Morris stood looking into the bottom drawer of the dresser, contemplating what he had uncovered after moving some blankets and an old flannel bathrobe: the old book with its white leather cover, the small silver bell, and the hand-made candles in several colors and shapes. There were several other items that he also recognized.
Morris took from his jacket pocket the little charm that he had found earlier. As it twirled slowly in his fingers, he said to LaRue. "Well, it looks like I've got some good news and some bad news for you."
LaRue nodded cautiously, waiting.
"For one thing, I'm almost positive that your troubles here are not being caused by a poltergeist, or any other kind of resident spirit." LaRue nodded again. "And what's the bad news?" Morris looked at him for several seconds before saying quietly, "I'm sorry, Walter—that was the bad news."
Chapter 4
Cecelia Mbwato sat sprawled in a chair in the cheap motel room, watching the sky through a dirty window and waiting impatiently for the coming of night.
She was not one of those creatures the stupid Americans called "vampires." She was human, more or less, and could function in the daylight as well as anyone. But she had long felt a certain affinity with the dark, especially since becoming umthakhati at age fourteen, an occasion she always thought of as embracing the Great Darkness.
Besides, certain deeds essential to her craft were best carried out under cover of night.
The sun had reached the horizon now, and begun to disappear below it. There were enough clouds in the vicinity to reflect the dying light, filling the sky with a roseate glow that some might have called beautiful. But Cecelia Mbwato knew nothing of beauty, and cared only for the falling of the black cloak of night.
Once it was fully dark outside, she picked up the telephone and tapped in two numbers.
A voice in her earpiece said, "Yeah."
"It's time," she said, keeping most of the eagerness out of her voice. "Get the car."
She hung up without waiting for a reply.
* * * *
Snake Perkins guided the big, beat-up Lincoln Continental expertly through the quiet suburban streets, tapping the fingers of one hand on the steering wheel to the beat of music only he could hear.
His passenger didn't like the radio, but that was all right. Snake had a repertory of songs in his head that he could play whenever he wanted. It wasn't quite as good as listening to them from an outside source, like a stereo or something, but it wasn't half bad, either. Snake Perkins carried more tunes in his head than you'd find in the average teenager's iPod.
He was currently listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama," a song Snake had always liked even though he was a Mississippi boy, himself. He'd just gotten to the part where Skynyrd was pissing on Neil Young when Cecelia Mbwato said, "Up here, next to the park. Pull up beneath that big tree."
Snake did as she said. Part of him, the product of nine generations of dirt-poor, butt-ignorant, Klan-joining rednecks, bridled at taking orders from a woman who was just about the blackest nigger Snake had ever seen, and a damn foreigner besides. That part of him would have loved to punch the bossy nigger bitch in the face five or six times, get out, go around, and yank her out of the car. Then tie some rope around her ankles, the other end to his rear bumper, and take himself for a nice long ride, at eighty miles an hour.
But the Mistress he served had been very clear: he was to do whatever the nigger woman wanted, take her anyplace she wanted to go, and help her out however he could. And Snake Perkins dreaded his Mistress's wrath even more than he used to fear his mother.
He parked where he'd been told, killed the lights, and turned the engine off. When he saw that the woman wasn't getting out he asked, "Now what?"
"We wait. Someone suitable will come along soon, I think."
"How do you know that?" Snake was careful to sound only curious, not like he was giving her a hard time, or something.
She gestured with her chin toward the park. "Over there is a place for children."
"Yeah, a playground. So? It's dark, kids are all gone home."
"For now, yes. But the children, they feel safe here. A child who is not safe at home, the parents fighting, a big brother who is mean—may come here to feel safe again, for a little while. So we wait."
"Yeah, okay."
Snake went back to the jukebox inside his head. He had just finished grooving to the Oak Ridge Boys doing "Elvira" when Cecelia Mbwato said, "Why is it you are called 'Snake?' Because you are so tall and skinny? Or because you are deadly, like the mamba?"
