"No? Well that's all right, then." She put a bullet exactly in the spot where his right shoulder joined the arm. He would not be using that arm again anytime soon. Pardee thought he would pass out from the white-hot pain, but even that grace eluded him.
"Last chance to scratch," the woman said, in her melodious voice. She waited a couple of seconds, then fired a .45 slug into his other shoulder, hitting the exact same spot as on his right and likewise shattering the joint.
She watched Pardee writhe and bleed for a while, then nodded, as if satisfied with a job well begun. She put the pistol away, and knelt down next to him.
From somewhere she produced a big knife with a black, partly serrated blade and a textured leather handle. Pardee did not recognize it as a K-Bar, the combat knife that was once issued to U.S. Marines and Navy SEALS.
There was something slightly mad in the woman's face now, but her voice was calm, too calm, when she spoke again, after first placing the point of the blade six inches above Pardee's groin, the ultra-sharp cutting edge facing his chin.
"My name is Hannah Widmark," she said. "I just thought you'd like to know."
Then she put her weight behind the blade, and it began.
Midnight
Walter Grobius still sat, staring at the shape that could be seen within the circle. He had been waiting for it to coalesce into something clearer, better defined, more immediately present. But it never had.
Grobius finally worked up the courage to speak. "I am Walter Grobius, and I bid you welcome."
The shape inside the circle seemed to notice him for the first time. "WHO ARE YOU TO WELCOME ME, LITTLE MAN?" The voice was almost unbelievably deep, and guttural, and loud. It hurt Grobius's ears just to hear it.
"Who am I? I'm the one who sent for you, O great father Satan."
"YOU LIE. IT WAS NOT YOU WHO SENT FOR ME, BUT THAT OTHER WRETCH, WHO CLAIMED TO BE MY FAITHFUL SERVANT. WHERE IS THE TRAITOR? I WOULD CHASTISE HIM. ETERNALLY, FOR A START."
"If you mean Pardee, I'm afraid I don't know. Anyway, Pardee works for me, and--"
"SILENCE, WORM!" Grobius was almost literally knocked over by the force of the voice.
"THE WORTHLESS WRETCH PARDEE PROMISED THAT I SHOULD BE FREE OF MY FETTERS IMPOSED BY THE CREATOR, AND HAVE MY WAY WITH THIS WORLD AND ALL WHO DWELL IN IT, IN RETURN FOR SOME PETTY REWARD."
"No, I'm afraid that's not what I--"
"BE SILENT! NOW THE HOUR IS PASSED, THE CIRCLE WEAKENS, AND MY GLORY WILL NOT BE VISITED UPON THIS LAND--ALL BECAUSE OF ONE INCOMPETENT FOOL. I MUST PREPARE SOME SPECIAL DELIGHT FOR HIM TO ENJOY WHEN HE JOINS ME IN MY KINGDOM--WHICH I NOW PERCEIVE WILL BE VERY SOON. ALREADY HE SCREAMS AND BEGS FOR MERCY, BUT HE SHALL HAVE NONE IN THIS WORLD, AND MOST ESPECIALLY NONE IN THE NEXT.
"No, sir, I'm afraid you don't understand."
"I UNDERSTAND ALL THAT IS, WAS, AND EVER SHALL BE. I UNDERSTAND THAT THE MOMENT IS NOW PASSED, AND I MUST RETURN TO MY OWN DOMAIN, WHERE THE WORM DIETH NOT, AND THE FIRE IS NOT QUENCHED. BUT I WOULD LEAVE WITH YOU A GIFT BEFORE DEPARTING. DO YOU WISH TO RECEIVE MY GIFT, LITTLE MAN?
"Oh, yes, very much so, that's why I sent for--"
THEN I BID YOU EMBRACE MY LARGESSE. I WILL SEE YOU IN GEHENNA, WORM, AND VERY SHORTLY. MEANWHILE, ENJOY A TASTE OF YOUR ETERNITY."
Pardee's circle was well constructed, and strong. Even Satan was unable to escape it, in his semi-formed state. The books say that a summoned demon cannot harm the summoner or any others present, as long as the circle remains unbroken and they remain outside it.
