form a fist; clearly, she was not as composed as she pretended. Good. Pardee said a short phrase in some arcane tongue and Libby instantly went limp, eyes closed, head lolling to one side.

  "Can't have you putting up a fuss along the way, dear girl. Although I doubt you would prove very much of a problem."

  Pardee touched the shackle binding Libby's right hand and said another word in the same language. The manacle dropped free, then slid off the bed to hit the carpeted floor with a soft thud. He repeated the operation three more times, then picked up Libby's limp form and carried her out of the room.

  The grin remained in place. If possible, it was even wider.

  11:26pm

  Pardee, now clad in black ceremonial robes, dumped Libby Chastain onto the altar as if she had been a load of dirty laundry. He then faced the witches, most of whom, being engaged in various forms of debauchery, had not yet noticed his arrival. Pardee watched for a few moments, finding special interest in a chunky, tattooed blonde and what she was having done to her by both a minor demon, covered in scales like an alligator, and her familiar, which had taken the form of a large, clearly aroused, Great Dane.

  Then Pardee raised his arms skyward, the signal to cut the music. Def Leppard was silenced in mid-screech, although
the orgy down below tapered off more gradually. When he was sure he had their attention, Pardee said, "The time is come, my sisters. Go to your positions, ready your materials, and prepare to welcome the new king of this world!"

  The witches, some of them walking a bit unsteadily, got to their feet and began to move toward their designated fire pits. Some pulled their clothes on first, while others chose to remain skyclad. Soon, flames began to rise from several locations, and soon all twenty of the pits being used were burning. The body organs of dead children would be burned in those pits, accompanied by suitable incantations.

  "Sisters, I bid you begin your rituals now!" Pardee cried.

  Then he turned to the altar and began tearing off Libby Chastain's clothing.

  11:27pm

  When Ellie Robb noticed that the awful music had finally ceased, she closed her eyes and concentrated, sending the same message, over and over, to the white witches who had accompanied her: Begin, my sisters, Begin, my sisters, Begin, my sisters...

  Then she opened the backpack she had brought with her, and prepared to join her own efforts with those of the others. She sent a quick prayer to the Goddess that they would be enough, in number and in power, to stop the abomination that was beginning behind those concrete walls.

  11:28pm

  Pardee had just finished stripping Libby Chastain, and he was looking with interest at her nude body when he sensed something... wrong.

  He focused all his concentration, and suddenly knew what it was. There was white magic being practiced in the immediate vicinity, and from a number of individual sources. So the Whities have figured out what my plans are, and have assembled outside somewhere to try and stop them. Well, we'll just have to see about that, won't we?

  Pardee reached under his robes and produced a cell phone with a walkie-talkie function. He depressed the button and brought the device to his mouth. "Hannigan! Hannigan, pick up damn you!"

  The voice of the security detail's commander sounded in his ear. "Yes, sir, Mister Pardee."

  "Hannigan, there are some people, probably all women, outside the wall somewhere. They are disrupting my ceremony here. Send your people out there and stop them! At once!"

  "Yes, sir. Uh, when you say 'stop them,' do you mean we should--"

  "Hannigan, I don't care if your goons shoot them, hit them on the head, arrest them, or tie them down and fuck them. Just stop them! Now!"

  "Uh, yessir, Mister Pardee. Will do. Hannigan out."

  Pardee had no way of knowing that behind him, Libby Chastain's eyes had cracked open, briefly, before closing again.

  He turned back to the altar, and made sure his sacrificial knife, which he had made with his own hands, was nearby. He pushed down on Libby Chastain's knees to make her body lie flat. He would wake her up and remove the tape from her mouth just before he was ready to put the knife into her. He hoped she would give a good long scream to welcome the Lord Satan to His new kingdom.

  Pardee began to recite the "Ritual for Calling forth Shaitan" from Abdul Alhazred's Book of Shadows. It had taken him months to memorize, but he knew the thing by heart, now.

  Pardee had just completed the first section, and was rewarded by a shimmering in the air over the Sacred Circle. His Lord was not here yet, but was on his way. Pardee had no idea whether the magic circle would contain Satan's power--but, then, it was never his intent to contain it. If the circle proved a barrier, Pardee would simply break it, to allow his Lord ready access to the world he had coveted for so long.

  Pardee was well into the second part of the ritual, the section that would end with Libby Chastain's slow disembowelment, when his concentration was disrupted by the sound of gunshots--lots of gunshots. And some of them, by the sound, were being fired by heavy rifles, which were not part of the arsenal provided to the compound's security people.

