“Assuming we all survive the night, Ellie,” Morris said, “send me the bill for those rental cars, as well as the hotel. I’ll take care of it.”
“No, I don’t think so, Quincey,” Ellie said. “The Sisterhood has a contingency fund for emergencies, and this situation certainly qualifies. Anyway–” She gave him a tight smile “–I expect we all have an equal stake in making sure that the gates of Hell remain closed.”
Libby went on, “Our twenty-four sisters have spent the last several days becoming familiar with the city, and will be mobile at six tonight. In the event that the specific location of the next atrocity is identified, a blanket text will send the address to each car, and the sisters will get there as quickly as they can.”
“Speaking of moving quickly,” Fenton said, “Colleen and I have a car on loan from the local field office. It’s got a siren and flashers, which should get us through traffic faster than otherwise. We’ll get the text if it’s sent, and we’re also gonna monitor the local police radio band.”
“Peters and I will stay here,” Ashley said. “It’s a central location, and I should be able to reach any place in town without too much trouble.” She grinned. “Besides, that means we can fuck while we’re waiting.”
Among those few humans who knew her, Ashley’s name was rarely used in the same sentence as words like “appropriate.”
“Libby and I will remain here, too” Morris said. “As Ashley said, it’s a central location – unlike my house, which is on the west side of town. I’ve got a few friends on the Austin P.D., and one of them will let me know if anything likely shows up on their radar.”
He stood up. “Thanks, everybody. If we pull this off, I’ll buy all of you breakfast tomorrow morning. If we don’t...” Morris’s face, already serious, became somber. “... then hunger’s likely to be the least of our problems.”
As the others drifted out, Morris went over to a nearby window and looked out at his city. Fenton joined him. After a few moments he said, “Nice day.”
“It usually is, around these parts,” Morris said. “But I hear it might storm later.”
Forty-Two
SEVERAL HUNDRED AUSTIN police officers and sheriff’s deputies, along with administrative staff, knew that the church burners might strike in their town that night. A secret like that is difficult to keep when so many are privy to it.
At about the time that Morris’s meeting was breaking up, the following item appeared online in “The Branch Report”:
Word has it that ghostbuster Quincey Morris (who managed to evade numerous federal felony charges following antics at last year’s RNC convention) is telling authorities in Austin, TX that the infamous “church burners” will strike there next. Is it any coincidence that Austin is where the occult cowboy calls home? Maybe his witch girlfriend Libby Chastain did his horoscope and says it’s a bad time to travel.
It’s easy to set up a Google Alert for any term or phrase that interests you. At least two people had established a Google Alert using the phrase “Quincey Morris.” One was Morris himself, although today he was too preoccupied to read any email that didn’t appear urgent.
The other was someone who called himself Theron Ware. Although, like Morris, he had plans for the evening, he monitored his email regularly throughout the day. The Branch Report item on Quincey Morris had been live for only twenty-four minutes when Ware read it.
He called to his acolytes and showed them what was on his laptop’s monitor. “That motherfucker,” Elektra growled. “I figured he’d be dead by now – and the bitch, too.”
Mark had to read the item twice to make sense of it. “Geez, boss, I guess that means we hafta cancel tonight, huh?”
But Jeremy had seen what his master had seen, although not as clearly, of course. “We can use this, right Theron?
“Indeed we can,” Theron Ware told them. “But I need to do some research, first.”
“Whatcha gonna look up, boss?” Mark asked.
“I want to see if we have any kindred spirits in the Austin area. In a city that size, I’m sure we must.”
“You gonna have them take out Morris for us? And his bitch?” Elektra wanted to know.
“No,” Ware said, “I have something more... subtle in mind. Now leave me be, for a while.”
Forty-Three
THE SUN WAS setting over the city as Ashley started unbuttoning her blouse. She knew Peters was watching, so she took her time before finally removing it.
“You can take this guy, right?” Peters asked. “I mean if push comes to shove.”
“Which guy is that, sweetie?” Ashley said, unhooking her bra. She didn’t really need one, but liked the effect that taking it off had on Peters.
“You know which guy – Theron Ware, or whoever he really is.”
“Oh, him.” She unbuttoned her black too-tight-for-business-wear pants and pulled the zipper down. Slowly. “If we’re talking about magic, it depends on how powerful he is. I am of the fourth rank among the Fallen. If his position is higher, he’s stronger. If lower, he’s weaker. If he’s fourth rank too, it’s a tie.”
“So, the outcome’s already determined, even before you mix it up?”
“I said if we’re talking about magic.” She slid the pants, a little at a time, past her slim hips. “There’s more to it than that.”
“You are planning to explain it to me, right? I mean, before we fuck.”
“You know what I think is adorable about you? After what you probably consider a significant amount of time, you still get hard whenever you see me naked.”
“Half the time, I get hard when I see you dressed. Don’t change the subject.”
“I thought getting you hard was the subject, honey.” She kicked the pants aside and now wore only a thong.
“Ashley. Come on.”
She signed theatrically. “I explained to you once before, when you asked if I could be killed. What did I tell you?” She snapped the thong’s elastic waistband, but did not lower it.
