“Don’t mock the devil,” Reverend Sharp warned. “He won’t take kindly to it.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” I replied.
I raised the lighter over my head, and it illuminated the widening tunnel. There was a small mound of dirt in the center of the tunnel. Charity Crabbpatch hovered above it, ravens perched on her shoulders. The ground under her seethed and writhed. I looked at it, and saw it was full of insects, rats and snakes. Centipedes, scorpions, spiders and other vermin of all shapes crawled around together in a living carpet. I realized that mocking the devil might have been a mistake.
Charity stared at me, her red eyes glowing in the darkness of the mine. “You like this place? I hope you do. Your bones are gonna be here for a very long time.” She pointed a finger at us. “The creatures of the dark will be your only companions. Why don’t you go and get to know them, right around now?”
All of her pet vermin came towards us in a crawling, hissing, snarling tide. I went down, feeling them passing over me as I struggled to hold onto the shotgun. I heard Reverend Sharp go down next to me. I rolled over, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him free. I pressed us both against the tunnel’s wall and tried to catch my breath. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth something would slither inside. It was like drowning in a pool of filth.
When most of the vermin had crawled past, I looked back at Sharp. “You okay, Father?” I asked. Then I saw the viper wrapped around his shoulders. It was hissing madly. The diamond-head was raised and poised to strike.
“God Almighty…” Sharp whispered. “They shall take up serpents… and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them!” I thought he was babbling like a mad man, but then I realized he was quoting scripture. Whatever it was, it didn’t anger the snake. I reached out, grabbed the tail of the snake, and pulled. It came hissing towards me, ready to uncoil and strike like lightning. I hurled it away, as far as I could into the dark.
Reverend Sharp gasped. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered. “That was a sign.”
“Sure it was, Reverend,” I muttered, turning back to Charity. “Why don’t you get religion some other time? I think we’re gonna be a little busy.”
The ground under Charity’s bare bloody feet kept moving. A long spindly spike came out, black as midnight and glistening in the lowlight of my lighter. Another spike followed, until there were eight of them stabbed through the air. Charity just hovered above them and laughed, as more dirt was cast aside. That’s when the creature came to the surface, bigger than an automobile and looking mean enough to tangle with a tank. It was a spider, a gigantic black widow that looked like it wanted me to be the husband.
I raised the shotgun. “Cute pet,” I told Charity. I racked the gun and fired, but the spider was already scuttling down the tunnel, making less noise than a falling raindrop as it crossed the ground. Before I could fire, one of those spiky legs struck my side. It felt like a spear point was jabbing into my flesh. It tossed me aside, and the wall of the tunnel flew up and smashed me in the face. The shotgun fell from my hands.
I was battered and bruised and that giant spider was going to reach down and bite my head off. My only hope was Reverend Sharp. He stood in the center of the tunnel, holding up his Bible like he was about to lead the Sunday Service. I didn’t know if he noticed me. He didn’t seem to notice Charity. She was creeping up behind him, claw poised to slide into his guts.
“God walks with me!” Sharp cried. “He has shown me his word and I have seen his glory!” He turned around, opened the Bible, and slammed it into Charity’s face. The paper clung to her skin. She reeled back, screaming as the pages burst into blue flame. Light danced in the tunnel as Charity tumbled down. She was finished for the moment. Now all I had to worry about was the giant spider about to rip off my head.
I was looking into those glistening eight eyes as it neared me, trying to get the strength to move – but it wasn’t happening. I looked to Sharp. “Reverend!” I shouted. “How about a little salvation over here!”
He grabbed my fallen shotgun and worked the pump. “Demon!” he shouted. “Face the wrath of God!” He fired, and the shot blasted gooey chunks of spider across the walls of the tunnel. Sharp fired again and again, pumping more shells into the spider and spraying its innards everywhere. It went down, its legs curling up and the shine in its eyes going to black nothingness. Sharp shot it again, right in the face, and that was the end of the spider.
