Evil Ways

by Justin Gustainis

"All right, so you're probably okay for a while. But if there's a black magician involved, they'll find you, in time. You can't stay there indefinitely."

  "I know. Moving from hotel to hotel will buy some time, but it doesn't solve the basic problem. I need to know who's doing this, Quincey--and why. Although if I can determine the first, the second may well explain itself. But I'm not equipped to do this on my own. I need an investigator."

  "You're probably right. But, like I told you, the FBI's got me in a vice, and they're squeezing pretty hard. Otherwise, I'd be on the next plane to NYC. Wait--have you considered our old buddy, Barry Love? This sounds like something that'd be right up his alley, or down his mean street, or whatever the expression is."

  "I've already called him, and his answering service says he's out of the country, date of return unknown."

  "Must be tracking down 'the weird shit' a long way from home. Damn it." Morris gave his reflection in the bathroom mirror a good, hard look. "All right, fuck the goddamn FBI. I'll be there tomorrow and we can--"

  "No, Quincey, I don't want you taking that kind of chance just because you're helping me. Somebody like this Fortner could be a dangerous enemy."

  "Yeah, tell me about it. I was in the guy's house, remember? But there's no way I'm letting you--"

  "I've been thinking about that while we've been talking. Why don't I join you, in L.A. or wherever you're going next? It might get me out of range of whoever's after me, and even if it doesn't, I'd feel better with you to watch my back. Assuming you're willing to put yourself in jeopardy."

  Morris grinned at her, or rather her manifestation. "Libby, for you I'd even put myself in Wheel of Fortune."

  "Always the smartass. Anyway, I might be able to help you out with your case, so it's a win-win, seems to me."

  "Yeah, me, too. Be just like old times. And once we get this business settled for Fenton, we can start actively finding out who's got it in for you, and then do something about it. Speaking of Fenton, I almost forgot to tell you: I met his partner, and she's one of your Sisters."

  "Really? That's very interesting."

  "Her name's Colleen O'Donnell, Irish as a pint of Guinness. Do you know her?"

  "Name doesn't ring a bell, but then, we're not all acquainted, Quincey."

  "Good point. I don't think Fenton knows, by the way."

  "Hmmm. It may be that she doesn't trust him, yet. How long have they been partners, did he say?"

  "No, but your buddy Van Dreenan didn't mention her when we met him last year, did he? Seemed like he was acting as Fenton's partner at the time."

  "Yes, of course. Well, I expect she'll let him know when the time is right. Unless circumstances force her hand."

  "And on a job like this, I wouldn't be surprised if they do. They're following the trail using the Bureau's resources, while I work what Fenton calls 'the occult side of the street.'"

  "Well, maybe we'll all meet in the middle, and find out what the heck is going on."

  "Could be that we will," Morris said. "Could just be."

  Fenton and O'Donnell were stuck in traffic on Wilshire Boulevard.

  Colleen shut off the engine. "May as well save some gas," she said. "Otherwise, the Director might have to request a supplemental budget appropriation just to get us back to the office."

  "Buy oil stock. I do." Fenton said. After a moment, he asked, "Any news?"

  "Some crime scene photos came in from Arkansas, where they found that kid on Tuesday. Or what was left of him." She moved her mouth around, as if tasting something sour. "I filed it with the other cases. They expect forensics results by the end of the week, and I can file those, too, for all the fucking good it will do."

  "Maybe Morris can turn something up that remotely resembles a lead."

  "Is this guy any good, Dale? I would have thought he was just some hustler, like that 'Ghost Whisperer' clown."

  "No, whatever else he is, he's no hustler," Fenton said. "He's been linked to some pretty strange shit, over the years. Seems to have a knack for it. And he's got this partner, or whatever she is, some woman named Libby Chastain. She claims to be a white witch."

  Colleen may have paused a little longer than necessary before she said, "Do tell. You've met her?"

  "No, but that South African cop I worked with last year--Van Dreenan--he knows her. She's got some interesting... talents."

  "You know, you never say much about that case," Colleen said. "Even though it sounds like it has a direct bearing on our current one."