“You’re making it hard to concentrate.”
“That’s the whole idea, dummy.” She slid one hand down the front of the thong and began rubbing herself slowly. “Come on. Answer the question and you get a treat, just like a good doggie.”
“You said that although your spirit was immortal, the body you inhabit could be killed, just like anybody else.”
“See – you were listening. Such a good boy.” Her hand began moving faster.
“So if I shoot him in the head, he dies like everybody else?”
“It’s an express ticket back to Hell – unless he uses magic to block it, or turns you into guacamole first.” She finally let the thong fall to the floor. “You weren’t planning on shooting me, were you Peters?”
“Not with any gun but this one, baby.”
“That’s my boy!”
Forty-Four
SGT. NATHAN EISINGER was holding down the desk at the Sixth Precinct when the phone rang at nine twenty-two.
“Sixth Precinct. Sergeant Eisinger speaking.”
“Sergeant, this is Harry Crenshaw at HomeGard Security.”
“Yeah, hi. What’s up?”
“One of our clients, the Sikh Temple on East Twelfth Street, just had the silent alarm go off.”
“Somebody broke into this Sick Temple?”
“I think it’s pronounced Seek.”
“Whatever – you got a break-in, or not?”
“Yeah, somebody broke in, or tried to. I just double-checked the alarm, and it’s not malfunctioning. I already sent one of our cars over there, but procedure says to notify A.P.D. as well – so, that’s what I’m doin’.”
“You got an address?”
“It’s 134 East Twelfth, out near where it intersects with Springdale.”
“Okay, we’ll check it out, thanks.”
Eisinger broke the connection, then switched to a dispatcher. He told her to send a car to check out a possible 412 in progress at the Sikh temple. Then he re
membered something else he was supposed to do. He looked up a number and called it.
“Whalen.”
“Lieutenant, it’s Sergeant Nate Eisinger, at the Sixth.”
“Yeah, hi.”
“Hi, uh, sir. Sorry to bother you at home, but I got a note here says I’m supposed to call you if we get something hinky goin’ on at any church tonight.”
“That’s right. What’ve you got?”
“A 412 in progress at the Sikh temple on East Twelfth. I don’t know if that counts as a church, but I figured I better let you know.”
“You did right, Sergeant. Somebody’s broken into this Sikh place?”
“That’s what the alarm company says. I got a car on the way over. So do they.”
“What’s the full address?”
“It’s 134 East Twelfth, out near Springdale.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Forty-Five
QUINCEY MORRIS WAS on his third Diet Pepsi. Tension made him thirsty, and he was not fool enough to consume any alcohol tonight. He was trying to focus on the Local Politics page of the American Statesman when the phone in his shirt pocket began playing the “X-Files” theme.
Morris grabbed the phone, almost dropping it, and answered. He listened closely, grabbed a pen, and wrote something on a nearby pad. Then he said, “Thanks, Marty, I appreciate it.”
He turned his head toward the connecting door and called, “Libby!”
Libby Chastain was there within moments. “What is it?”
“We might have something. A break-in at a Sikh temple. Who’ve we got near East Twelfth and Springdale?”
Libby went to the heavily annotated Austin street map that was tacked to a nearby wall. She peered at it for several seconds before saying, “That’s Abigail and Eloise. They’re closest.”
“Right.” Morris checked his list of phone numbers and made a call.
“This is Morris. We’ve got a possible at 134 East Twelfth. It’s a Sikh temple, should be pretty hard to miss. Check it out, quick as you can and call in, okay? Right, thanks.”
Libby sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped together tightly. “Sikhs, huh? I was wondering if our pal would get around to them. What is it about this spell that requires a different religion every time?”
“Maybe the idea is to piss God off every which way you can,” he said.
“And then He opens the gates of Hell because He’s mad? Or She?”
Morris made a face. “Nobody ever said magic had to–”
The phone at his elbow began making music.
“Morris.”
He listened for a few moments.
“Okay, looks like this is the one. There are cops on the way – you know what to do. I’ll alert the others. Wait for them to get there – or at least some of them. Do not, I repeat not go in there by yourselves. Right, bye.”
He looked at Libby. “Eloise says there’s definitely black magic coming from that temple – and it’s recent.”
Libby stood up. “Okay, then. Battle stations.”
Morris handed her a sheet of paper. “Here’s your list. Maybe you should call from your room, so we’re not talking over each other.”
“Good idea.” Libby turned and walked, very fast, toward the connecting door.
Morris glanced again at his list, brought up his phone’s directory, and touched an icon.
Two floors below, Ashley had just enjoyed her third orgasm when the phone near her head began playing Gregorian chant.
“Yes,” she said into it, a little breathlessly.
“It’s Morris. Looks like we’re on.”
“Excellent. Address?”
“A Sikh temple at 134 East Twelfth. That’s over near–”
“I’ve got the map memorized – I know where it is.”
“See you downstairs in three minutes.”
“Gotcha.”
“Ashley, one thing.”
“What now?”
“When we get there, try not to kill anybody, unless absolutely necessary.”
“Oh, it’ll be necessary, believe me.”
