by Jon F. Merz
“Steve.”
Curran turned and saw one of the Chestnut Hill cops waving him over toward the grove of trees a little bit away from the crime scene.
Curran walked over. “Yeah?”
“You got something you want to tell me about all this?”
Curran looked at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The cop nodded. “Yeah, I figured you’d say something like that.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
The cop tugged on Curran’s arm and they walked back into the grove of trees. Then he turned to Curran. “Look, I don’t know exactly what the hell went on here last night. And I don’t know that I’m going to really press you on why the Boston ME was sitting in a car by himself late last night on what looks suspiciously like some sort of unauthorized surveillance mission.” He eyed Curran.
“Go on.”
The cop nodded. “What I do know is that a man got killed – “ He shook his head. “ – ain’t no way for a man to die. Not like that.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Hang on.”
Curran stopped. The cop held out his hand and Curran shook it. As he did so, he felt something pressed into his palm. He didn’t look down.
“I found that on the grass a little bit ago. I don’t know what the hell you’re looking for. Your friend seems to have found something, though. More to the point, he apparently caused a little damage before he got killed.”
Curran resisted the urge to look at his palm.
“Save it for the car ride out of here. You and the lady are gone. I don’t want to see you around here anymore. You got a beef with that guy Darius, I suggest you wait until we’ve cleaned up the crime scene and gotten the hell out of here. I don’t want any of my guys coming to the sort of end your friend did. We cool?”
Curran nodded. “Thanks Jim.”
“Forget it.” He clapped Curran on the shoulder. “I hope you get the chance to put that asshole down. Hard.”
So do I, thought Curran. So do I.
He walked back to Lauren. She looked at him. “Everything okay?”
“We’re done here.” Curran headed to the car and slid in behind the wheel. Lauren climbed in next to him.
“Steve-“
He held up his hand and looked at it. There, in the center of his palm, sat a long triangular piece of…bone? Curran frowned. It was yellow near the tip. By the fracture line, bits of rot clung to the darkened enamel.
A tooth.
Darius’ tooth.
But it was too big to be human.
Lauren leaned over. “Did Kwon do that?”
“Seems that way.”
She picked up the tooth and sniffed it. “God, it reeks.”
“It must have come from Darius.”
Lauren handed the tooth back to him. “It’s too big for a human mouth.”
“Maybe Darius wasn’t Darius when he attacked Kwon. Maybe he changed into the demon.”
“Kwon fought a demon?”
Curran almost smiled. “That was one brave sonofabitch.” He sighed again. “I’ll miss him tremendously.”
Lauren glanced at the dashboard clock. “I’m sorry to bring this back up but I’ve got to get over to Brighton if I have any hope of trying to stall the Archdiocese from making some sort of preemptive statement about all this.”
Curran snapped back to reality. “Yeah. Okay.” He turned the key in the ignition and cast a look out the windshield. At Darius’ house, he could have sworn he saw a curtain fall back into place.
Like he’d been watching them.
Probably real happy right now, thought Curran. Well, that’s fine. Enjoy it. Because the next time I come back, I’ll be bringing a whole world of agony on your ass.”
He slid the car into gear and turned around, heading back toward route 9.
Lauren cleared her throat. “Steve. Do you think he…you know…suffered?”
“I can’t imagine a psychopath like Darius making it an easy death on him. Especially after Kwon took out one of his teeth.”
Lauren bowed her head and began praying quietly next to Curran. He wanted to do the same, but grief wasn’t something he could afford right now. Later on, there’d be time for mourning his friend properly.
Right now, it was time to get some payback.
His cell phone rang and he picked it up. This better be good news, he thought.
“Curran.”
He listened. Scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. After thirty seconds he said simply, “Okay.”
Then he hung up.
Next to him, Lauren’s prayers had ended. She stared at him. “Steve? You okay?”
“That was dispatch. They’ve got another body.”
“Where?”
“Chinatown. Some sort of after-hours club run by the Tongs.” He shook his head. “First he kills Kwon and then he goes out and kills another victim.”
“Maybe that’s why he killed Kwon.”
“Because he couldn’t get past him and do his work unseen?”
Lauren shrugged. “Maybe.”
Curran frowned. “I find it tough to believe that Darius, as a demon or human, couldn’t snake his way past a few cops.” He shook his head. “No. Darius killed Kwon intentionally. He didn’t have to. He just did it to spite me. Us. And he certainly succeeded.”
“What happens now?”
“You go to Brighton. I go to Chinatown. Apparently this latest victim was some sort of Hmong warlord in Boston to negotiate new alliances with the local Chinese Mafia.”
“How do you know that?”
“State Department’s been all over it. This guy doubled as some sort of ambassador as well. Darius got past the Tongs and the Diplomatic Security guys assigned to protect this guy.”
“Is there anything he can’t do?” Lauren leaned against the door.
“Yeah,” said Curran. “He can’t kill my best friend and not expect me to come after him with every bit of firepower I have.”
“Guns won’t solve this, Steve.”
