Evil Dark

by Justin Gustainis

  It also helped that all the ones I shot were goblins. If I'd iced four humans – with two more courtesy of Sharkey – I'd have been with IA all night and into the next day. But nobody cares too much about a bunch of dead goblins. Maybe they should.

  After that it was McGuire's office, where at least I was offered a decent cup of coffee. The lieutenant considers himself a coffee gourmet. He's got a Braun coffee maker in his office, and a can of Maxwell House has never been anywhere near it. He orders these Jamaican Blue Mountain beans from someplace, grinds them at home as needed, and brings the result into work in sealed sandwich bags. He doesn't share it very often, and I don't blame him – that stuff is too good for the common people.

  Karl and I sat there with McGuire and the three of us tried to answer the latest Whiskey Tango Foxtrot question – why would a bunch of goblins want to kill me, and why did Sharkey, of all people, stop them?

  We were getting exactly nowhere when McGuire's desk phone buzzed. I knew he'd told Louise no calls, but she let this one through. A minute later, I knew why.

  McGuire mostly listened, saying "Uh-huh" a couple of times. Then he said, "Thanks, Homer, I appreciate it," and hung up.

  He looked at me. "I called in a favor Homer owed me and got him to rush a tox screen on one of the goblins – I told him any one of them would do. Looks like you were on the money, Stan. That little green bastard was wired up to his furry eyebrows. I'd be surprised if the others weren't exactly the same."

  "Meth," Karl said. "Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick."

  "I thought after Big Paul got killed" – that was mostly my fault, but I decided not to bring it up – "the State Police raided the goblins' little encampment out there by the city dump."

  McGuire nodded. "They did."

  "They were supposed to confiscate all that dumped cold medicine the gobs were using to cook with."

  "They did that, too," McGuire said. "And the DA told the Loquasto brothers – the city subcontracts dump operations to them – that they'd face criminal prosecution if cold medicine in any quantity was ever found there again. Dom and Louie believed him – they've got people checking every truck that goes in there now."

  "So, if there's no more cold medicine at the dump," I said, "how come a bunch of meth-head goblins were after my scalp tonight?"

  "Other people are still making meth," Karl said. "Here in the Valley and elsewhere. They must be – the profit on that stuff is huge."

  I looked at Karl, then turned to McGuire. "So, if the gobs didn't make it themselves, where'd they buy it?"

  It was quiet in the little office until McGuire said, "I figure they got it from whoever sent them to kill you."

  "Sent them?" I said, frowning. "I was assuming they just wanted payback for the goblin I killed in the liquor store."

  "That was a year and a half ago, Stan," McGuire said.

  "The boss is right, Stan," Karl said. "For gobs to hold a grudge that long would be like a squirrel remembering that you gave him some peanuts last fall. They're not real smart, haina?"

  "And here's something else to ponder," McGuire said. "How did those goblins get to your house from where they live, out near the dump? That's what – three miles?"

  I shrugged. "Some of them drive, even if they don't have licenses."

  "Yeah," McGuire said, "but what were they driving? I got the deputy chief to assign me some manpower, and they used a goblin-sniffing dog to check every parked vehicle for a radius of three blocks from your place. Not a whiff."

  I sat and thought about that. "So somebody got these little green fuckers wired on meth, drove them to my place, let them in through the side door of the garage, and told them to wait until I raised the door. Then he just drove away?"

  "Could be," McGuire said. "He might've just abandoned them, figuring that no survivors would be able to tell us anything useful, what with the meth and their natural stupidity."

  "Or maybe he was parked someplace where he could see your driveway," Karl said. "When you and Sharkey smoked all six of the gobs, he figured there was no reason to hang around any longer, and split."

  "Speaking of Sharkey," McGuire said, "that's something else that puzzles me – why did he intervene? I'm glad he did, mind you, but I can't figure his motivation."

  "Yeah, me neither," Karl said.

  "You two aren't exactly best buddies," McGuire said to me, "and Sharkey isn't known for his compassion. He doesn't just help people for giggles."

  "I've been thinking about that," I said. "You're right about the Shark – he doesn't do anything on impulse. The only explanation that makes any sense to me is – Mister Milo."

  "You mean the vic from the Radisson?" McGuire said. "I don't get it."

  "Milo was sent out here to take care of whoever's been making those snuff films, right?" I said. "When he and his ghouls didn't turn up anything, maybe he figured Karl and me were his best bet for finding the bad guys. So he hired Sharkey to follow us around until we identified the source, then the Shark could step in and do what he does best. Milo must have told him to make sure nothing happened to us in the meantime."

  "Yeah, but Milo's dead," McGuire said.

  "Doesn't matter," I told him. "Sharkey always gets paid up front, and he's got a strange sense of… professional ethics – strange, considering what he is, I mean. If he takes your money, he does the job. Period. He doesn't stop until the contract is fulfilled."

