Morris and Chastain Investigations: Play With Fire & Midnight at the Oasis

by Justin Gustainis

  “I thought the whole point of having a bit of Suleiman’s Seal was to compel him to obedience.” Nasiri said.

  “It is a powerful force, to be sure,” Uthman said. “But it is not all-powerful. The last time we had this discussion, I made a comparison of myself to a lion tamer –”

  “Enough! Tamwar said angrily. “I have heard all that I wish to hear about you and the lion tamer.”

  Nasiri laid a hand on Tamwar’s arm. “Peace, brother. Let us not blame our magician friend for forces that are outside his control.” If they really are outside the old fool’s control, he thought.

  “So, this means another visit to one of their ‘zoos’?” Rahim said. “More risks? More butchery?”

  Nasiri took in a big breath and let it out, forcing himself to calmness. “This is the last time, my brothers – this I promise you. The day of vengeance is nearly here – and I promise you that, as well.”

  With a sigh, Tamwar said, “Have you determined where we must go – this ‘one last time’?”

  Nasiri gave his number two man a hard look. Their long sojourn in the House of War was taking its toll on them all. Tamwar would never have dreamed of such insolence when they were still in Paris together.

  He turned to Uthman. “I assume you brought your book of maps along with the bad news, brother?”

  “The Rand McNally,” Uthman said, reaching underneath his chair. “A most wondrous book. Yes, I have it right here.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  Thirty-Seven

  ELEVEN DAYS LATER, Libby Chastain was awakened by the bubbly sound of the Bewitched theme, and came close to throwing her phone through a window. Instead, after some muttered obscenities, she answered it.

  “’Lo.”

  “Libby?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Colleen, Libby. Did I wake you up? It’s almost a quarter to ten, girlfriend.”

  “Late night, I guess.”

  “Oh, really? Hot date?”

  “They don’t get any hotter,” Libby muttered.

  “What?”

  “Forget it. What’s up, Colleen?”

  “Well, I hope you’ve got it together enough to process this, because I bring news of great import.”

  “Small words, Colleen. Use small words.”

  “They did it again. There – were those small enough for you?”

  “Who did what?”

  “I dunno, Libby. If I explain, I may have to use some big words.”

  “Colleen...” It was a difficult name to say through clenched teeth, but Libby managed it.

  “The lion killers. They struck again last night. A zoo in Ohio.”

  Libby’s eyes snapped open. “Ohio, you said?”

  “Yeah – Ohio.”

  “Whereabouts in Ohio?”

  “Some hole in the wall called Berlin Center.”

  “Um. Is that anywhere near Toledo?”

  “Why, Libby? Are you all hot to see Toledo, or something?”

  “Just check, will you?”

  “Toledo’s in the northwest part of the state, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This place is in the northeast, between Akron and Youngstown. Closer to Youngstown. Couple of hundred miles from Toledo, anyway. Sorry to disappoint.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Don’t you want to hear the news of great import?”

  “I thought that was it – that they hit a third zoo.”

  “No, that isn’t it.”

  “Well, what, then?”

  “This time, they made a mistake.”

  Thirty-Eight

  THE LAW ENFORCEMENT needs of the good people living in Berlin Center, Ohio are met by the Ellsworth Township Post II Sheriff’s Office, located some sixteen miles away.

  On their way to Ellsworth – in a gray Buick rented at the Youngstown airport – were Special Agent Dale Fenton of the FBI (driving), Special Agent Colleen O’Donnell of the FBI (riding shotgun), and Ms. Elizabeth Chastain from New York City (in back) whom the agents planned to describe, if asked, as a “special consultant.”

  Fenton and O’Donnell, who had met Libby’s flight in Youngstown, took turns briefing her during their forty-minute ride to the metropolis that is Ellsworth Center.

  “It’s the original one-horse town,” Fenton said, “although I’m not sure the Sheriff Department’s budget would allow them to feed a horse. Maybe if it was real small – you know, one of those miniature horses.”

  “I’m more interested in lions,” Libby said. “Especially the one that got cut open. What kind of a zoo can they support out here in the sticks, anyway?”

  “It’s not so much a zoo as a rescue operation,” Colleen said. “They take in large animals that the real zoos and the circuses don’t want anymore. And when some idiot who lives in a state where it’s legal to keep ‘exotic pets’ decides he’s tired of paying to feed his Bengal tiger, he calls someplace like Noah’s Lost Ark.”

  “Hell, they’ve got tigers, leopards, cougars, bears, wolves – everything you can think of,” Fenton said. “Including twenty lions.”