  "My report's on file," Fenton said, sounding irritated. "You can read it, if you haven't already."

  "Oh, I have. And fascinating reading it makes, too. But it's got a lot of interesting... gaps."

  "Cecelia Mbwato, a black female, age unknown, and Snake Perkins, a white male, age thirty-six, were engaged in a series of murders and ante-mortem mutilations of male and female children," he said rapidly, as if reciting by rote. "They removed certain of their victims' bodily organs, which were then preserved using African herbs, to be used in some alleged magical ritual."

  "Yeah, all right, if you say so. But we're gonna have to talk about some of those gaps sooner or later. Seems to me--"

  When she fell silent, Fenton turned and looked at her. "What?"

  Colleen O'Donnell's eyes were vacant, as if the mind behind them was elsewhere. Finally, she asked, "What did you say about African herbs?"

  "Lab examined some of the organs the suspects had with them. They were in some kind of a case that was thrown clear in the crash that killed them. Mbwato, at least we assume it was her, had used some weird mixture of herbs and stuff from Africa to preserve the poor kids' organs until they could do... whatever... with them."

  "The organs have to be preserved, don't they? Rotting body parts are no good for any kind of black magic ritual."

  "How the hell do you know that?"

  "I've been reading up on it," she said. "Thing is, I remember something odd from one of the lab reports, about a substance that was found on one of the bodies."

  Fenton was still looking at her, but now his face contained a trace of something that had not appeared there in quite some time, and it looked like hope. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he said. "Get us the fuck outta here!"

  "Fuckin' A," she said, and reached down to turn on the siren.

  Chapter 5

  "Will a check be all right?" the woman asked, a little nervously. "I wasn't expecting you tonight, or I would have had cash on hand. I know it's what you prefer."

  "Cash is more convenient, but I'll take your check, Mrs. Younger," Hannah Widmark said. "It's my fault, not calling ahead."

  As always, Hannah wore black, from the rolled neck of her sweater to the steel-reinforced tips of her boots. No trace of makeup covered the long scar that traversed the left side of her face, from ear to chin.

  Mrs. Younger tore a check free and presented it. "Here you are," she said. "That's right, isn't it? I wouldn't want to cheat you out of any of your fee."

  Hannah glanced at the check before slipping it into a pocket. "It's fine, Mrs. Younger, don't worry." Something like a smile appeared, very briefly, on the marred but still beautiful face. "Nobody ever cheats me."

  At the door to her apartment, Mrs. Younger hesitated. "There's something I need to ask you before you go," she said.

  "What is it?"

  "That... creature that killed Robert..."

  "The vampire."

  "Yes, the vampire. Did he... suffer before he died?"

  "Suffer?" Hannah pursed her lips for a second, before saying, "Yes, Mrs. Younger, he suffered a great deal."

  An expression appeared on the older woman's face that would have done credit to an Apache maiden of 150 years ago, about to skin a prisoner alive. "Good," she said fiercely. "Good!"

  In the elevator, Hannah found herself in the company of a heavyset man in his late thirties. He wore too much cologne and appeared a little drunk.

  Looking over at Hannah, he said, "Nice outfit, honey. W
hat are you, some kind of dominatrix?"

  "No." Her voice held no inflection. She did not look at him.

  "So what's with the get-up, then? You a commando? That it? Or do you just go commando?" He seemed to think this was the funniest thing in the world. Hannah ignored him, until he made a very bad mistake.

  "Hey listen," he said, and put a hand on her shoulder.

  When the elevator door opened at the lobby a few seconds later, it revealed a middle-aged couple with a small dog on a leash.

  Hannah slipped past them with a polite, "Excuse me."

  But instead of entering the elevator, the two of them stood and gaped at the man who was slumped in one corner, moaning softly.

  "My God, what happened to him?" the husband asked.

  "He fell down and broke his arm," Hannah said over her shoulder. Then she walked onward and out, into the dark.

  Libby Chastain, now back in her own body, sat down at the hotel room's desk and opened her laptop.

