"Annie Levesque wasn't in this alone."
"Whoa, kiddo. It hasn't been determined that she was 'in' anything, yet."
"She killed one cop, and tried to kill two more, Sue. You figure she did that because she didn't like Fenton's aftershave?"
"Um. Okay, say you've got a point there. Well, we already figured there was some kind of conspiracy going on. That's why the Bureau's involved, remember?"
"The clock's ticking, Sue."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"The longer this goes on, the more kids are going to die."
"The investigation's not gonna stop just because you're cooling your heels down here in Quantico for a while. Fenton'll stay on it. Maybe I can find him another partner. Just for the interim. Maybe."
"Two 'maybes' means you can't really spare anybody, doesn't it?"
"Yeah. Yeah, fuck, it probably does. But Fenton's good, you know that."
"He's just one agent."
"Right. And if you were still there, it would be just two agents. You're good, too, kiddo. But you ain't no damn task force."
"I never claimed to be. But I'm... uniquely qualified for this investigation, Sue. It's very, very important that I be involved. Sue? You still there?"
"You're telling me this case is one of those."
"One of what?"
"Woo-woo stuff. Things that aren't supposed to happen, except they sometimes do."
"Yeah, I'm afraid so. It's one of those."
"Not to belabor the obvious, but--you're sure?"
"Yeah, I am. For reasons I don't want to go into right now, I am absolutely fucking positive."
"Sweet fucking Jesus on a goddamn bicycle."
"Don't blaspheme Sue. It's not becoming."
"Yeah, and fuck you, too Colleen. All right, listen."
"Yes?"
"Sometimes emails go astray in cyberspace, and nobody can explain why. Like, say, the email I send to the board members about your little incident. If it doesn't bounce back to me, I could reasonably assume they'd received it, but they might not even know it existed. Shit like that happens, sometimes."
"I know. I'm pretty sure it's all Bill Gates's fault."
"Probably. Anyway, that might work--for a while. But, here's the thing."
"What?"
"Your shooting, with attendant circumstances, is bound to make the local media. Hell, up there, it'll be a nine-day wonder. Biggest story since Farmer Brown's barn burned down."
"That's unkind--but, yeah, I expect you're right."
"If it stays local, that's not a problem. But if one of the wire services picks it up, it's sure to get into the Post or the Times. That happens, and the game is up, over, finito. Guys on the board will see it, and they're gonna start asking me why they have to hear about an agent-involved shooting, with fatality resulting, from the goddamn papers."
"Yeah, I understand. Well, I guess that's a chance we'll have to take. Assuming you're willing to take it with me. Sue? Hello?"
"You know, we've been having all kinds of trouble with the damn computer system down here, Colleen. I think this stuff was obsolete when Bill Clinton was still getting his dick sucked in the Oval Office. Files are getting misplaced; even the email is messed up. In fact, I think I better file a trouble report with IT. They'll probably get around to it by Christmas. Next Christmas."
"Thanks, Sue, I appreciate this. I mean, a lot."
"Thank me by stopping these bastards from killing any more kids."
"That's just what I had in mind. Wait--looks like Fenton's done giving his statement. He's waving me over and pointing at Annie's house. I think they're letting us inside."
"Then go and get your ass in there, girl."
"Yes, ma'am."
Tristan Hardwick had lived in Northeast Ohio for all of his twenty-eight years, including the four he spent earning his degree in Accounting at Kent State University. He had first been exposed to the occult as an undergraduate, courtesy of a remarkable young woman named Anya Preston he'd happened to sit next to in his Comparative Religion class. Years later, he would wonder if their meeting was really as accidental as it had seemed at the time.
The two of them exchanged only a few words, but Hardwick made her laugh at some witticism about their professor, who was late to class, as usual. The prof's habitual tardiness allowed Hardwick and Anya to have a number of five-minute conversations in the weeks to follow. Hardwick eventually found the courage to ask her out (courage being called for because she was what guys in those days called a "fox," and he was what everybody in those days called a "nerd"). They went to the new Martin Scorsese movie the first time, then the next week to the Brown Derby for dinner, and gradually one thing led to another.