Snake thought a mamba was some kind of dance that greasers did, but he said, "It ain't a nickname. It's my real name. They give it to me the day I was born."
"A curious thing to name a child."
"My folks seen this movie, Escape from New York. There's a character in it, guy called Snake Plisskin. They thought it was some kinda cool name, I guess."
"It must have brought you much mockery when you were small, from other children." There was no trace of sympathy in Cecelia Mbwato's voice.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"If my parents had done such to me, I think I would be tempted to kill them, when I was grown."
There was something in Snake Perkins's voice that was almost enough to frighten even Cecelia Mbwato when he said softly, "How do you know I didn't?"
* * * *
Dexter Galvin loved the playground, even at night, when there were no other kids to hang out with. In fact, night was better, because it was quiet. Dex liked sitting on one of the swings at night—not riding it, just swaying back and forth and thinking about stuff.
The stuff he thought about these days usually involved his Mom and Terry, her latest boyfriend. A couple of months ago, Terry had gotten Mom to try this stuff, crystal myth or something. The two of them would smoke it and pretty soon they'd get all weird, talking a mile a minute, laughing, crying, not sleeping for days. Then the myth would wear off, and they'd get all sad and mean until they had some more. Then it would start up all over again.
Tonight, Terry had tried to get Dex to have a puff from the pipe that he and Mom used. Mom heard him and started yelling, stuff like "Jesus, Terry, he's only nine fucking years old!" Then Terry had got mad and slapped Mom. A little while after that, Dex had sneaked out and headed for the playground.
There was a big, kind of beat-up car parked near the entrance to the park. Dex saw the silhouettes of two people in the front seat, one looking like it might be a woman. Dex wondered if they had been fooling around with each other, stopping when they saw him approach. Well, they could fool around all they wanted, as if Dex gave a shit. It was none of his business.
He had just passed the car when he heard one of the doors opening. He looked back and saw a tall, really thin guy get out. The man looked toward Dex and called, "Hey, kid, wait up a second. I wanna ask you somethin'."
Yeah, right. Dex had watched enough TV to know danger when he saw it. He turned and ran, flat out, toward the park.
He almost made it as far as the front gate.
* * * *
Snake Perkins slammed the trunk lid and got back behind the wheel.
"He is no good to me if he is dead," Cecelia Mbwato said.
"I didn't kill him," Snake Perkins told her. "Just put him out with a sleeper hold until I could get the duct tape on him."
"What do you mean, 'sleeper hold?'"
Snake held out one hand, fingers shaped as if he were gripping a large glass. "Grabbed him around the neck and put pressure on the carotid arteries. Cuts the flow of blood to the brain, puts 'em right out. No permanent damage."
At that moment they heard the first of the muffled cries coming from the trunk.
"See?" Snake said. "Told ya."
Snake wasn't worried about the noise. You'd have to be either inside the car or standing right next to it to hear anything, and in a little while it wouldn't matter, anyway.
Cecelia Mbwato nodded. "Good. Now take us to the place I have sele
cted. When we get there, and I have completed the preparations, you will assist me with the procedure." She paused. "I was told you are a man who is not bothered by the blood and pain of others."
"Long as it ain't my own, don't bother me a bit."
Another nod. "Very good. Now drive."
Snake started the car and headed off to the isolated spot near the lake that he and the woman had found the day before.
He wondered just how much blood and pain he was going to have to deal with when he got there.
Chapter 5
When the buzzer sounded, the tall, brown-haired woman put down the ladle she was holding and went to answer the door.
Standing in the hall was a woman of medium height and rather chunky build. Her face, behind aviator glasses, was framed by thick black hair. The earnest expression that she wore went well with the tailored gray suit and slim briefcase.
"I'm a little early," the visitor said. "I hope that's okay."
"No problem at all," Libby Chastain told her, opening the door wider. "Come on in. Let me just turn off the stove."
They walked into the condominium's large kitchen, where Libby extinguished the blue gas flame that was burning under a large, black pot.