Reverend Sharp helped me up. “Thanks, Father,” I said. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
He shrugged. “I robbed banks in Chapel Hill for a spell. That career taught me well.” He smiled as he handed me the shotgun. “My faith has returned, Mr. Candle. The snake did not bite me. I know that God has a plan for me.”
“It could just be a coincidence,” I pointed out. “Or maybe the snake wasn’t hungry, or didn’t get a chance to sink its fangs into you.”
“It could,” Sharp agreed. “But there’s something greater than knowledge telling me it’s not.”
“I won’t argue with that.” I looked down at Charity. “Now, let’s do a little of the Lord’s Work.” I racked the gun and faced Charity.
She looked up at me. Her eyes were as wide as full moons. She held her clawed hands over her burned face. “Please!” she cried. “I repent! I throw myself upon God’s mercy!” She whined and cried and it made me consider leaving her alone for a little more than half a second.
Then I pressed the muzzle of the shotgun to her forehead. “God’s mercy?” I asked. “You can go ask him about it. When you see him in person.” I fired, and splattered that witch’s brains out all over the tunnel. I looked back to Reverend Sharp. “The Hollow’s finished,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We walked out of the tunnel and drove the Roadmaster back down to the village. I was at the wheel, though I wanted to collapse with each passing second. There was a motel in town where I could do just that, and I was looking forward to it. Reverend Sharp sat in the passenger seat. He was reading his bible, pouring over each holy word.
I looked back, where Weatherby and Selena sat together. “So,” I said. “It looks like Reverend Elias Sharp has found Jesus after all. I never really cared much for God or any of that stuff myself. I learned that the only one you count on for help was yourself, and praying was just a lot of noise and wasted time. “ I turned to the kid. “What do you think, kiddo?”
Weatherby shrugged. He looked at his sister. “Our father taught me early on that there is truth in all faiths, no matter how bizarre, and that there are few things more powerful than the conviction of a godly man. But no, I don’t believe that it is for me. I have seen too much to embrace such a simple explanation for all things.”
“So what do you believe in then?” Selena asked her little brother.
“I have faith in people,” he said. “In my friends – like you, Mort – and in my family – like you, Selena. I have faith in the people around me, and I don’t think that anything can shake that.”
“Well,” I said. “Amen to that.”
We sped back to the little country town, and far away from Witch’s Hollow.
Business Proposition
Weatherby Stein’s room had everything a boy would want. Toys were scattered across the hard wooden floor, ranging from tin soldiers to race cars to model sailboats. The shelves were packed with pulp magazines and books, a library of amusements for any adolescent. A television sat in the corner. It had never been switched on. The window looked out at over a green field, radiant in autumn sunlight. Located in a government-owned cottage in upstate New York, the whole place was full of comfort, amusement and safety.
Weatherby hated every inch of his room, and the house it was in. He sat on his bed, his toys untouched except by dust. He was too old for them anyway, being precisely fourteen and a half, but he hadn’t even played with them when he was small. It didn’t seem right.
He was a small, scrawny child, nearly dwarfed by the size of his
bed. He had pale skin, and hair as dark as a raven’s wings, carefully combed over his pleasant, frowning face. The OSS – and now the Central Intelligence Agency – had dressed him well. He wore a collared shirt, a striped tie and shorts, with round spectacles over his eyes. He resembled a small, fidgeting owl.
He folded his thin fingers and looked at the clock in the corner of the room. It was a black cat clock, with eyes and a tail that swung as it ticked. Weatherby hated that clock, more than anything else in the hated room, because it told him when Bobby Belasco – his government appointed guardian – would arrive. Sure enough, just after three o’clock there came the characteristic knock on the door.
“All right, champ!” Bobby Belasco’s voice had a simpering cheerfulness to it, like he was perpetually delighted by all things and wanted to share his joy with the world. “Ready for the day’s session? I’m coming in.”
There was a lock on Weatherby’s door, but Belasco had the key. There was no point in trying to stop him. Weatherby sat up on his bed and folded his arms as Belasco let himself in. A plump secretary in a checkered skirt followed, a typewriter held in her hands. She sat at the desk in the corner and set up, not looking at Belasco or Weatherby.