“You’re probably right. But I’ll do whatever I have to, to kill that bastard and make sure he never haunts anyone on this plane again.”
He gripped the steering wheel tighter as he sped down route 9 toward Boston. You hear me, demon? You hear me? I’m coming for you. And I won’t stop.
Not now.
Not ever.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lauren hopped out of the car. “Call me in a few hours at Father Jim’s. I should be there by noon.”
Curran nodded and shot back out into traffic. Lauren watched him go and sighed. Heaven help the person who got in Steve’s way, she decided. Kwon’s death had affected him tremendously, even if the hardened cop only showed it a little bit. Lauren knew he was hurting on the inside in a bad way.
She walked back onto the campus and headed for the administration building and Sister McDewey’s office. Even though it was late morning, the sky hadn’t brightened any. Lauren thought it actually looked even darker than it had earlier.
She frowned.
Maybe Mother Nature knows something I don’t. She tried to laugh the thought off, but a part of her wondered how far off the mark she was. If at all.
As usual, the number of students on the campus grounds always appeared to be few. Most of them spent long hours tucked away in the cozy cushioned recesses of the library, noses burrowed in the pages of religious texts. The less time spent wandering out in the cold November days, the better.
Lauren knew she’d fallen behind in her own studies as well. After all, helping thwart Satan from coming back onto this plane wasn’t the kind of activity that would tailor itself around a schedule full of academic work.
She took the steps to the door of the building and tugged on the heavy door. It opened and a wave of warm air rushed over her, making her skin tingle slightly. She welcomed the change from the cold outside
.
Lauren turned left and paused. The memory of Sister Donovan, even if they hadn’t known each other that well, still lingered. If not for her, thought Lauren, Steve and I wouldn’t have the first clue as to where to start with this thing.
Well, her and Graham Westerly.
The outer office was once again deserted. Apparently, Sister McDewey hadn’t found a replacement yet. Or perhaps she was honoring the memory of the deceased nun.
Lauren knocked on her door.
Sister McDewey’s voice rang out. “Come in.”
Lauren opened the door and stepped inside. The air in the office was noticeably colder. Sister McDewey regarded her. “Lauren.”
“Sister.”
“I’m afraid your forty-eight hours are up.”
Lauren nodded. “I’m here to ask for more time.”
“There’s no more time to give.”
“But we’re close.”
Sister McDewey leaned forward. “Close? How so?”
“We know who the Soul Eater is.”
Sister McDewey’s face lit up, almost in amusement. “Who?”
Lauren hesitated. Should she tell her? Would that unleash some uncontrollable Church intervention squad that would blast Darius’ name all over the press and send him into hiding? Not yet. She couldn’t afford to take the chance.
Instead, she said, “We need more time.”
“You don’t trust me? You won’t tell me what the name of the person is?”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Sister. But I simply can’t take the risk of someone else letting the word slip. If he got wind that we knew and were coming for him, then he’d be able to run off and hide. We’d be back to zero and have to start the hunt all over again.”
“And you think someone from the Church would spill the beans, is that it?”
“Surely you can see how that might happen.”
Sister McDewey shrugged. “Perhaps. Regardless of whether you tell me who it is, or not, I must still inform the Archdiocese about your revelations.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
Sister McDewey sneered at her. “Well, we can’t always get what we wish for, now, can we?”
“I-“
“I gave you your forty-eight hours – which was more than generous of me to do so, by the way. I can’t wait any longer for you and your partner to try and end this thing. Neither of you have the training to dispel the Soul Eater anyway.”
“Who does?”
Sister McDewey fixed Lauren with a stare. “That’s a bit above your level of need-to-know.”
Lauren stared at Sister McDewey. “I find this a little hard to take. I didn’t think the Church had such an interest in the occult anymore. Especially with regards to Satanism.”
“The Church is always concerned with protecting its own interests. We have always had people available who know how to handle this. It’s not really your concern anymore.”
“So that’s it then?”
“I don’t think there’s much of anything else to say.”
Lauren stood there. Her knees felt stiff. She wanted to sit down. She wanted to beg for more time. There had to be something she could do to stall Sister McDewey. But what?
She shivered. “It’s freezing in here.”
Sister McDewey frowned. “Don’t try to get off-topic here, Lauren. The answer is no. I will not give you anymore time.” She took off her glasses. “Besides, it’s not like you or that silly Curran had a chance against someone like the Soul Eater anyway.”
Lauren bit her lip. How dare she say that about Steve. How dare she-
She stopped.
“You said his name.”
Sister McDewey looked up from the papers on her desk. “What?”
“You said Steve’s name.”
“So what?”
“I never mentioned it before.”
“Didn’t you?”
Lauren’s tongue felt thick. “No.”
“I’m sure you did.” Sister McDewey stood up.
Lauren shivered again. “I don’t think so.”
Sister McDewey smiled. “Oh well, maybe I heard it someplace else.”
Sister McDewey suddenly seemed taller than Lauren remembered. “I didn’t tell anyone else about him. No one knows.”