"Ah, a cauldron!" the visitor, whose name was Susan Mackey, exclaimed. "And what goes in there—tail of salamander, eye of newt, that sort of thing?"
Libby smiled slightly. "More like paste of tomato and leaf of basil," she said. "I'm making spaghetti sauce for later. But it can sit a while with no problem. Why don't we do the same?"
A deep furrow appeared between Susan Mackey's bushy eyebrows. "Sorry?"
"Sit a while, I mean. Come on in the living room."
The condo's living room was done in earth tones, the furniture mostly the comfortable variety of Scandinavian modern. Once they were both seated, Susan leaned forward and said, "As I told you on the phone, I've got another job that would seem to need your, uh, talents. Are you interested?"
"That depends on the job, as always. The Devil—or, I should say, the Goddess—lives in the details. Is this gig like the last one?"
"In some ways, but on a bigger scale."
Libby thought for a moment. "What was the name of that old fraud in Cleveland? Sister Meredeth, or something?" There was amusement in her voice.
"Mother Josephine," Susan said. "You may not recall her too well, but I bet she still remembers you—not to mention that séance of hers we sat in on."
"You'd think someone who claims to call up the spirits of the dead would be prepared for a.real ghost to show up."
"Apparently not, judging from the way she ran screaming from the room." Libby studied the other woman for a moment. "You know, Susan, I sometimes wonder what the other folks at the Society for the Advancement of Rational Thought would say if they . knew you sometimes debunk spiritualist scams by hiring a real witch."
"You're down on the books as a 'consultant,'" Susan said with a shrug. "As long as I get results, nobody's going to ask many questions about the exact nature of the consulting." She fiddled with the latches on her briefcase for a moment. "Besides, we're not opposed to spirituality, on principle, or even to belief in the supernatural. We're just against those who use beliefs in such things to exploit gullible people."
"And that's what you've got this time? Another con artist?"
"This guy is to con artists what Houdini was to magicians— the creme de la creme. Or maybe creme de la creep is more like it."
"So what's his particular angle?"
"That," Susan said, "is something I think you should see for yourself."
* * * *
Many small, independent movie theaters have been driven out of business by shopping mall megaplexes, pay-per-view cable, and DVD players. Some of these former dream palaces have been torn down, while others have been converted to other uses—like the one in New York's East Fifties where the marquee now proclaimed "Tommy Timberlake Ministry," and, in smaller letters, "Healing, Testimony, Prophecy."
On the way in, Libby and Susan passed a table holding a tall box that read "Donations," guarded by a large man who looked more like a bouncer than a deacon. Since everyone filing in ahead of them seemed to be dropping in a "voluntary" offering, the two women each put in a few dollars. They did not want to draw attention to themselves.
The inside of the theater had probably not looked this good since the place opened in the 1940s. It had been extensively refurbished, with an eye towards opulence rather than good taste. However, the large placards bearing biblical quotations were not part of the original decor, nor was the giant cross that dominated the stage. The starkness of the plain, black cross was offset by the many large potted plants that were arranged around it.
The place was rapidly filling up, but the two women were able to find seats together about halfway down the middle section. The chairs were luxuriously padded and extremely comfortable. "Nearer my God, to Thee" was playing softly over the theater's sound system.
A woman with severely permed blonde hair, wearing a blue dress of elegant simplicity, was working the room. As she made her way around the seated crowd, she waved to many and smiled at all. Periodically she would pause to speak to someone in one of the seats for a minute or two before moving on.
"Who's that?" Libby asked.
"Winona Timberlake, the Reverend Tommy's wife," Susan said quietly. "Sort of a combination warm-up act and mistress of ceremonies. She does this meet-and-greet thing before every service."
"Looks like she's headed our way."
Winona Timberlake made her slow way up the aisle toward them, and paused two rows in front of where they sat.
"Hello, dear, and welcome to our church," she said to the middle-aged woman sitting in the aisle seat. "I'm Winona Timberlake."