But in this instance, "one thing led to another" does not refer to sex--although, beginning with their third date, Anya Preston was banging him stupid on a regular basis. Rather, their association led her to introduce him to some friends who, like Anya, were interested in the occult--especially black magic.
That, in turn, led to Hardwick being invited to some "gatherings" of a coven in Cleveland. These occasions consisted of a half-assed satanic ritual cribbed from books, followed by group sex involving all those present. Tristan Hardwick thought he'd died and gone to heaven--failing to realize that he was, in fact, headed rapidly in the opposite direction.
It was through the Cleveland coven that Hardwick fell under the spell of Morgan Godfrey. Godfrey did not associate much with the Cleveland people, viewing them, quite rightly, as dilettantes more interested in the sex than in the rituals that preceded it. But there was some contact between them, and Tristan Hardwick's name came up, more than once.
Finally, Godfrey had issued an invitation, making clear that Hardwick was under no compulsion, and must attend of his own free will. That itself might have raised red flags for some, but not for Tristan Hardwick, who was, in effect, star-struck. People at the coven spoke of Morgan Godfrey in hushed tones, and Hardwick had come to understand that Godfrey was something that the coven members would never be: The Real Deal.
It was on a Friday night illuminated by the full moon that Tristan Hardwick made his way to the ritzy Cleveland suburb of Chagrin Falls, a name whose irony he came to appreciate only later.
Hardwick was not seen back in Kent until Monday, and he refused to speak of whatever he had seen, or done, at Morgan Godfrey's elegant home. He said nothing of the obscene rites, the blood sacrifice, the eating of human flesh, or the being who had been summoned to the gathering.
Hardwick never talked about what that being had offered him, and the price he had agreed, by most solemn oath, to pay. But if the phrase "changed man" has ever had true expression, it was in Tristan Hardwick. After that weekend, he became cold and remote, and stopped attending the coven's weekly ceremonies. He showed no more interest in sex with Anya Preston. His sense of humor, for which he was well known among his friends, disappeared entirely. In time, he moved into Morgan Godfrey's home as a permanent guest--permanent, that is, until Godfrey introduced him to a man known only as Pardee. After that, Tristan Hardwick belonged to Pardee, body and soul. In the years that followed, Hardwick had performed, faithfully and well, a number of unpleasant tasks on behalf of his master. Then the day came when Pardee sent him back to Kent, with instructions to wait, and watch, and prepare.
Six weeks ago, Hardwick had learned exactly what he had been preparing for. He was given a task, and he carried it out without flinching. But he was just a little careless, leaving some of his DNA behind at the scene of his butchery. However, the police had been over-zealous, neglecting to obtain a necessary search warrant, and once the judge had ruled the key evidence inadmissible and the D.A. had grudgingly released him, Tristan Hardwick thought his troubles were over. And so they were.
Until the night, two weeks later, when the knock came at his door.
Not unlike Caesar's Gaul, all American college towns are divided into three parts. There's the campus itself, usually a sprawling mass of concrete and brick (
except in New England, where's it's usually wood, ivy, and rot), the jungle (where the students tend to reside and recreate), and the town (where the permanent residents live--usually as far away from the campus and the jungle as they can get).
Morris and Libby had to drive through part of Kent's jungle to get from the Shady Tree Motel to the part of town where Tristan Hardwick lived. Libby was navigating, Morris's laptop open in front of her.
"Two more blocks," she said, "then make a left, at that light up ahead. See it?"
"Got it." Morris drove the rental car slowly, to avoid hitting any of the students who were crossing Water Street whenever and wherever they wished, heedless of traffic.
"I'm sorry about the accommodations, Libby. I figured we could have done better than the Shady Tree."
"Ordinarily, we would have. According to the AAA website, there are several places in town that sound rather nice. But I see on Kent State's home page that this is some kind of big alumni weekend. Not surprising that all the good places are booked. Anyway, I'm not especially dainty. Each room at our place has a bed and a shower, and that's all I really need. If the bugs prove to be a problem, I'll put a warding spell around the bed--yours, too, if you want."