Forty-Six
THE LOW, TAN brick building on East Thirty-Fourth Street might have been mistaken for a school, apart from the triangular orange flag that flapped in the breeze above it and the large sign near the front door that read “Sikh Temple of Austin.”
When Morris’s blue Mustang skidded to a halt at the curb, he saw that a number of the others had arrived already and were standing on the sidewalk in front of the dimly-lit building or across the street, in the shadow of a closed Rexall drugstore. In between, on both sides of the street, a number of cars were parked haphazardly – their drivers had apparently been in as big a hurry as Morris was.
He spoke to Ellie Robb first. “How many of the Sisters are here?”
“Fourteen. They’ve all been alerted, of course, but some were probably a good distance away when the word went out.”
“We can’t wait. Spread them out around the building, will you, and tell each one to start her spell whenever she’s ready.”
“Right.” Ellie turned on her heel and moved away swiftly. The members of the Sisterhood would each be putting down the same anti-black magic spell, which would be strengthened by every additional white witch who joined in.
Morris saw Fenton and O’Donnell and waved them over. Each wore an amulet around their neck designed to protect against black magic, and Colleen carried a wand. “Have you done a recon?” Morris asked.
“Simple construction,” Fenton said. “Two stories. Small windows. Front, back, and sides – one door apiece.”
“The locks look easy,” Colleen said. “A simple disengagement spell should do the trick.”
“Good,” Morris said. He looked at the police car parked directly across from the entrance. “Cops okay?”
“Both asleep,” Colleen said, “along with two rent-a-cops who arrived right after them. They’ll remember nothing when they’re awakened.”
“Excellent,” Morris said.
Ellie Robb came back and said, “Everyone’s in position, except for one Sister who I asked to stay in front and direct the new ones as they arrive.”
“All right, then,” Morris said, and blew out a breath. “Time to go in. Libby and me in front, Fenton and O’Donnell left side, Peters and Ashley right side, and Ellie, you’ve got the back door. Assignments clear?”
Nodding all around.
Morris looked at his watch. “We go in exactly sixty seconds from... now.”
The small group dissolved like a football huddle breaking up. Libby had her wand ready in one hand. Morris was carrying a long-barreled Desert Eagle automatic. Its load of .50 caliber silver-tipped cartridges had been blessed, just like Morris’s switchblade, by the Bishop of El Paso.
Libby glanced at the immense pistol. “Where was that when the werewolf dropped by Adelson’s the other day?” she murmured.
“Home. Didn’t think I’d see any werewolves in Boston. Live and learn.”
At the elegantly carved wooden front door, Morris said, “Okay, get it open, please.”
Libby lightly touched the tip of her wand to the lock, said a few words in Latin, listened for the “click,” then looked at Morris. “Done.”
Morris looked at his watch. “Fifteen seconds. Ten. Five. Time to go.”
Morris grasped the knob, which turned without resistance. He and Libby walked in quietly.
Only a few of the ceiling lights had been turned on. There was enough illumination to see that it was a surprisingly plain room, with none of the statues, candles, or elaborate architecture that Morris knew from other religions. There was also plenty of light to see the small group of people who were kneeling in a circle near the front of the temple.
They looked up, startled, as Morris and Libby walked in. Bare seconds later, the side doors burst open, almost as one, to admit four of Morris’s colleagues. A moment later, he saw Ellie Robb enter from the back door.
One of the Satanist
s – if that’s what they were – stood up, holding what looked like a wand. He pointed it at Morris and Libby and said a couple of words that Morris couldn’t hear. Then a ball of flame the size of a grapefruit headed their way, very fast. Libby waved her wand once, said a single word, and the fireball disappeared. “Is that the best you got?” she said softly.
Then Ashley let go a burst of some kind of energy that was too fast for the eye to follow – and a moment later the arm that had held the fireball-shooting wand was smoldering on the floor. Its former owner, who appeared to be a man in his mid-twenties, stared at the severed appendage for several seconds. Then he remembered to scream.
All of Morris’s team had kept moving toward the group. Fenton and O’Donnell were displaying their IDs now, yelling, “FBI, freeze! Don’t move, or we’ll shoot!”
The other four Satanists, three men and a woman, had gained their feet and stood in shocked surprise. The one who’d fired a wand at Libby was back on his knees, though, screaming in pain and clutching the place where his shoulder had been. Blood poured between his fingers.
“I don’t think that was strictly necessary, Ashley,” Morris said.
“It’s done now,” Ashley replied, not sounding remotely contrite. “Oh, all right, here.”
She bent over the injured man, yanked his remaining hand away from the bleeding stump, and pressed her own hand firmly against it. She said two words in a language Morris didn’t recognize, and at once wisps of smoke began to rise from the wound.
The screaming redoubled, which Morris would not have thought possible. Then it stopped, as the man mercifully fainted.
“See?” Ashley said to Morris. “Cauterized. He won’t even bleed to death now.”
Morris directed his attention to the wounded man’s three associates, who were now clearly terrified. Two of them held wands. “Drop them,” Morris said. “Now!”
Morris and Chastain Investigations: Play With Fire & Midnight at the Oasis Page 16
