Evil Ways

by Justin Gustainis

  "That, or something worse." Pardee brought the cart to a gentle stop.

  "Here's the main altar, which you've seen from the house. I don't think you've had a good look at it from ground level, yet."

  Grobius took in the stone steps leading up to the central platform, on which sat a construction that might well have served as a table for the gods, especially if the gods were messy eaters. Symbols were carved into the altar and surrounding stones.

  "Is this marble?" Grobius asked.

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Italian, from the Carrera Quarry, the one that Michelangelo used. As I've told you more than once, we have to go first class if we are to welcome such a distinguished guest."

  Thirteen feet beyond the altar was an elaborate circle painted on the marble. It was surrounded by other painted symbols, most of which Grobius didn't recognize.

  "That's where he will appear?" he asked Pardee.

  "Exactly. He will be confined within that circle, of course. I have no doubt he will be willing to do my bidding."

  "What if he gets out of the circle?"

  "He will not." Pardee might have been stating the law of gravity.

  "How can you be so certain?"

  "Because I have researched this ceremony for years, and I have been a practitioner of the Art for many years more. He will not escape, I can assure you."

  Grobius looked around at the huge, elegant, and expensive structure.

  "I will trust in your judgment," he said. "You've never let me down before, Pardee."

  "Nor will I this time."

  Then, after an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation, Grobius said, "You're sure he can cure me."

  "Without doubt. With the power he possesses, he can cure any illness, if he has a reason to."

  "And... extend my life, indefinitely?"

  "Indefinitely, yes. Eternally, no. Eternal life, sad to say, is not possible on this plane of existence, according to conditions laid down by G... the one who made it. But five hundred years, six hundred years is not impossible. I have known him to grant this boon to others."

  "Well, I suppose that will have to do." The old man essayed a crooked smile. "As long as you're satisfied with the arrangements."

  "I am."

  "Wait--didn't you say something about sacrificing one of the white witches, as the capstone of the Ceremony?"

  "I did, and that is still my intent," Pardee said. "I have reason to believe the one I have chosen for that honor will be available very soon now."

  "And that will guarantee success?"

  "In the Art, guarantees are hard to come by. But a great deal of power will be brought to bear Wednesday night, more than has ever been concentrated to one end before, I believe."

  "The Devil, you say." Once again, Grobius chuckled at his own wit. This time Pardee joined in, with what seemed to be genuine amusement.

  "And if after all this, it fails..." Grobius was not laughing now. "There will be the Devil to pay."

  "Indeed, sir. There will, indeed."

  Morris and Fenton had talked on the phone at some length that morning, agreeing on how they would divide their labor, and it was evening before they spoke again. Each had been busy, and so had their partners.

  "Grobius is almost a caricature," Fenton said. "The Reclusive Zillionaire. Like Howard Hughes, but without the foot-long fingernails."

  "Yeah, I saw that movie," Morris said.

  "Even Google hardly knows this guy," Fenton said. "I got like twelve hits off his name, and they all link to brief mentions in articles published over the years. I thought rich people were always sponsoring charity events, getting their faces on the society pages."

  "I think maybe it's the other way around. Those who do the charity stuff are the ones we hear about. Those who don't want publicity are able to buy a lot of privacy. Just how rich are we talking about, do you know?"

  "I talked to a guy I know at Treasury. He did a little digging around over there, but they haven't got much about Grobius either. My guy says that's because his holdings are so spread out, and they involve so many holding companies and shit like that, nobody outside the operation, and probably damn few inside it, knows what's Mister G's and what isn't."

  "Fella's like Keyser fucking Söze," Morris said.

  "Yeah, and like Keyser, there's no official evidence to connect Grobius to anything illegal. The guy's either real clean or real careful."

  "Libby and I called a lot of the people we know who are involved in the more esoteric side of things. Grobius's name rang a couple of bells, but small ones. There's a rumor going back maybe five years, that Grobius was sick with something lingering but fatal. I don't know if it was AIDS, or what. The docs apparently told him to make out his will, so he went looking to the magical community for help."