Sister McDewey came around the desk. “Really? How utterly fascinating.”
The voice. It was changing. Lauren backed up. Slowly. Her feet didn’t seem to want to move.
As she watched, Sister McDewey’s features began to change. Her shoulders broadened. Her eyes seemed to melt into stone. Her jaw squared off.
“Is everything all right, Lauren? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No.” Lauren shook her head. “What did you do with her?”
“Do with who, dear?”
“Sister McDewey. The real Sister McDewey.”
He looked a little silly standing there in the habit. Darius faced Lauren and tore off the cowl. “I’m rather surprised I was able to stand being dressed like for as long as I was. Normally the feel of such material makes me want to vomit.”
Lauren felt the door press into her back. She hadn’t realized she’d gotten this close to it. Her right hand fumbled behind her, trying to turn the knob.
Darius clucked his tongue. “No, I don’t think you’ll be going out there today. I’ve got something else in mind for you, sweetheart.”
Lauren shook her head and tried to scream. Her throat closed down. A tiny squeak broke out before everything seemed to lose focus.
The last image that raced through her mind was of Darius coming toward her.
Hands already outstretched.
Reaching.
Grabbing.
And then…contact.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Curran sighed as he reached Kneeland Street and saw the throng of blue and white police cruisers, navy blue government Fords, a Chevy Suburban war wagon for the State Department Security team, and even more cameras and reporters from the local media outlets.
Who the hell was this guy anyway? Curran slowed his car and paused to flash his badge at the uniform holding the tape up. He drove through and parked. Probably the only time I can find parking in Chinatown, he mused, is when there’s a body to look at.
Outside the car, a thunderous roar greeted his ears. Fortunately, no one knew who he was, so he passed the paparazzi gauntlet without incident.
#1011 was a gambling den. Curran knew that much from talking the vice cops. Chinatown might be barely under one square mile, but it housed over two dozen illegal gambling dens where Mah Jong and various other games brought in pounds of money for the Tongs that controlled the Chinatown underworld.
Back in the 1980s, the Hong Kong Chinese gangs Ping On and Gung Ho had ruled Chinatown with an iron fist. The dividing line used to run along Tai Tung Village, a housing community controlled by Gung Ho. Ping On was headed by a charismatic Hong Kong native named Stephen Tsa who eventually fled back to the British Colony to avoid impending federal indictments. Gung Ho, which had never really been more than a bunch of souped-up high school ruffians, collapsed under its own power struggles, leaving a vacuum in the underbelly of Chinatown.
The Vietnamese stepped in to fill the void.
Originally entrenched further north of Boston in towns like Lowell and Gloucester, the Vietnamese gangs had descended like hungry vultures when they’d sensed the opportunity.
Themselves little more than high school kids, the Vietnamese gangs were different than the Chinese, though. Whereas the Chinese could be violent if need be, the Vietnamese gang members embraced violence as the only way of doing business. Refugees from Vietnam and accustomed to seeing the savage horror of war, they had little regard for life. They would simply shoot to kill anyone who stood in their way.
Predictably, it took only three months of localized Armageddon to bring Chinatown firmly under their rule.
&n
bsp; Curran walked down the steps to what at first appeared to be merely a basement apartment.
Inside was a different story.
The gambling den stretched before him. Circular wooden tables and rickety chairs now without players in them, stood silently. The den was low on amenities. People didn’t come here for luxury. Overflowing ashtrays and a thick layer of cigarette smog that clung just below the ceiling testified that most of the men who played here smoked like chimneys.
Curran moved through the den, dodging various police and government officials.
His destination lay beyond the den itself.
Through a doorway, Curran entered another world altogether.
And this one had plenty of luxury to offer. Provided you had the money.
The after-hours club run by the Tongs seemed to stretch on forever, but Curran could see the opposite walls were simply mirrored to give that impression.
“Steve?”
He turned. A young woman stood before him. She wore a jacket that identified her as a worker at the medical examiner’s office.
Kwon’s office, thought Curran. He felt a heavy tug on his heart.
“Yeah?”
“My name’s Alicia Briggs. I’m…was…Dr. Kwon’s assistant.” She sighed. “Sorry. We’re all still shocked at the news.”
“Yeah.” Shocked wasn’t the word Curran would have used. Kicked in the nuts and left for dead fit how he felt better.
“I know he was your best friend.”
Curran nodded. “A man like that doesn’t come along too often. I’m proud to say he was my friend.”
Alicia gestured at the club’s interior. “Obviously, due to the state of things, I’m heading up the autopsy on this victim.”
Curran almost wanted to laugh. What would she say when she saw the brain? “Where’s the body?”
“Men’s room.”
Curran looked at her. She pointed. “Come on.”
They threaded their way past a host of uniforms taking statements from club workers who apparently didn’t speak much English. More crime scene techs took photos of the interior from various angles. The whir of camera motors, bright flashes of strobes, and din of a million voices made Curran’s head hurt. He almost felt claustrophobic.
