Known Devil

by Matthew Hughes

“Vampire soldiers,” I said.

  “That’s what the Family consists of now.” He gave me a thin smile. “With a few notable exceptions.”

  “Vampire soldiers,” I repeated, then said, “Vampires… wouldn’t be killed in an explosion, no matter how powerful it was.”

  Loquasto stared down at his drink, as if he hoped to find the answers floating in the cheap glass along with the ice cubes. “Guaranteed eyewitnesses. Very clever.”

  He looked up at me. “Who’s got it in for gnomes so badly that he wants to frame them for an explosion that’s killed…” He pulled out his smartphone and tapped the screen a few times. “Eleven people so far, with four others on the critical list. Who hates gnomes that much?”

  “I think you’re being too narrow in your thinking, Counselor.”

  His eyebrows rose slowly. “Am I indeed? Then please enlighten me.”

  Ignoring the sarcasm, I said, “Could be that whoever’s behind it isn’t just trying to set up gnomes. Maybe his target is the whole supe community.”

  One thing I liked about Loquasto – one of the few things, actually – was that you didn’t have to draw him a diagram.

  “The Patriot Party,” he said softly. “I know politics is a dirty business, but that’s just… absurd.”

  I gave him half a smile. “Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’ve heard of placing bugs in someone’s campaign headquarters, or breaking into a psychiatrist’s office to look for dirt on your opponent, or using magic to alter the other side’s billboards and campaign signs, but this…”

  He took a big gulp of his bourbon. “And it isn’t a national campaign, or even a state-wide one. They’re not playing for the White House, or the Governor’s mansion in Harrisburg. This is all to win an election in Scranton?”

  “Yeah, I know. A buddy of mine named Ned, who teaches at the U, once told me, ‘The reason that academic conflicts are so vicious is because the stakes are so low.’”

  Loquasto used one hand to make an impatient gesture. “Very clever, I’m sure,” he said. “But it makes no sense in this context. We’re not talking about stealing someone’s research, or messing up an assistant professor’s tenure file, or some such nonsense. Eleven people are dead, Markowski, including two children who were sitting in their parents’ apartment, watching TV. Nineteen more, wounded. Immense property damage. All so a bunch of proto-fascists can gain political control of Scranton?”

  “Doesn’t make a lot of sense, when you put it that way,” I said.

  I was suddenly distracted by a man’s voice on the other side of the big room saying loudly, “Yeah, well, fuck you, too!” I looked over and watched a couple of half-drunk off-duty cops get into a shoving match that was quickly broken up by other guys sitting nearby.

  “Unless it’s supposed to be some kind of pilot project,” Loquasto said, “in which case I fail to see–”

  I looked back at him. “Wait – what did you say?”

  He gave me an annoyed look. Probably wasn’t use to being interrupted, especially by his social inferiors. “What I said was it might be some kind of pilot project, although why anyone would choose Scranton to run it in is quite beyond me. Why – what’s the matter?”

  “That phrase, ‘pilot project’. Somebody else said that to me, a while back.”

  “Were they talking about our little problem?”

  “No, probably not,” I said.

  “Then I suggest we stick to the matter at hand.”

  “OK with me,” I said. “Does the matter at hand include John Wesley Harding?”

  I don’t know what I expected, throwing the name at him from out in left field like that, but I didn’t get anything dramatic. He didn’t gasp, or go pale, or spill his drink. All he did was blink, twice, as soon as I’d said Harding’s name. It looked like the tip Karl had received about a certain Boston hit man had been true.

  Loquasto took a sip of his bourbon with hands that were as steady as when he’d first sat down. He lowered the glass, gave me a tiny smile, and said, “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that individual, Sergeant.”

  “Uh-huh. A usually reliable source told me that Calabrese has brought in a life-taker from Boston by that name.”

  Loquasto tried for a casual shrug. I have to admit, he pulled it off pretty well – but then, he would.