  "There's nothing illegal about that, Morris. It's even kind of understandable. I mean, if you're looking the Reaper right in the eye, and you've got a bunch of money that's no good to you when you're dead, you'll try anything that offers hope--Laetrile, crazy diets, and maybe magic."

  "Yeah, but don't forget, there are two kinds of magic, white and black. Libby says that neither one can cure a fatal illness. Prolong your life a while--maybe. Cure you--no. But there's a difference between the two sides."

  "Which is..."

  "White magicians don't lie about what they can accomplish. Black ones sometimes do."

  "Black ones like Pardee, maybe."

  "Uh-huh, that had occurred to me."

  "That still doesn't explain the dead kids with the missing organs, Morris."

  "No it doesn't... except..."

  "What? Except what?"

  "Well, shit. I had an idea, but lost it in the fog of sleep deprivation. I'll let you know if I find it again. But there's something else, Fenton. Remember, I told you what Hannah's buddy Frank said: something big and nasty is supposed to be going down in North America on Walpurgis Night, which coincides with the full moon, this year."

  "There was a time when I would've said 'occult bullshit' to that, but I think I'll hold that opinion in abeyance for now."

  "Smart man. Thing is, Libby and I both got confirmation from some of our sources. There's a lot of stirring among the followers of the Left-Hand Path lately, and some of them are talking about a big deal coming up on the thirtieth."

  "Which is two fucking days from now."

  "Which is precisely two fucking days from now. But one of the guys I talked to had also heard the name of a place that's been associated with these revels."

  "And Colleen accuses me of milking stuff. Just tell it, will you?"

  "Coeur d'Alene, Idaho."

  There was silence on Morris's phone.

  "Fenton? Hello?"

  "Yeah, sorry. 'Coeur d'Alene' rang the chimes. I was just checking my notes, wait... yeah here it is. Morris..."

  "I'm here."

  "Grobius has a place in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Big estate, apparently."

  "Well, fuck my ass and call me Shirley."

  "Say what?"

  "Just an expression."

  "Something else I'm lookin' at, that's interesting about this estate. They only started building it five years ago. That was about the time that Grobius supposedly took sick, isn't it?"

  "You know, I wonder if Libby can do a scrying of Grobius's place in Idaho, see if there's anything there besides cows."

  "What the fuck, man, go for it. I know Libby has done some pretty impressive stuff in the past. Go on, ask her."

  "I will, as soon as she gets back. The Sisterhood is having a... meeting, I guess you'd call it, supposed to start in a little while."

  "She gonna be back tonight?"

  "Oh yeah, couple of hours, max. It's kind of like a conference call. Say, is your partner there with you?"

  "Colleen? No, she's lying down for a while. She's dealing with some shit that happened this morning. Asked me not to disturb her for a while. Why?"

  "Nothing important. Thought I remembered where I might've met
her, some years back, and I wanted to ask her about it. It'll keep."

  "Okay. If Libby can do the scrying, let me know what she turns up, even if it's nothing but cows. I just won't put the scrying stuff in my report for the Bureau."

  "Yeah, I'll call you either way. But what do we do if she can't make it work?"

  "Beats the pure fuck out of me."

  Libby Chastain checked the time and saw she had ten minutes until the Circle would form. As she always did on these occasions, she went into the bathroom to take a simple precautionary measure. Then she made sure her hotel room's door was triple locked, and that the wards she had placed there earlier were still in place and functioning. Quincey Morris was in the adjoining room, the connecting door closed but not locked, and he had promised to remain there until Libby was back in her body again.

  She lay on the bed, loosened her clothing a little to make sure she would remain comfortable, and closed her eyes. Libby began to repeat in her mind the mantra she had been taught years ago, while seeing in her mind's eye the image of a circle. She needed to focus on keeping that circle perfectly round, perfectly round...