  “Nineteen now,” Colleen said.

  Fenton nodded. “Point taken.”

  “It sounds like that place that got hit in Indiana last month,” Libby said.

  “Very similar,” Fenton said. “They broke into a real zoo the first time out, but then they got smart.”

  “Smart in what way?” Libby asked.

  “From the perp’s perspective, one of these rescue places is a piece of cake to get into and do stuff in,” he said. “No high walls, no guards worth a damn, probably no security cameras – and a shitload of lions to pick from, most of them old and slow.”

  “They got smart,” Colleen said, “but still found a way to be careless.”

  “Yeah, it was nice of them to leave that little souvenir behind, wasn’t it?” Libby said. “I don’t suppose it could be a deliberate plant, to throw us off the trail?”

  Colleen looked at Libby over her shoulder. “Throw us off what trail?”

  “Point taken,” Libby said, with a smile. “Have you been out to the crime scene yet?”

  “We took a walk through the place yesterday,” Colleen said.

  “Any residue of black magic?”

  “Fuck, yeah,” she said. “Clear as day – or maybe I should say, dark as night.”

  “Are you sure you can make this hocus-pocus work with a computer screen?” Fenton asked.

  “Yes – I practiced for a couple of hours yesterday. I also put a spell on my laptop, to make things easier. I even brought a grease pencil, so we can make marks on the screen.”

  “Outstanding,” Colleen said. “I’d try it myself, but my Talent doesn’t run in that direction. I’ve never been any good at the psychic location stuff.”

  “Every cobbler to her last, to coin a phrase,” Libby said. “By the way, how come you guys didn’t ask Quincey to come with me? He’s still in New York, you know.”

  “Didn’t see much point in having him fly out to the boonies – and us paying for it – for a few hours, when you’re the one we really need,” Fenton said. “If you turn up anything useful, then we’ll bring him in for the follow-up.”

  “Bet your ass you will.”

  The Ellsworth Township Sheriff’s Office occupies a one-story red brick building at the end of Pine Street. Six blocks away, Fenton had to stop, as a crossing guard made way for a bunch of grade-schoolers to cross the street.

  “Are the kids back in school already?” Libby said.

  “Yeah, Labor Day was last Monday,” Fenton said. “Didn’t you notice?”

  Libby shrugged. “When you don’t work a nine-to-five job, minor holidays can slip by. Besides, I’ve been busy.”

  Colleen half turned in her seat, looked at Libby for a couple of seconds, then faced front again. But as the crossing guard waved them forward, she said, “You’re still fucking Ashley, aren’t you?”

  “Leave it alone
, Colleen,” Libby said, in a voice that most people would have heeded. But Colleen O’Donnell was not most people – she was Libby’s Sister in witchcraft.

  “I’m only asking, because I –”

  “Leave it the fuck alone, Colleen.”

  Colleen lapsed into silence. Fenton kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut; his mother had raised no fools.

  Five minutes later, they were turning into the small parking lot adjoining the Sheriff’s Office. In her normal tone of voice, Libby said, “I don’t see any media – not that I’m complaining.”

  Fenton grinned at her in the mirror. “What media?”

  “There was a crew from one of the Youngstown TV stations out here yesterday,” Colleen said. “They shot some footage at the scene and spent five minutes interviewing the Sheriff. Then they put together a ‘God, ain’t it awful what people will do’ story that got shown last night just before the weather report.”

  “Nobody’s made a connection to the other zoo invasions,” Libby said. “Good.”

  “They did have a twelve-second sound bite of Sheriff Welles saying that the investigation is ongoing,” Colleen told her.

  “He’s got that right,” Fenton said, and turned off the engine. “Come on, let’s go.”

  The single desk in the reception area was occupied by Jane Landingham, a pleasant, fortyish blonde who was the Sheriff’s secretary, clerk, and receptionist.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Landingham,” Colleen said. “Is he in?”

  “Sure,” the woman said with a smile. “Just give me a second.”

  She went to the door marked “Sheriff,” rapped twice on the frosted glass covering the upper half, and went inside without awaiting an invitation.

  A few seconds later, she walked back out, leaving the door open behind her. “You folks go on in,” she said.

  Sheriff Desmond Welles looked to be about two years from retirement. He still had most of his hair, although it had gone iron-gray some time back and matched his mustache, which could have used a trim. His plain blue suit had some mileage on it, not unlike the Sheriff himself. Watery brown eyes viewed the world through a set of horn-rimmed glasses, perched on a nose that appeared never to have been broken. He had a nervous smile that came and went like a flashing caution light, its brightness due to the nightly bath that his dentures received, in a solution of water and Polident.