But the books were not written with the Prince of Darkness himself in mind.
The indistinct shape slowly faded. But in its place appeared a flame, which quickly grew wondrous and vast and terrible--and then, with a roar that could be heard for miles, exploded out of the circle.
Walter Grobius was incinerated before he could fully grasp what was happening to him.
So, too, was everyone and everything within Grobius's compound consumed by that great, unholy fire. Within seconds, nothing remained alive within those walls, no structure stood, not a blade of grass was spared by the flames.
Morris was fifty feet outside the compound when the hellfire raged. It shot out of all the gates briefly, but Morris had run at an angle upon leaving the compound, and so he and Libby escaped the flames, mostly.
Morris did not even look back. He was searching frantically for Eleanor Robb among the group of white witches, all of whom were staring at the inferno with shock on their faces. Ellie saw him, and what he was carrying, and immediately came running forward.
"Libby! Goddess save us! What happened to her?"
"She's lost a lot of blood, an awful lot of blood," Morris said. "Cut in her thigh, here. Deep one." Morris was having a hard time remaining coherent. "Needs blood, lots. Don't know her blood type. More than blood, needs magic."
"Give her to me, please," Ellie said, and took Libby's still form from Morris. She seemed to handle Libby's weight with surprising ease.
Ellie stood holding Libby for a few seconds, her eyes tightly shut. Then she opened them and said, "Sister Elizabeth lives still. And her blood is AB positive."
Morris tried to think. "That's the universal recipient, isn't it? Anybody's blood is good?"
"Exactly right, Quincey. And Sister Louise, who is with us, is a doctor, who never travels without her medical bag."
"I want to donate," Morris said. "Please."
"Of course. But first let's lay Sister Elizabeth down somewhere comfortable. And I want to get the other Sisters working on a healing ritual. We are all exhausted, but the Goddess will give us strength."
They put Libby in one of the Econoline vans, and Sister Louise organized the blood transfusions. There were twenty-two volunteers, including Fenton and Colleen O'Donnell. Ellie Robb also had the Sisters, two at a time, performing healing rituals in the van.
While waiting to see if they would be needed as blood donors, the two FBI agents and Morris talked among themselves.
"What the hell happened in there, Morris?" Fenton said. "It was like an explosion at a goddamn oil refinery, or something."
"I can't say for sure," Morris told him, "but I'm guessing that Satan got sent back home, and wasn't real happy about it. Maybe what we saw was kind of a parting shot."
Colleen was staring at him. "Speaking of which," she said, "that's an interesting-looking burn you've got on the back of your neck."
Morris felt back there. "What bu--ouch! In all the excitement, I never even noticed. How the hell did that get there?"
"Precisely," Colleen said.
Morris looked a question at her.
"Where else have you been exposed to an open flame tonight," she said, "except when you ran out of Grobius's place with Libby?"
"And here I thought it missed me completely," Morris said. "I must be getting slow."
"It's not real bad," Fenton said, peering at Morris's neck. "I've seen worse."
Colleen had an odd expression on her face. "I'm sure you have, Dale. But how many have you seen that were caused by hellfire?"
Morris felt his neck again, gingerly. "Assuming that's what it is, so what?"
Colleen hugged herself, which might have been due to a chill in the air. "I don't know, Quincey. But, I have to say that I find it... troubling."
"Why's that?" Morris asked quietly.
"Because his mark is on you, now."
The three of them were silent after that, until Colleen asked, "What about Hannah?"
"Last I saw, she was chasing down Pardee," Morris said. "I don't know what that was all about, but I'm pretty sure she had some kind of unfinished business with him. I just hope she got it done, before..." He shook his head.
"Didn't get out, huh?" Fenton said.
"I don't see how she could have." Morris's voice was bleak.
"If you didn't actually see her body, be careful about your assumptions," Colleen said. "She's got a knack for survival, our Hannah does"
"What she means is," Fenton
said, "that lady's just too damn mean to die."
"Maybe," Morris said. "We'll have to see what the autopsy reports say. It's going to be quite a while before this mess gets sorted out."
Fenton looked past Morris. "Company coming."
Morris turned to see Ellie Robb heading his way.