"I'll let you know, thanks. We'll just take a quick run past Hardwick's house, then go back to Roach Central. Maybe grab some sleep."
"I still don't understand what you're trying to accomplish with this... reconnaissance mission."
"Two things," Morris said. "One is to make sure he still lives there. Your witch sense will pick him up if he is, right?"
"It should, yes. That much evil would be hard to miss."
"The other thing is, I want to see if the place is under police surveillance."
"Why would it be? The case was thrown out, right?"
"Yeah, but cops really hate to lose--especially a case like this, with the murdered and mutilated kid. I wouldn't be surprised if they're keeping an eye on Hardwick, hoping that he'll try to do it again, so they can pounce. Hell, the cops might even be doing it off-duty, in their spare time. They got stung pretty bad on this case, Libby. Lots of bad press."
The Red Sea of students finally parted, and Morris had the car moving again--only to slam on his brakes a few moments later, as three young men, clearly intoxicated, crossed right in front of them. Morris tapped the horn, and one of the young men stopped, turned, and gave them the finger, before moving on.
"I don't suppose you could cast some kind of impromptu spell that would make that jerk's finger fall off," Morris said. "Or maybe his dick."
"No, sorry. White magic, remember? Can't hurt people with it, even those who deserve it. However..." She rolled her window down, watching the young men's progress, and waited. After three or four seconds, she stuck her head out, and in a voice that seemed to fill the street, yelled, "Fuck you, you dickless fucking asshole!"
The young man who had flipped them off was almost across the street by now. He turned to stare in amazement, but forgot to stop walking. He tripped over the curb and fell on his face, spilling the cup of beer he carried in the process.
Libby rolled the window back up as Morris accelerated. "There, see?" she said. "No magic involved. Well, hardly any. Just good timing. Feel better now?"
"Yes, considerably."
Libby turned in her seat to look back the way they had come.
"What?" Morris said. "He's not running after us, is he?"
Facing forward again, she said, "No. I was just looking to see if I could spot Hannah."
"You won't."
"Then how do we know she's really there?"
"She's there."
"You sound very certain, Quincey."
"I've worked with Hannah before."
"And done more than work, I gather."
"Pots and kettles, Libby."
"Ouch. Well, I deserved that, I suppose. Will it help if I say that I was quite drunk at the time?"
"There's nothing to help, Libby. What happened, happened. With you and with me, both. Ancient history."
They had gone another block when Morris asked, "With you, did she do that thing with her tongue that--"
"This is it. Left here, Quincey. It should be, yes, fourth house on the right."
They continued down the street slowly, but not so slow as to be obvious to any watchers. Morris was looking for people sitting in parked cars within sight of Hardwick's house, while Libby closed her eyes and took slow, deep breaths, letting her finely trained witch sense hear and see and smell for her.
Libby sucked in her breath and sat up very straight. "Goddess, stay between us and all evil," she intoned softly.
"What? What's wrong, Libby?" Morris kept the car moving as he scanned the environment for some threat that Libby might have perceived. "What just happened?"
When she spoke, Libby's voice shook. "I was prepared to sense some dark power from that place, but not a great deal of it, really. After all, Hardwick isn't an adept, as far as we know."
Morris kept turning to look at her, giving just enough attention to the road to avoid crashing.
"Yeah, so?"
"Quincey, the power coming out of that house is far beyond anything someone like Hardwick should be generating. It's huge, and black, and malevolent."
Morris drove for three blocks without speaking, then said, "Well, I reckon one of us ought to say it, and it might as well be me: what the fuck?"
"I think," Libby said, sitting back, "that we have been misinformed."
In fact, they had not been misinformed. The strong vibes of black magic that Libby Chastain was sensing did not emanate from Tristan Hardwick. Rather, they came from the man who, ten minutes earlier, had knocked on Hardwick's door.