  Not all of Libby's communications involved out-of-body experiences.

  She glanced at her watch and made a quick calculation. Garth Van Dreenan, of the South African Occult Crimes Unit, should be at work now. He didn't like to take personal phone calls while on the job, but had no objection to digital communication. She opened up her Yahoo Instant Messenger, selected a name from her long buddy list, and clicked to open a dialogue box.

  Libbywitch: Hi, Garth. Are you there?

  After ten or fifteen seconds, she received a response.

  Occultcop: Elizabeth! How nice to hear from you.

  Libbywitch: How've you been?

  Occultcop: Surprisingly good. I have met someone. A woman, I mean.

  Libbywitch: Cool! Are the two of you dating?

  Occultcop: That is not the term we use here, but I would say that we are seeing each other.

  Libbywitch: I'm glad for you. You deserve someone to love you, & vice versa.

  Occultcop: Thank you. But you never get in touch simply for social reasons, Elizabeth. So, now that the pleasantries have been exchanged, perhaps you should tell me what is really concerning you.

  Libbywitch: You see right through me. And you're not the first one today.

  Occultcop: ??

  Libbywitch: Sorry, never mind. I guess I was just postponing an unpleasant subject.

  Occultcop: It will likely not become more pleasant with the passage of time.

  Libbywitch: You're quite right. Quincey's been dragged into something, and I'm trying to help. Garth, someone is killing kids again. And taking their organs. While still alive.

  Occultcop: Jesus Gott.

  Libbywitch: And it gets worse. There appears to be more than one killer.

  Occultcop: Well, we know that the late Cecelia Mbwato and Mister Snake Perkins--may they both be burning in hell as we speak--worked as a team to commit their butchery. So this is not, unfortunately, unprecedented.

  Libbywitch: Yes, but that's not what I meant. It seems that there are different killers, operating in various parts of the country at the same time. Or so the FBI thinks.

  Occultcop: But the modus operandi is the same?

  Libbywitch: As far as I know, yes.

  Occultcop: When did the killings start?

  Libbywitch: Quincey says about two months ago.

  The line was silent for over a minute.

  Libbywitch: Garth? Are you still there?

  Occultcop: Yes. Sorry. Thinking.

  Libbywitch: Anything useful emerge?

  Occultcop: Perhaps. But I must ask you to indulge me in what an ancient philosopher would call dialectic.

  Libbywitch: All right, Socrates, fire away.

  Occultcop: Very well. We have a series of murders. For what purpose were they committed?

  Libbywitch: You know the answer as well as I do: to take some of the victims' organs.

  Occultcop: Ante mortem, correct?

  Libbywitch: Yes, the poor kids were still alive, according to the autopsy reports.

  Occultcop: And why would a person or persons do this? What would be the purpose to be served by these barbarous acts?

  Libbywitch: For use in a black magic ritual. The organs of children are very powerful talismans among those who follow the Left-Hand Path.

  Occultcop: How many organs, in all, have been taken?

  Libbywitch: I don't know. I suppose I'd have to see all the autopsy reports and add up the numbers. Quincey said that he had personally seen a series of jars containing eight hearts. What does the total matter, anyway?

  Occultcop: Bear with me, if you will. So we have multiple murders, committed by multiple perpetrators, all acting in concert, or so it would seem.

  Libbywitch: Yes, it looks that way.

  Occultcop: Why would any group of people want that many powerful objects?

  Libbywitch: To put together some kind of spell or ritual, and one requiring that much magical power is most likely going to involve something very big, and very nasty.

  Occultcop: Such as what?

  Libbywitch: I can't begin to imagine. The mind boggles.

  Occultcop: Very well, put that aside for now. There is also the matter of timing.

  Libbywitch: What about it?

  Occultcop: This coordinated effort began, you said, two months ago.

  Libbywitch: Yes, that's when the FBI started getting reports of bodies being found.

  Occultcop: And the killings continue still, ja?

  Libbywitch: I think Quincey said the FBI told him the most recent victim discovered was last week.

  Occultcop: If these murders had the same starting point, is it not reasonable to posit the same end point, as well?