"Quincey," she said, "I'm sorry--"
"Oh, God damn," Morris said softly. "She's gone, isn't she?"
Ellie looked surprised. "Who, Libby? No, on the contrary--Sister Louise says she's out of danger. I was apologizing because I know you badly wanted to be a blood donor. I forgot to remind Sister Louise, and she got all the blood Libby needed from the Sisters. And, I'm glad to say, the combined healing spell we laid down was very successful."
"Oh." Morris let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Well, I expect I can forgive you for that, Ellie, all things considered. Can I see her?"
"Sister Louise gave her something to help her sleep. Maybe a little later, if you don't mind."
"All right," Morris said. "I reckon there's no hurry, now."
Ellie Robb nodded and started to walk away, but then turned back. "I almost forgot," she said to Morris. "Before she fell asleep, Libby gave me a message for you."
"What'd she say?"
There was an odd-looking smile on Ellie's face. "I'm pretty sure I can render it verbatim." She closed her eyes, and took in a couple of slow, deep breaths. When she spoke again, it was in Libby Chastain's voice. "Thanks for the tourniquet, Tex. I owe you. But if you're ever planning to feel me up like that again, at least take me out to dinner, first."
Acknowledgements
Christian Dunn, my editor at Solaris Books, made excellent suggestions for revisions and was gracious about the few changes that I did not want to make. Once again, he took my work and made it better, bless him.
I was fortunate to have Lawrence Osborn as my copy editor again. I am both embarrassed by the mistakes I made and grateful that he caught them before the book went to press. In the unlikely event that any errors remain, they are my responsibility alone.
Jim Butcher was generous enough to allow Quincey and Libby to hang out at a certain pub frequented by Chicago's premier wizard-for-hire. Harry is welcome to come on down to Austin and kick back anytime.
Tim Clukey, my colleague, friend, and webmeister, designed and maintains the www.justingustainis.com page, thus giving me a web presence that I can be proud of. You rock, man.
The final draft of Evil Ways was completed while I was participating in the 2008 Odyssey Writing Workshop, aka "Ranger School for Writers." The many things I learned there allowed me to revise the manuscript with more insight than I would ever have had otherwise. Jeanne Cavelos, who runs Odyssey, is a goddess. But her associate, Susan Zielinski, is just plain evil.
John Carroll, who has been my friend since dinosaurs walked the earth (or so it sometimes seems) gave me some great ideas that were incorporated into the character of Walter Grobius.
Shelly Becker, Donna Baker, Kathy Baker, René Burl, Deb DeSilva, Kevin Gitlin, Jin Kim, Tammy Rock, and Bobbi Terry (among others), each in his/her own way, helped keep me going through what I will always remember as the Dark Time. Terry Bear hung in there with me, too.
My wife, Patricia Grogan, was the light of my life for more than thirty years. On December 22, 2007, that light was extinguished. This book, everything else I write henceforth, and anything else of worth that I may do, is dedicated to her memory.
About the Author
Justin Gustainis is a college professor living in upstate New York. He is the author of the novels The Hades Project (2003) and Black Magic Woman (2008) as well as a number of short stories. In his misspent youth, Mr. Gustainis was, at various times, a busboy, soldier, speechwriter, and professional bodyguard.
Also by Justin Gustainis
The Hades Project
Black Magic Woman
Sympathy for the Devil
Sympathy for the Devil
Read on for an excerpt from Sympathy for the Devil, the next Morris and Chastain Supernatural Investigation by Justin Gustainis, coming soon
Prologue
Hynes Convention Center
Boston, Massachusetts
Halloween Night
His voice, booming though the state-of-the-art sound system, filled the hall and reached out to the people sitting in the cramped seats, as if he were speaking to each one of them individually.
"And so, my friends, even though our efforts have accomplished much, let us not fall victim to the comforting illusion that no battles remain to be fought. The war for the heart and soul of America will go on. Make no mistake about it, a hard and bloody fight it will be, and the victory of virtue is by no means assured."
He paused, looking out at the crowd, the grave expression on his face a testament to the concern he felt for his nation and its future. Then his face, handsome by almost any standard, broke into a reassuring smile.