  Pardee turned his back on the altar again and produced his walkie-talkie phone. "Hannigan! What the fuck is happening? Hannigan!"

  Behind Pardee, two important things were taking place. One involved the Sacred Circle, where the shimmering in the air had increased noticeably, and the vague outlines of a humanoid form could now be perceived. The second event involved Libby Chastain, who slowly spread her naked legs wide and began to bear down hard with certain muscles that she had trained to suppleness over the last twenty-eight hours.

  "Hannigan!"

  11:35pm

  When that heavy metal crap had stopped screeching from inside the walls, Fenton knew that the time for action was very nearly upon him. He was in a good position, concealed by some brush, a clear field of fire to the front gate, the weapon's stock tight against his shoulder. It wasn't long before there was a flurry of activity inside the big gate, and then it swung open.

  All of the entrances to Grobius's little fortress were well lit by floodlights, so vision was not a problem. Fenton had been worried they might have to rely on nightscopes for their rifles, and those things were not only heavy and clumsy, but also unreliable.

  Fenton had decided the best way to show the dudes in the khaki uniforms that he meant business was to drop one of them. Not kill him--not unless absolutely necessary. But despite that bitch Hannah's sneers about shooting to wound, Fenton was betting he was still a good enough marksman to maim a stationary target, especially one who had no idea that Fenton was even in the neighborhood.

  A heavyset guy with sergeant's stripes on his khakis was standing out in front of the gates, apparently giving orders to his crew of guards. Fenton interrupted the briefing by putting a round into chubby's leg from what he estimated to be 320 meters away. Sarge dropped like a marionette with the strings cut, and after a second for the sound of the shot to catch up with the bullet, the rest of the group scrambled for cover.

  Center of body mass, my smooth black butt. Put that pipe up your ass and smoke it, Widmark!

  11:37pm

  "All right, then, have them split up and go out the side gates, both groups at the same time," Pardee said. "This isn't fucking World War Two, Hannigan. It's just one man with a rifle, and he's at the main gate, which is the logical place for him to be. It isn't physically possible for him to cover the front and both sides at once. And if you don't get your people moving right now, Hannigan, I promise you, getting fired is going to be the least of your worries. Do you understand me? Then do it!"

  While Pardee had been yelling into his walkie-talkie, Libby Chastain had carefully pulled from her vagina an object about the size of a thick pen. It was still slick with the thick coating of KY Jelly she had applied before inserting it, just prior to taking part in the Circle the other night. It wasn't that Libby distrusted Quincey's vigilance, but this was something she did every time she had to send her spirit out of her body--it made her feel more secure, knowing that she had a collapsible, fully charged magic wand secreted inside her body, just in case. Well, Libby, welcome to "Just in case."

  Libby grasped the wand at both ends to extend it to its full length. She had to move slowly, carefully, since the thing was so slick, and to drop it now would be to send disaster an engraved invitation.

  She had just gotten the wand extended when Pardee turned back toward the altar and looked right at her.

  11:40pm

  Any soldier who's fought in a war will tell you how important luck is when it comes to staying alive in combat. Your buddy happens to step on the mine, instead of you; the mortar shell lands in somebody else's foxhole, instead of yours. No matter how brave, or quick, or well-trained you are, luck, whether good or bad, has a lot to do with making that age-old distinction between the quick and the dead.

  In the small war that took place around Walter Grobius's compound that night, luck also had its role to play. Captain Seamus Hannigan, who had assumed personal command of the security detail after Sergeant Willner was wounded, divided his troops into two groups, acting quickly and arbitrarily. The group you were assigned to was determined by where you happened to be standing when Hannigan made his selection.

 
; One group of ten men was lucky. They were sent out the south gate, where Quincey Morris was waiting to shoot above and around them, thus urging the wisdom of their staying exactly where they were.

  The other group was arbitrarily assigned to the north gate, where Hannah Widmark was prepared to receive them. They did not fare as well.

  The men who, at Hannigan's command, had surged out the south gate, surged back in shortly thereafter. Their only casualty was a man who had been hit in the eye by a splinter of stone that was sent flying when one of Morris's rounds hit the wall close to his head.

  Of the ten men who charged out through the north gate, only six returned, one of them bleeding heavily from a wound to the arm that looked as if it would require amputation below the elbow.

  None of the security guards had tried to leave by the rear gate, so Colleen O'Donnell never got to see how badly she could scare them with near misses. After a while, she began to doubt that the rear gate was figuring in the plans of anyone inside the compound. Colleen was not impatient by nature, but she was acutely aware of how precarious was the situation that pitted her Sisters' magic against that of the unknown number of black witches inside.