Belasco pulled up a wicker chair and sat across the Weatherby. He put his boots on the bed. “Howdy, howdy, little cowboy,” he said. “Feeling talkative today?”
“No, sir,” Weatherby replied. “No more than last week. Or the week before that.” His voice was a soft, strange mixture of upper-class German and aristocratic English.
“Well, that’s just too bad, champ.” Belasco’s smile remained. Weatherby had been interviewed by Belasco, or another CIA Agent, every Wednesday, every week, for every year since he had come here from Europe. They always wanted to know the same kinds of things, and Weatherby hadn’t given them more than hints. They were never unfriendly, and always warm and cordial – which only made Weatherby hate them more. Belasco was by far the worst.
“I mean it,” Weatherby repeated. “I won’t tell you.”
“Not about alchemy?” Belasco’s smile remained. Weatherby had seen his appearance degrade the longer he was with the Company. Stubble sprouted on his chin, his Hawaiian shirt was rumpled and had several stains, and his eyes had a wild, darting quality about them, never focusing on one thing. “Come on, sport – just a couple words. How do we transmute lead to gold? Did your father ever mention that?”
“He never did, Mr. Belasco. Not that I recall.”
“But I’m sure he let all sorts of other interesting tidbits reach those big ears of yours, eh, little buddy?” Belasco leaned forward, grasping the foot of the bed. “How about spilling just a few to your favorite Uncle Bobby? Come on, champ – I’ll let you eat ice cream for every meal.”
“I don’t want ice cream for every meal.”
“We’ll give you more toys, little guy. All the ones you want!”
“I don’t want more toys!” Weatherby’s temper unfurled. He stepped off of his bed, glaring at Belasco. “I don’t care for the ones I have, nor any of the amusements you provide me with! And furthermore, my name is not ‘champ’ or ‘sport’ or ‘little cowboy’ or any other of these disgusting monikers that you have christened me with. My name, Mr. Belasco, is Weatherby Ignatius Stein. That is the name my parents gave me, and I am quite proud of it! Kindly refer to me as that, sir!” He had to pause for breath after his outburst.
Belasco’s smile remained, frozen like his face had been replaced with a still photograph. He reached down and picked up one of Weatherby’s race cars. “Why don’t you like any of this stuff, Weatherby?” he asked. “We’ve given you everything a kid could want. Why don’t you want to play ball?”
“They are bribes,” Weatherby replied. “And my parents taught me that I should resist temptation and do what is right.”
“You mean the parents that are lying in a shallow grave in Europe, right?” Belasco smiled even wider at Weatherby’s look of rage. “Sorry. Touch a nerve, did I? Well, that’s just too bad.” He turned to the stenographer. “Honey, give your fingers a rest. I don’t want any of this recorded.”
Her fingers stopped, and she looked up silently at Weatherby and Belasco. The CIA Agent leaned back in his chair. “Look, kid, I’ll level with you – this little project had a lot of potential. The scion to the greatest occult family in all of Europe, falling right into our lap. You must know all kinds of interesting things that would be perfect for wetwork. But you won’t talk. And now there’s talk of shutting the project down.”
He said it like a death sentence. Weatherby looked at his shoes. His bravado left him. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “But I won’t use my knowledge for evil. I won’t tell you the secrets of the world.”
“For evil?” Belasco asked. “We’re the Americans, kid! We’re the goddamn good guys!”
“I’ve maintained several subscriptions to newspapers, and that’s not what I see. Look at your actions in Latin America, and throughout other countries that you fear are turning communist. Look at your hounding of every citizen whom you suspect of having radical views. Look at your actions towards Negro citizens in the South or the Japanese during the war. I cannot give supernatural power to such a people. You would misuse it, and it would be my fault.”
“Look, kid, we’re not the Nazis!” Belasco cried. “Look how nice we’ve been to you, for Christ’s sake! We’ve treated you like a prince, and you won’t give us the time of day!”