  “Then perhaps you need to find some new sources,” he said.

  “Or maybe you need to remember that fucking with me is not in your best interest – yours, or Calabrese’s.”

  Loquasto sat back and looked at me for a second or two. The shrug he gave me this time was less elegant and more on the irritated side.

  “Let’s say, for the sake of discussion, that your information is correct,” he said. “What business is it of yours?”

  “It’s my business if this war between your boss and the Delatassos is about to get a whole lot worse.”

  “Worse than what happened on Moosic Street last night?”

  “I thought we were operating on the assumption that the Delatassos had nothing to do with that,” I said.

  “I never operate based on assumptions, Sergeant. I much prefer facts.”

  “Yeah? OK, here’s a fact for you.” I leaned forward across the table. “Just because I cut Calabrese a little slack once doesn’t mean he should start expecting a free pass from me. Not now, not ever. If Calabrese – or anybody who works for him – gets caught shooting up the streets, then he’s going down. One way or another.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass that information along,” he said in a bored voice, as if I’d just told him it might rain tomorrow.

  Loquasto began sliding out of the booth. “This has been an illuminating conversation, Sergeant Markowski,” he said, and stood up. “Perhaps we’ll have another one sometime. Do have a good evening.”

  He turned and walked to the door without looking back. I waited, half-expecting to hear gunfire or another explosion as a sign that the Delatassos had tracked him here. But the street outside remained quiet.

  At least he’d paid for his own booze.

  My conversation with Loquasto had taken longer than I’d planned, which meant that Karl beat me in to work. As I pulled out my desk chair, I saw that he was busy on his computer – whether paperwork or another game of “Angry Bats” I didn’t know.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey, yourself,” he said. “Don’t sit down – Rachel wants to see you.”

  “Rachel Proctor?”

  “I don’t know any other Rachel around here,” he said. “Do you?”

  “Guess not. What’s she want?”

  “Didn’t say. But I’m pretty sure that she’s down in her office now.”

  “OK, I’ll go see what’s up. Buzz me if we get a call to go out, will you?”

  “Ten-four on that, Sergeant.”

  Normally I’d walk the two flights down to Rachel’s office, but I decided that the elevator would make my head hurt less than bouncing on the stairs. I was pushing the button for Rachel’s floor when it occurred to me that Karl hadn’t once looked up from his computer during our brief conversation. What was his problem?

  Rachel’s office door was open and I could see she was at her desk, writing something on a pad. She looked up at my knock.

  “Hi, Stan.”

  “Hi, Rachel. Karl said you wanted to see me about something.”

  She hesitated a moment before speaking, and I thought, Why the fuck is everybody in this place acting weird tonight?

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said, finally. “Come on in.”

  As I approached, I saw that the usual clutter had been cleared away from the top of her desk. A clean white cloth had been dropped over it, and I could see that Rachel had laid out there some items of we laymen like to call “magic stuff”.

  What looked like a perfectly round circle had been drawn on the cloth in some kind of orange ink or paint. Inside the circle was a squat yellow candle, unlit. Two small ceramic
bowls held small amounts of powder – red in one dish, blue in the other. In between the bowls was a small bottle with an ornately carved stopper. It contained a clear liquid with what looked like tiny flakes of metal floating in it. Next to the bottle was a small knife with a handle that might have been ivory, or maybe white bone. Its four-inch blade was shiny and looked very sharp.

  “What’s all this stuff?” I asked her.

  “It’s for an experiment I’m conducting,” she said.

  “Something to do with Slide?” I’d given her some samples to work on, although neither one of the dishes contained any of the stuff, far as I could tell.

  “Not directly,” she said. “Bear with me a few moments, will you?”

  She lit the candle with a disposable lighter – not exactly a magical implement, but still the modern equivalent of the traditional flint and steel.

  “OK, now,” she said. “Watch closely.”