  "Sounds like you know this dude pretty well, Stan," Karl said.

  "Better than I ever wanted to."

  Karl looked like he was waiting for me to say more, but when I kept quiet, he didn't push.

  "All right, so maybe we know why Sharkey's acting like your guardian angel," McGuire said. "But what we still don't know is who he's guarding you from."

  "I'd say it's gotta be related to one of the cases we're working, but so far we haven't got shit on any of them. Suspicions and theories – that's it."

  "If somebody's trying to take you out, maybe that's a validation of your suspicions and theories," McGuire said.

  "Could be," I said. "And that reminds me – in all the excitement I didn't get around to telling you my latest theory – and it's a doozie."

  McGuire sat back. "I'm all ears."

  I told him my idea that the snuff films and murders of supes – and maybe a human, too – were all being carried out by the same people.

  When I'd finished, McGuire didn't say anything. He checked his coffee mug, dumped a mouthful of cold coffee into the wastebasket and poured himself a fresh cup.

  "It's a reach, Stan," he said at last. "Especially the part about the snuff films being part of this big Helter Skelter conspiracy. I don't see how they can get the public all upset if the torture murders are all underground – and that's exactly where they are."

  "They have to be sold on the sly," I said. "It's like kiddie porn – just possessing that stuff means you're going to jail, let alone selling it."

  "My point exactly," McGuire said.

  "Yeah, maybe you're right," I said. "Could be that whoever killed Milo just hates ghouls for some reason, and that's why he gave them special attention. Although I figure all the mutilation was post-mortem, which means it wasn't torture."

  "Post-mortem?" McGuire said. "How do you know that? The ME's report hasn't come out yet."

  "They weren't restrained," I said. "Nobody who's still alive is going to just lie still while you disembowel him, let alone cut his dick off."

  McGuire thought about that for a second. "Could be that your perp is extremely strong. Or maybe he had help, to hold the vics down while he cut on them."

  "There's something else to consider, too," I said. "Blood splatter."

  McGuire frowned at me. "What about it?"

  "There wasn't any," I said. "Or none to speak of, anyway. You cut somebody like that while his heart's still beating, blood's gonna spray all over the place. It'd be on everything. Plus, the vic is sure to struggle, which would increase the mess." I spread my hands. "I
saw the room, boss. No mess."

  "Sounds like you've proved your new theory," McGuire said. "But that doesn't make the big conspiracy true. You can't horrify people with this stuff if they don't know about it."

  "They'd know about it if they read it in the fuckin' papers," Karl said. We both stared at him.

  "Papers?" I said. "What fucking papers?"

  "Remember, Stan? I told you the other night. I got a call from this dude at the Times-Tribune, asking if I knew anything about snuff films."

  "You didn't say anything to me about this," McGuire said.

  "I didn't figure there was anything to say, boss. I told him snuff films were a myth, and not to bother me with that bullshit again." Karl shrugged. "End of story. Or that's what I thought at the time."

  "What was his name again?" I asked. "The reporter."

  "Mitchell Hansen," Karl said.

  "That's right, I remember now," I said. "He left a message with Louise last week for me to call him – I just tossed it. Haven't heard from him since."

  "Well, now." McGuire took a sip of coffee and put the cup down carefully. "I got a call the other night from a so-called journalist, asking me to comment about snuff films. I told him my comment was to stop wasting my time with fairy tales." He looked at Karl, then at me. "He said his name was Tod Solin, and that he worked for the People's Voice."

  We left McGuire's office more puzzled than when we had gone in – and that was saying something. If the local media had the snuff film story, how much did they have? Who had leaked it to them? And even if they figured out what was going on, how could they turn it into a news story without grossing out all their readers? Maybe that was the whole point of this – to make people sick to their stomachs and eager for payback against somebody, anybody.

  As we reached our desks, I asked Karl, "Did you talk to that detective in Chicago about those knife wounds?"

  "I haven't had the chance to track her down yet, but I'll do it now – as long as McGuire doesn't send us on another call."

  "Didn't get the chance? Our shift's half over – what've you been doing all this time?"

  "Well, uh…" If vampires could blush, I'm pretty sure Karl would have been.

  "Karl – come on, this is me, remember? I don't give a shit if you were buggering a goat on the front steps of City Hall."

  Karl shook his head. "That's not fair, Stan – it wasn't a goat, and, besides, we're just good friends. Anyway, those weren't the front steps. There's two side entrances, you know."

  "You crack me up, Karl. Now cut the crap. What have you been up to?"

  He wouldn't look at me. "Watching your house."

  "Watching my – what the fuck for?"

  "To make sure nobody came back and set any more traps for you while you weren't home. I figured one attempt on your life is enough for one night, even for a tough bastard like you."