Chapter 13
Tristan Hardwick had recently had his lightweight wooden front door replaced with a stout metal one that contained a peephole. He'd realized that the family of his young victim, and the family's friends, might not be as willing as Judge Nathan to consider the matter closed. Hardwick didn't want to have anybody kicking his door down, nor did he want to open it to some vigilante one night, and receive a blast of buckshot in the chest for his trouble.
But the man Hardwick could see through the peephole did not appear to be carrying a weapon, and he looked nothing like the family of the late Tommy Doyle. If the visitor was a salesman, or worse, another reporter, Hardwick would get rid of him quickly.
Opening the door, Hardwick said, "Yes?" He thought his brusqueness might be intimidating to the man on his porch. In this he was mistaken.
"Señor Hardwick?"
"Yeah, that's me. What do you want?"
"My name is Roderico Baca. I have been sent to you by a man we both know as 'Pardee.'"
After a few seconds' thought, Hardwick said, "All right," and stepped back to allow the man entry.
But his visitor remained standing at the threshold. "Are you inviting me inside?" he asked, formally.
"Yeah sure, whatever. Come in."
Only then did the man step into Hardwick's living room. Hardwick closed the door behind him and went over to where a couch, loveseat, and chair were arranged around a widescreen TV set. Standing in front of the couch, Hardwick made a gesture that encompassed the other two pieces of furniture.
"Please, sit down. Can I get you a drink?"
"Thank you, Señor, but no. Please, have one yourself, if you wish."
"Yeah, I think I will. Excuse me a minute."
From the kitchen, where he kept his booze, Hardwick could see that the man had settled upon the loveseat and sat down. Strange-lookin' dude. The man's coal-black hair hung down straight to rest on his shoulders. He wore what looked to Hardwick, an inveterate reader of GQ, like $2,000 worth of gray suit over his thin frame. The ensemble was completed by shiny black shoes, a tie that looked like it belonged in the Museum of Modern Art, and a shirt so white that it was almost hard to look at. Shirt and tie were separated by a gold collar pin, something Hardwick had heard of but never seen before, even in the pages of
Gentleman's Quarterly. The face above it was composed and thoughtful-looking, the way monks often look in the movies.
Hardwick, bearing a double Scotch, took a seat on the couch. "So, mister--I'm sorry, I'm lousy with names, always have been."
His visitor did not seem put out. "Baca." he said, "Roderico Baca." He gave his first name the Spanish pronunciation, the first syllable sounding like "road" instead of "rod."
"Right, got it. So, what does Pardee want from me, Mister Baca? Does he have another... assignment?" Hardwick didn't know how much this guy knew, or how far Pardee trusted him.
"No, Señor. Pardee feels that you have done more than enough. You will not be asked to abduct and murder any more children."
Hardwick almost flinched. He had never used such blunt language in thinking about the job, either before, during, or after. He had thought of "sacrifices," "harvesting organs," "getting material for the ritual," but never the terms his visitor had just used.
Hardwick cleared his throat and said, "All right, fine. So, what brought you all the way out here to see me? I assume you were with Pardee in Idaho, and that's quite a trip."
Baca smiled without showing any teeth. "In fact, I was in Santa Fe, New Mexico, when I heard from Pardee. So I have, indeed, come a long way. But my main purpose was not to call upon you."
"Oh?"
"Sí. There are some other visitors to this fair city, Señor Hardwick. Unlike myself, they did journey here specifically to... converse with you."
"Me? Oh, you mean about the, um--"
"The abduction, mutilation, and murder of a small child, one Thomas Doyle. Exactly. These people came here from Chicago earlier today. When Pardee determined where they were going, he sent me here, to prepare a suitable welcome for them."
"You got here first? From New Mexico?" Hardwick was frowning. "What'd you do, charter a private plane?"
"Not precisely, Señor Hardwick. But I did provide my own transportation." This time, Baca did reveal his teeth, and Hardwick found himself fervently wishing that he might never see that particular smile again.
Evil Ways Page 14