  So I stood there and looked on as she mixed the powders together by pouring them back and forth from one bowl to the other. I suppose the number of passes she made had some magical significance, but I didn’t count them. She chanted softly the whole time, in a language that I vaguely recognized as ancient Greek but didn’t understand. You could even say that it was all Greek to me.

  When the powders had been mixed to Rachel’s liking, she removed the stopper from the bottle and poured the liquid into the bowl. “Now,” she said,” looking up at me, “time for your contribution, Stan.” She picked up the little knife. “I’d like a single hair from your head.”

  My first reaction was wariness – but that was just habit. Give a black witch a bit of your hair, fingernail clippings, even some spit – anything that’s an integral part of you – she can end up owning your soul.

  I had to remind myself that this was Rachel, certified practitioner of white magic, trusted consultant to the police department and – so I liked to think – a good friend, despite all the trouble I’d gotten her into in the past.

  Hoping she hadn’t noticed my momentary hesitation, I said, “Sure, no problem. What’ve you got in mind, anyway?”

  “I’d rather not say right now, Stan. It could spoil the spell. But I’m pretty sure you won’t be displeased with the result.”

  I shrugged, which sent another jolt of pain through my head. I was going to have to train myself to stop doing that, at least until my lump finally faded away.

  “OK, if you say so,” I told her. “But I can just yank one out for you if you want – you won’t need to cut it off with that thing.”

  “I’m afraid use of the knife is part of the ritual,” she said. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

  “Go on, then.” I learned forward – but for the sake of my head, I did it slowly.

  She was as good as her word. It took just a second or two before she said, “Got it, thank you.”

  I straightened up and saw that she held a single strand of hair between her fingers. As I watched, she dropped it into the bowl containing the powder and liquid. Then she used the knife blade to carefully stir the mixture, chanting softly the whole time.

  After a while, she picked up the bowl and carefully poured off the small amount of remaining liquid, leaving her with a purple-colored paste.

  “Good,” she said. “Now, Stan, would you take your sport coat off, please?” She pointed to a nearby chair. “You can put it over there, if you like.”

  I gave her a look, but the pleasant expression on her face didn’t alter. So I turned away, unbuttoned my jacket, and slipped it off. This is Rachel, dummy. Just relax – whatever she’s doing, everything’s gonna be fine. Probably.

  I wished my mind hadn’t felt the need to add that last word, but I’ve learned that there are damn few certainties in life. Anyway, “probably true” is the standard most of us use for almost everything we do.

  I folded my jacket and draped it over an arm of the chair, and when I turned back around Rachel was right there, standing less than a foot away. She’d come up behind me, and I’d never even known she was there.

  Getting careless, Markowski. That could get you killed, one of these nights.

  “Rachel, what’re you–”

  “Hush,” she said, placing her left hand on my shoulder.

  Given the height difference between us, Rachel needed to tilt her head back quite a ways to look me in the eye, and that’s what she did now as she said, “Kiss me, Stan.”

  “Come on, is this some kind of–”

  “No questions. Just kiss me.”

  Since I was male, straight, and not insane, I did what she asked, even though bending my head forward like that hurt like a bastard.

  My God, her lips were sweet. I’ve kissed a few women over the years – not as many as I would’ve liked to, but still – and I’ve never had a woman’s lips pressed against mine that tasted and felt like Rachel’s.

  The small part of my mind that was not reveling in the sensations my mouth was receiving started wondering why Rachel was still keeping her right hand down by her side. As if bidden by my thoughts, her right arm suddenly came up, the hand reaching for the back of my neck.

  Then that part of my mind still capable of rational thought remembered the knife she’d been holding a few moments ago. If you hit the right spot at the base of the skull, right where it joins the spine, you can kill a man with a knitting needle, let alone a razor-sharp blade.