  Libbywitch: Come again?

  Occultcop: When people work together, it means they have a common goal. Eventually, they expect to reach it.

  Libbywitch: And since they started together, more or less, their goal represents a shared time, place, and purpose.

  Occultcop: Very good, Elizabeth, Socrates, as well as Plato, would be proud of you. Time, place, and purpose. And if you can determine one of those...

  Libbywitch: It might lead us to the other two.

  Occultcop: Exactly. So it seems to me that you must decide which of those three threads shows the most promise, and proceed to unravel it. Perhaps the whole garment will thus be revealed. But there is one more consideration, Elizabeth.

  Libbywitch: What?

  Occultcop: You had best, I think, do it quickly.

  The FBI's Los Angeles field office had assigned their visitors from Quantico a temporary office that was, surprisingly, both spacious and well lit. As soon as she came through the door, Special Agent Colleen O'Donnell made a beeline for the desk where her laptop waited.

  "Should have brought this with me," she said to Fenton as the computer booted up, "but I didn't figure I had diddly-squat to show you, so there was no point. Okay, here we go."

  She had opened up the case file concerning the murder of Eric Benteen, aged eleven. She quickly scrolled down to the autopsy report.

  "Bingo! I was right. Here--check this out."

  Fenton looked over her shoulder, as she used the cursor to indicate the place she was interested in.

  "Carbonic acid?" he muttered. "What the hell's that?"

  "Having spent two dreary years as a Chem major in college, I believe I can answer that question, Special Agent," she said brightly, and swiveled her chair to face him. "Carbonic acid, that is, H2CO3, is the residue left when CO2 in solid form degrades to assume its normal gaseous state."

  Fenton looked at her. "Okay, Colleen, you've had your fun. You're brilliant, duly stipulated. Now will you fucking speak English?"

  "If you insist, Dale. Carbonic acid, which was found in the vic's body cavity, is not a natural product of human biochemistry. Rather, it's what you get when dry ice melts."

  "Dry ice." Fenton was stroking his chin.

  "Uh-huh. When you started talking about how Cecelia what's-her-name was preserving the organs she
took with magic African herbs, or something, it got me thinking that these killers have to preserve the organs, too--at least, until they use them in whatever obscene ritual they perform."

  Fenton nodded slowly. "They're using dry ice to preserve the organs, right from where they're harvested at the scene."

  "Well, we don't know if all of them are doing it. I'll have to go back and check all the autopsy protocols to find out. But it sure looks like this motherfucker is using it."

  "What would the good nuns say, if they could hear your mouth now, Colleen?"

  "With any luck, they'd all have heart attacks and die on the spot. Well, except for Sister Mary Alan, who was almost human. But we digress."

  "Yeah, all right." Fenton tilted his chair back to study the ceiling. "Dry ice is pretty hard to make at home, isn't it?"

  "Damn near impossible. You need temperatures that the average kitchen's freezer can't begin to approach. You also need some kind of pressurized tank, and you can't get those at Wal-Mart, last I heard."

  "So, somebody needs a source of dry ice. Who'd make that? Or maybe have on hand a supply that they got someplace else?"

  "Let's find out," she said, and turned back to the computer.

  Less than five minutes later, Colleen had created a new file, and started cutting and pasting information into it. "It's used to keep frozen stuff cold during transport, when you don't have a refrigerated truck available. Ice cream and frozen food, mostly. And here's one I didn't know about--dry ice blasting."

  Fenton was reading over her shoulder again. "Cleaning residue from heavy equipment. Dry ice pellets fired under pressure takes the gunk right out. Huh."

  "Yeah, the things you learn in this job. Next time I play Trivial Pursuit, I'm gonna kick ass."

  Fenton sat down again and waited, as patiently as he could, while Colleen worked the computer.

  "Hey, looks like we caught a break," she said. "I just checked back where this poor kid's body was found. I was afraid that he was one of the vics from Chicago, or one of the other big urban areas. Take us forever to track down dry ice users there."

  "I take it such was not the case," Fenton said.