"But although there is no unassailable guarantee of success in our endeavors, of this much I am certain: that with God's help, you and I, all of us who fight for right, will find within ourselves the strength we seek for the struggle!"
The audience erupted into applause and cheers, as they had done four times already. But this time the approbation was both louder and longer. It seemed like it might go on forever.
In the press gallery, The Boston Globe looked up from its laptop and said to The New York Times, "Knows how to push their buttons, doesn't he?"
"Sure, but that's not hard to do with this crowd," The Times replied with a shrug. "Throw the animals a little red meat, and they'll jump through all kinds of hoops for you."
The Globe smiled slightly. "Does your editor mind you referring to the devout reactionaries of Believers United as 'animals'?"
"Not as long as I don't do it in print."
The two men resumed typing their stories as the applause from the 5,822 attendees at the Believers United annual convention rolled on like a mighty river. On stage, the man behind the podium was basking in their approval.
A few minutes later, as the speaker launched into his peroration, The Times asked, in a bored voice, "Think he'll run?"
"What, for the White House?"
"Uh-huh."
"Shit," The Globe said scornfully. "He's running already."
At the reception following the speech, those members of Believers United willing to make a minimum $10,000 tax-deductible contribution to the cause of righteousness were given the opportunity to consume high-cholesterol hors d'oeuvres, wash them down with domestic champagne, and exchange a handshake and a few words with the guest of honor, Senator Howard Stark, whose oratory had so stirred them earlier.
Since the paying guests numbered 108, the funds raised amounted to a tidy sum. By prior agreement, the money would be split down the middle: half into the coffers of Believers United and the rest to the fledgling "Stark for President" Committee, an organization that the senator had carefully refrained from endorsing--so far.
Stark stood roughly in the middle of the short receiving line, a man of average height whose broad shoulders made him look bigger than he really was. Below the carefully styled blond hair, now shot through with gray, the green eyes stared out at the world with the apparent innocence of the country boy on his first visit to the big city - an image that was as carefully cultivated as it was utterly untrue.
Half a million dollars, give or take, for two hours of schmoozing sounds like easy money, but the junior senator from Ohio earned it. He did not resort to the repertory of techniques that every politico learns early on--the bright but meaningless smile, the quick, firm double-pump handshake, the artfully vague words and phrases that might mean anything and hence mean nothing at all. A typical politician would have used all of these, and others, in a situation like this, but Stark was not a typical politician. The support of the Christian Right was going to be vital if he was ever going to use "1600 Pennsylvania Avenue" as a return address, and Stark knew
he couldn't afford to go on automatic pilot. Despite the bumpkin image that fundamentalist Christians often have in the media, most of these people at the reception were actually very sharp. If Stark let his eyes glaze over, they would notice, and remember. They were touchy about respect, and, as Stark was soon reminded, passionate about their concerns.
"More than a million babies a year, Senator, butchered in those abortion mills!"
"Now they want to give out condoms and birth control pills--in the junior high schools. Can you imagine?"
"Since they've got that Brady law on the books, it's just a matter of time before the storm troopers come knocking on people's doors and confiscating our guns, you just wait and see if they don't!"
"And the man admitted he was a queer, right there in front of the School Board and everything, and they still couldn't fire him."
"Have you seen the filth that passes for entertainment on television these days? They ought to drop the name 'cable TV,' and call it what it really is: porno TV!"
"Won't let a kid say the Lord's Prayer in school, but nobody minds if he smokes a marijuana joint outside on the playground. Hell, some of these hippie teachers would probably join him..."
To each guest Stark gave a handshake, a smile, and a few moments of his attention, whether he felt the speaker deserved it or not. Stark was sincere in his opposition to both abortion and increased gun control, but privately unsure about the degree of menace posed to the nation by civil unions for homosexuals, the teaching of evolution in public schools, or the antics of raunchy rock stars.
It went on like that for the full two hours, and not once did Stark let his concentration wander. And so he was understandably relieved when his chief of staff drifted over and said softly in his ear, "We've put in our time, as agreed, and we do have that other appointment later. Do you want to get going, or are you having too much fun?"
Evil Ways (Morris and Chastain Investigations) Page 30