  "But how did you–"

  "I was here when the OIT call came in. And once I found out the officer in trouble was you, I figured I'd better get over to your place, pronto."

  "McGuire OKed that?"

  "I didn't bother to ask."

  "Jesus, Karl, you took–"

  "Just let me finish, all right? When I got there, a couple of black-and-whites had already arrived. I could see that you were OK, and that a bunch of goblins weren't. I didn't figure you noticed me."

  "No, I didn't."

  "So, after a while," Karl said, "they take you away in a black-and-white, and Forensics does their thing, than a couple of ambulances cart off the dead goblins, then – nothing."

  "What do you mean, 'nothing'?"

  "I mean no cops stayed around to secure your house. Whoever sent those gobs could've come back and planted a fucking cobra under your welcome mat, and the first thing the department would know about it would be when somebody found your body. So I stayed in the yard and watched. Nothing happened, by the way."

  "Shit, man, I–"

  "I'm not done," Karl said. "McGuire finally got hold of the patrol commander, who agreed to send a couple of guys over to your place. When they got there, McGuire called me on my cell and said to get my ass back here. So here I am – with my ass intact, in case you didn't notice. Doesn't look like McGuire's too pissed at me, either. Maybe because he'd have done the same thing, if he'd thought of it."

  "Can I talk now?" I asked.

  "OK, as long as you don't make any fucking speeches."

  "No speeches. Just – thank you."

  He looked at me for a few seconds. "You're welcome."

  "So, are you gonna try to find that Chicago chick now?"

  "I'm on the case, Ace."

  "Somebody told me that Rachel Proctor is back from her conference. I'm gonna pay her a visit."

  "Maybe by the time you get back, I'll have some news from Chi-town."

  "Here's hoping."

  The office assigned to the department's Consulting Witch was on the floor below us. I took the stairs instead of the elevator. I'd been doing a lot of sitting tonight, with one thing and another. Of course, after those goblins had tried to kill me, sitting down had seemed like a real good idea.

  Rachel tends to work nights, for the same reason I do. Her door was open, but I knocked on the glass before walking in.

  Rachel's not a very big woman – five foot even and probably 105 soaking wet. Not that I've ever seen her soaking wet – I think she likes me, but not that way. She was wearing her thick auburn hair swept back in a ponytail, and she wore reading glasses that made her look like a schoolteacher – but the kind of schoolteacher who could turn you into a toad instead of giving you detention, if provoked.

  At my knock, she looked up from the thick old book she was reading and smiled. The smile seemed genuine – proof of her good nature, considering the kind of trouble I'd got her in some time back.

  "Hello, Stan," she said, pushing back her chair and standing.

  "Hey, Rachel. Welcome back from, uh…"

  "San Diego. The weather was beautiful." She looked at me more closely. "What's the matter, Stan? What happened?"

  "What makes you think anything special happened? I'm a cop – stuff happens around me all the time."

  "No, this is personal to you. Your aura's usually a strong turquoise, but there's some gray in it tonight. It's pulsing, which means a reaction to something recent."

  She sat down again. "I'm not trying to pry. If it's something you'd rather not talk about, that's up to you. But you can't hide your emotional state from me."

  Auras. Jeez. I sat down in one of her visitor's chairs. "I had a little trouble earlier tonight, is all. Some goblins tried to kill me."

  "My goddess, Stan! Are you all right? Physically, I mean."

  "They never laid a glove on me – or a knife, which is what they had in mind."

  Her brow furrowed. "Goblins aren't usually aggressive, unless attacked. I assume you weren't the one doing the attacking."

  "Not six of them, I wasn't. But you'd be surprised how aggressive goblins can get when they're pumped full of meth."

  "Meth." She tilted her chair back and studied me. "There was a problem with some meth-addicted goblins a couple of years ago, wasn't there? You asked me for a potion that would make them compliant."

  "Yup. Worked like a charm, too, if you'll pardon the expression."

  She looked at me some more. "That was the night Paul DiNapoli died."

  "Uh-huh."

  "You're still blaming yourself for that, aren't you?"

  "Who says I'm blaming myself?" I said that maybe a little louder than I'd intended.

  "You did. Just now. But it was already apparent."

  "Rachel, no offense, OK? But I didn't come here for psychotherapy, or whatever witches call it."

  She nodded calmly. "All right, Stan."

  "I'm actually here to warn you."

  "Warn me? About what?"

  "Somebody in the area has been abducting and burning witches," I said.

  "Yes, I know. The first one happened bef
ore I left. I read about the other one while I was away."

  "You checked out the Time-Tribune's online edition?"

  "No, the news was posted to a discussion board that I follow," she said.

  "Witches have discussion boards?"

  "Why not? Everyone else seems to. Sometimes technology is better than magic. But only sometimes."

  "Did you… know either of the victims?"