  I could have died, right at that moment – and if it been Rachel’s intention to kill me, that’s exactly what I would have done. But instead of the knife, what I felt on the back of my head was Rachel’s bare hand – which she then pressed, very hard, against that throbbing lump that had been making my life so damn miserable.

  In the space of half a second, the pain raced up the scale from “pretty damn bad” through “fucking awful” to reach a level of agony that would have impressed even the head torturer for the Spanish Inquisition.

  But before I could even scream, the anguish just… stopped. It didn’t fade gradually, which is what I’m used to. Instead, it was as if somebody had found the pain switch on my skull and flicked it to “Off.”

  That was when Rachel stepped back, a little breathlessly. I saw now that her right hand was smeared with some of the purple paste that she’d made up in the bowl. That meant a glob of it was probably smeared on the back of my head, but I was in no position – or mood – to complain.

  “You…” I began, but couldn’t think what to say next. I tried again. “You did… something…”

  “Yes, I did,” Rachel said with a grin. “Feel the back of your head, Stan. Go ahead – the pain won’t return, I promise.”

  I put my hand back there, felt what had to be some of the purple paste. It was cool on my fingers, and gritty. What I didn’t feel was the lump on my skull that had been put there by a gun butt belonging to a recently deceased thug from Philadelphia.

  I just looked at Rachel, whose grin was still in place. Finally I took my hand away from the back of my head and used it to dig around in my pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the goop away.

  “You used a spell,” I said. My grasp of the obvious was not reduced at all by my recent ordeal. “A healing spell.”

  “Well, Karl said you were in a lot of pain, and too damn stubborn to take some time off in order to heal. He asked me to see what I could do to help you out.”

  She went back behind her desk and used the cloth covering it to wipe the remaining magical goop off her hand. “There’s no magic I’ve ever heard of that would make you less pigheaded, so I figured the only alternative was to heal your injury.”

  “What I know about healing spells,” I said, “they’re not something you can just pull out of the air.”

  “Quite right,” she said. “I’ve been working on this one most of the day.”

  “Not to sound ungrateful – because I’m not, believe me –but I hope McGuire doesn’t find out you spent your time working on that instead of the stuff they pay you for.”

>   “Whether I was wasting the city’s money depends on your point of view, Stan. One could make the case that I’ve performed a signal service for the Occult Crimes Unit by restoring one of its most valued officers to full capability.”

  “Most valued?” I asked. “Really?”

  The grin made another appearance. “Well, somebody must think so. Karl might – on your good days, anyway.”

  “Do you think we could sit down?” I said. “I’m feeling a little… I dunno… lightheaded.”

  “That should pass pretty quickly,” she said. “But, sure, have a seat.”

  I moved my sport coat off the arm of the chair and flopped down. Rachel blew out the candle and sat down behind her desk.

  “Would you like a bottle of water? You look like you could use some hydration.”

  I hadn’t realized that I was thirsty until she said that, but now I felt parched. “That’d be great – thanks.”

  She swiveled in her chair and produced two plastic bottles of water from the mini-fridge behind her. When she gave me one, I cracked the top and raised the bottle in her direction. “Here’s to… I don’t know. Witchcraft, I guess.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” she said, and did.

  That water was the second-sweetest thing I’d tasted since coming into Rachel’s office tonight. After I’d had a couple of long swallows, I asked her, “So why the subterfuge? Why not just say, ‘Get your ass down here, Stan – I’ve got a cure for your headache’?”

  “I was afraid you’d go all macho and say that you could handle the pain just fine, thank you very much, and you didn’t need anybody casting spells to make you feel better.”

  “What made you think I’d react like that?”

  “We’ve known each other how long, Stan? Five years?”

  “Yeah, more or less.”

  “That’s why.”

  “Oh.”

  “I didn’t want all the work I spent preparing this spell going to waste, just because you were suffering from a case of testicular poisoning.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it put quite that way, but maybe you’ve got a point” I said. “OK, that explains why you didn’t tell me. But what was up with that kiss?”