  "Greetings, Sisters, and may the peace of the Goddess, and the love of the Earth, our mother, dwell in your hearts." Eleanor Robb sat at the head of a long conference table, in a luxuriously appointed boardroom. The carpet beneath Libby's feet was beautiful and wonderfully soft. Sunlight streamed gently in from several windows, and yet none of it shone in anyone's eyes. The air held just the slightest odor of sandalwood, and from somewhere came the music of a beautifully played Spanish guitar, just loud enough to be audible.

  All of this was an illusion, of course, created by Eleanor Robb. Her predecessor, Jamie Carruthers, had favored sun-dappled glades with a brook bubbling in the background. The physical bodies of the Sisters sitting around the polished table were also illusions. They had brought their spiritual essences together in a place where they could speak, hear, and exchange information, blessings, and love. When they returned to their corporeal bodies, they would remember everything that transpired here.

  "Sisters," Eleanor Robb said solemnly, "many of you know something of the sad news that brings us together, but perhaps few of you know all of it. It is my sad duty to report to you that eight of our number have been taken from us within the past few months, all apparently at the behest of a single mind. Further, three others are missing and must also be assumed to have gone on to the next life. Sister Rachel will read the names of the deceased, for whom we will offer prayers, both now, and daily, as long as each of us shall live."

  The names were read, tears were shed, prayers offered, reminiscences shared. Then, after a time, Eleanor spoke again. "Our purpose must be not only to mourn the dead, but to protect those of us who remain. We must determine who is responsible for these evil acts, and why, and what countermeasures should be taken. Although our commitment to the White forbids us the use of our power to commit physical violence, except in the most extreme circumstances, these murders are also civil crimes, and it may be that they can be punished by the civil authorities. But first, we must know who is doing this to us. Can any of you shed light on this mystery?"

  Libby did not wish to seem importunate. Self-effacement was one of the Sisterhood's values. But when none of the others came forward, Libby stood, and waited to be recognized.

  "Sister Elizabeth," Eleanor Robb said immediately, with a touch of relief in her voice. "I had hoped that you might be able to offer insight into the nature of these depredations."

  "I can, Sister. And as the saying goes, 'It ain't pretty.'"

  Morris was curious to see which particular hand basket the world was going to hell in today, so he turned on the TV and watched the local eleven o'clock news. When it was replaced by The Tonight Show, he decided to check on Libby. She'd said the nine o'clock confab (as Morris kept thinking of it) would be over in about two hours, but she had yet to stick her head through the connecting door to let him know that she was here in spirit, as well as in body.

  He knocked at the door gently, then a little more loudly. "Libby?" Nothing.

  Morris opened the door a foot or so. "Libby?" More nothing. Of course, if she was still taking part in the confab, that was to be expected, since the bed would contain only her lifeless form. But still...

  "Libby, I'm coming in, so if you're not decent, now's your chance to cover it up."

  Morris waited a few seconds, then pushed the door slowly open.

  Libby Chastain's body, lifeless or otherwise, was not on the bed.

  Morris listened for the sound of the shower running. Silence from the bathroom. He went and checked, anyway--the bathroom door was open, the little room dark. He flicked on the light. No Libby.

  It was highly unlikely that Libby would "return" from the confab, and just leave through the room's main door, but he looked around for a note, for anything that would give him a hint of where she'd gone. Nada.

  Then it occurred to him to check the door itself. It was triple-locked, and two of those locks could only be engaged from inside the room. He also saw that Libby's magical wards were still in place on and around the door.

  A sudden thought chilled him, and he quickly went over to the window. They were on the ninth floor. If someone had managed to steal inside, and slip her limp body out the window...

  Apparently Ramada Central had something similar in mind, give or take the magic part. The big window had no hinges or latches. It was designed to let in light and provide a view, no more.

  It was then that Morris's subconscious decided to give his forebrain a wakeup call, and he realized there was a faint odor in the room that had nothing to do with Libby, or any perfume she might have brought with her.

  Black magic has a scent all of its own.