"Oh, I know who you are!" the woman exclaimed joyfully. "I've seen you on the TV, I don't know how many times! I'm Madge Collier, and this is my sister, Rosie."
"Is this your first time attending our service here?"
"Yes, yes it is. I'm from Patterson, New Jersey. I watch your program every week, you know, but I thought coming in person might help me find the grace I need to, well, to get through some things."
"Is there something particular that is afflicting you, dear?" Winona Timberlake's voice radiated sympathy and concern.
"Well it's just that the doctor says I have a cancer of the—you know, the womanly parts. And he wants me to have an operation. But it's so expensive, and I don't have hardly any insurance, and I just…"
The woman identified as Rosie reached over and grasped her sister's hand where it lay on the armrest.
"Anyway," Madge Collier continued, "I was so hoping that being here with the Reverend, maybe the Holy Spirit might inspire me, you know, to help me figure out what I should do."
"I'm sure he will, dear," Winona Timberlake said with a brilliant smile. "There's absolutely no doubt in my mind that everything will work out for the best. The important thing is that you trust in the Lord Jesus."
"Oh, I do, I always have—" Madge said, but the other woman had already moved on to greet some new arrivals.
After another few minutes of mingling with the assembled worshipers, Winona Timberlake mounted the steps that led to the stage. She was handed a microphone by a minion, and by the time she reached center stage, a spotlight was waiting there to welcome her. The recorded music had stopped playing, and the crowd murmur quickly died down to nothing.
In the sudden silence, Winona Timberlake looked out at the audience. She held them with her eyes for a long moment before saying, "Friends, I'd like to welcome you to our service tonight. It feels so good, doesn't it, to come together with other Bible-believing Christians in the fellowship of the Holy Spirit? And fellowship is so important now, isn't it? Because we live in tough times, you and I do."
She paused for a beat. "Tough times where our spirits are assailed, our families are threatened, our schools are corrupted, and the streets of our cities are not safe for decent people."
There were murmurs of assent from the crowd.
"But for those of us who believe in the Lord Jesus, there is always hope in our hearts. And here tonight with a message of hope, with a message and a vision and the blessed powers of healing and prophecy, is the man I am proud to call my husband and inspiration—the Reverend Tommy Timberlake!"
The applause that broke out would not have shamed a rock star.
Winona Timberlake's spotlight winked out and was instantly replaced by another that shone on a man standing stage left. He was medium-sized, although the subtly padded shoulders of his handmade suit made him seem bigger. His curly black hair seemed to shine in the light from overhead and he was a case study in barely controlled energy as he strode to the center of the stage, which his wife had quietly vacated. Even as he moved, the Reverend Tommy Timberlake was already talking. "I can feel the spirit of the Lord in this building tonight, friends." The applause faded at his first words. His voice seemed hushed, intimate, but the microphone he held carried each word clearly to every corner of the large theater.
"And why shouldn't He be among us, who have come here to praise Him?" There were a few shouts of "Amen" and "Praise his name" from the audience. "Didn't he tell us, 'Come unto me, ye who are afflicted and sore afraid?' Isn't that what the Lord, the God of Hosts, told us?"
"He did," "Yes, praise Him," and "It's the truth" came from various amen corners.
"Then we must believe," the Reverend Tommy Timberlake said. "We must trust in the Lord. We must have faith that the Lord sees our pain, knows our fear, understands our tribulation, and that He will deliver us from all of it if we will just ask Him to do so."
Reverend Tommy squeezed his eyes shut, like a man afflicted by a sudden migraine. He took in a sharp breath that was clearly audible over the microphone. "Is there a woman named Beatrice among us tonight? Beatrice, whose mother is so seriously ill"?
A woman off to the left suddenly screeched, "Yes, it's me! It's me!"
Reverend Tommy took a few steps in her direction. His eyes were open now, his gaze piercing. "Beatrice, your mother is ill with—is it colitis?"
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