“You’re not as bad as the Third Reich. Congratulations!” Weatherby replied. “And you have kept me a prisoner. True, I am treated well, but you won’t let me leave, you will only let me communicate with my sister through mail – which you read and censor – and you hound me to talk to you! That’s the only reason you care about me.”
Belasco stood up. “Well, I think we just used that reason up. You won’t talk? Fine.” His good humor vanished. His smile disappeared too, and he stared darkly at Weatherby as he came to his feet. “I’m gonna make my report to my superiors, and tell them that you’re an ungrateful little brat who won’t tell us a goddamn thing. They’ll cut you loose in a second. You’ll be on your own, wandering the streets of New York without a home or money or nothing. Is that what you want? Is it, little man?”
“Yes!” Weatherby cried. “I want this to be finished!”
“Good. That’s exactly what you’ll get.” Belasco turned to the door. “You’ll be out of here by the end of the week, kid. We’ve got a bunch of your dead old man’s things, brought over from the castle in Europe. Feel free to take everything you want when you leave. We’ll toss the rest in the incinerator, along with the rest of this crap.” He nodded to the secretary, who silently stood up. “Is that what you want, Weatherby?”
Weatherby lowered his head. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll take my father’s things and leave. I’ll go be with my sister.”
“Good luck, kid.” Belasco didn’t look back. “But don’t be mad if I don’t wish you more of a goodbye. You were an ungrateful little brat.”
“And you are a Machiavellian rogue,” Weatherby retorted.
“Heh.” Belasco moved to close the door. “See you around, Weatherby Ignatius Stein.” He pronounced the boy’s name slowly and deliberately, and slammed the door behind him.
Slowly, Weatherby sat back on the bed. He wondered if he had made the right decision. He could only hope that he had. There was no apologizing, no turning back now. One way or the other, he was finished with being a would-be pawn of the CIA. For better or worse, from now on, he was on his own.
Bobby Belasco told the truth. Weatherby was taken away from his cottage by the end of the week, and driven into New York. Before he left, he went through his father’s things, and saved as many of the relics, magical supplies, and artifacts as he could. He found his father’s vest, tie, and frock coat. It was purchased in Berlin, around the turn of the century.
Weatherby put on the stiff Victorian suit, and carefully knotted the tie. It hung heavily
on his shoulders, but he wore it still. He closed his eyes, and thought of his father, and then walked away from the cabin to the waiting taxi cab. The CIA paid for the taxi to take him anywhere he wanted to go. That was the last kindness they showed him.
The taxi ride was the first time he had been to New York City, and he stared at amazement at the towers that seemed to pierce the clouds, the great surging masses of people, fighting and pacing together on the sidewalks and streets, and everywhere, the blistering light and noise of the greatest metropolis in the world. Weatherby’s father had shown him magic before, but the boy could hardly have imagined something as amazing as New York.
He knew just the address for them to take them him to. That was how Selena Stein opened the door of her dorm, a small apartment which she shared with two other college girls, and saw her little brother smiling up at her, dressed in their father’s best suit.
“Weatherby,” Selena said. “Oh God.” She reached down and embraced him. For a long while, they didn’t say anything.
Weatherby hadn’t seen his sister since she left for boarding school, a lifetime and a long and bloody war ago. They had kept in touch with letters and photographs, but this was the first time he had seen her in person. He could hardly believe his eyes. Selena was tall and willowy, with short dark hair ending just below her ears. She shared his thin nose, round spectacles and bright eyes. She wore trousers, something that would never happen at home, and a maroon NYU sweater. A silver necklace, ending in a pendant with a crescent moon, rested on her slim neck.
She let go of Weatherby and ushered him inside. Suddenly, she was full of words. “You look wonderful, Weatherby! That suit – it is father’s, isn’t it? – It looks wonderful on you. And you’re so tall. You look very handsome, you know. I bet the girls would like you very much.” She paused finally. “Oh God, Weatherby,” she said. “It’s so good to see you.”
The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) Page 15