  Morris stood there in the middle of Libby's hotel room and did ten slow, very deep breaths, using his stomach muscles to push the air out hard. He did this to help quell the incipient panic that threatened to send him over the edge.

  He went back to his own room and picked up the phone.

  "Fenton."

  "It's Morris. Forgive the melodrama, but they've got Libby."

  Silence, for three slow heartbeats, then Fenton's voice: "Tell me. Take your time with it."

  Morris related what he knew, then answered the questions that any intelligent cop would ask under these circumstances: was Morris sure he hadn't fallen asleep while Libby was "napping." Had Morris been drinking or, God forbid, using any kind of drug? Did Morris and Libby quarrel about anything before she disappeared? And so on. Morris didn't take offense, but he was glad when the litany was done. Then he asked Fenton, "Is your partner up and around again?"

  "Yeah she is. She seems okay."

  "Is she there?"

  "In the next room, why?"

  "Get her, please. I need to talk to her."

  More silence. Then, "Hold on."

  Less than a minute later, a female voice was saying in Morris's ear, "This is Agent Colleen O'Donnell."

  "Did Fenton tell you why I called?"

  "He said Libby Chastain's missing from her room."

  "Yeah she is, and there's a faint whiff of black magic in the air."

  "Mister Morris, maybe you should confine yourself--"

  "I know you're in the Sisterhood, Agent O'Donnell."

  It got so quiet, Morris wondered if he'd lost the connection. "Hello?"

  "Did Libby tell you?"

  "No, I realized it the first time we met, in L.A. I have something of a nose for magic, both white and black."

  "Yes. Yes, it would appear that you do."

  "Listen, I realize that Fenton doesn't know. I didn't tell him--I figured that was between you and him. I'll do whatever you want to help preserve your cover, but--"

  "Fuck that, there are more important things to think about. In fact, I guess I'll tell him after we're done here. It's time, anyway."

  In the background, Morris heard Fenton's voice say, "Tell me what?"

  Morris
heard mumbling for a little while, so he assumed that a hand was over the phone at the other end. Then the mumbling stopped.

  "Agent O'Donnell?"

  "Maybe, all things considered, you might as well call me Colleen."

  "All right, Colleen, I'm Quincey. So, can I assume you were at the confab tonight?

  "The what?"

  "Sorry that's my name for it. Where the Sisters leave their bodies and convene someplace."

  "Yes, I was there."

  "Did you uh, 'see' Libby there?"

  "Yes I did. In fact, she was very helpful in bringing us up to date with the facts and suppositions--hers, yours, and the FBI's."

  "Did you all leave together, if that's the right term?"

  "Yes, we did. No one leaves until the Circle is dissolved. Then we all go back... where we came from."

  "Forgive my ignorance of the way these things work, Colleen. But is it possible for Libby's 'spirit' to end up someplace other than back in her body?"

  "Absolutely not. The spirit instinctively seeks its home, which is the body. There are various theories about what might happen if a Sister's body were destroyed, say, by an explosion, while her spirit was elsewhere. But that has never happened in the Sisterhood's recorded history, which goes back a long way. And it doesn't sound like that's happened here, anyway."

  "No, I reckon not, but we still don't know that the fuck did happen."

  "Well, given what you've described, I think I know the what, if not the who, or the why."

  "I'll take anything you got."

  "It seems obvious that a black magician or witch entered Libby's room through magic, grabbed her unoccupied physical form, and left with it."

  "What the hell would happen to Libby's spirit, then?"

  "Once the circle was broken, as I told you, the spirit returns to the body. Libby's spirit would go to wherever her body was, and rejoin it."

  "So Libby's going to wake up somewhere, and find herself in very deep trouble."

  "Yes. That's probably true. Whoever managed to pull this off has both a lot of Will and a great deal of Power, Mister Morris."

  "Quincey."

  "Quincey, sorry. I'm going to get in touch with El--uh, the head of our Circle, and appraise her of what's happened. After we've talked, I'll get back in touch with you. I assume Dale has your number?"