  Welles was out of his depth, and had enough sense to realize it. He had spent the last sixteen years arresting drunks, teenage vandals, and the occasional abusive husband. There had been one murder in his jurisdiction five years ago, but the State Police had taken over that investigation almost from the get-go, much to the Sheriff’s private relief.

  The killing and mutilation of a lion out at Noah’s Lost Ark had befuddled him, and the arrival of the FBI both confused and intimidated him. Although he would have died rather than admit it, the presence of real law enforcement people always made him feel like an asshole. At least the two FBI agents, whom Welles had met for the first time yesterday, had been courteous and respectful.

  The colored man (as Welles thought of Agent Fenton) had explained that there was a possible link between his local crime and a group of Satanists from out of state who might have killed Jimbo the lion as a sacrifice to their dark god. They’d said they were bringing in some outside consultant to look at the evidence left behind at the scene, and here she was – a nice-looking woman in her thirties with kind gray eyes but a face that bore the pinched look of someone under a lot of stress. Her name, the FBI agents had said, was Elizabeth Chastain, and she had come all the way from New York City, just to examine the odd-looking knife that had been found in Jimbo’s pen.

  Welles opened a drawer in his filing cabinet and removed the object in question, which was being preserved in a Ziploc freezer bag that Welles called an “evidence envelope.”

  “The thing is,” he said, “some fellas from the State Police Crime Lab are comin’ over this afternoon, and they’re gonna want to take a look at this thing. A real close look.”

  “Not to worry, Sheriff,” said the other FBI agent, a buxom, freckled redhead named O’Donnell. “We won’t do anything to degrade what you’ve got here.”

  Welles raised his gaze from O’Donnell’s chest to her face. “Sorry... degrade?”

  “We won’t do anything to destroy its value as evidence,” the colored FBI agent told him. He was already pulling on a pair of those thin plastic gloves that CSI people always wore on TV. That made Welles feel a little more relaxed.

  “I don’t suppose you have wi-fi here, Sheriff?” Welles’s confused expression apparently answered the Chastain woman’s question; she went on, “Then we’ll need an internet connection for this.” She held up the laptop computer she’d carried in with her. “And a quiet place to work.”

  “We only got two computer jacks,” Welles told her. “One is out next to Janie’s desk, and the other one’s in here.” He shrugged. “Since you folks want some privacy to do... whatever it is you do, I guess you might as well use my office.”

  “We’d hate to inconvenience you, Sheriff,” the redhead said.

  “No inconvenience at all,” Welles said, picking his fedora off the coat rack. “I’ll go get a cup of coffee over at Luanne’s, and take a look through the paper. Then I’ll take a turn around town, see what’s goin’ on. Any calls come in, Janie can take a message.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” the Chastain woman said with a smile. “We really appreciate it.”

  “Happy to cooperate with the federal government,” Welles said. “About two hours give you folks enough time?”

  The two FBIs looked to Chastain, who said, “That should be plenty of time, Sheriff. Thanks again.”

  “My pleasure,” Welles said. He donned his hat and left the office, closing the door behind him.

  After waiting a few seconds to be sure the Sheriff was out of earshot, Fenton said, “Okay – let’s get this clairvoyance show on the road.”

  Thirty-Nine

  WHILE HER LAPTOP was booting up, Libby picked up the freezer bag containing the knife she was going to be working with. Well,” she said, turning it over in her hand, “whoever owned this, it’s a safe bet he didn’t get it at Sears.”

  The knife was about a foot long. About two-thirds of its length came from the curved blade, which had a blood groove running down the center. The handle was carved from some kind of horn, decorated with cheap-looking gemstones of various sizes.

  Libby was not a Sensitive, but she could not suppress a shudder at the thought of how many throats had been slashed with this wicked-looking thing.

  “It’s called a janbia,” Fenton told her. “I took a couple of pictures of it with my phone camera yesterday, and sent ’em to Quantico. Whoever they’ve got in Edged Weapons these days was really on the ball – found the name for me in a couple of hours.”

  “It looks... vaguely Arabic,” Libby said. “Or am I letting my expectations rule my perceptions?”

  “Not this time,” Fenton said. “Once I had the right name for the blade, it wasn’t hard to find info about it on the Internet. The janbia originated in Yemen, centuries ago – although I gather it eventually spread to other Arab countries, as well. In Yemen, men wear ’em on their belts as a kind of clothing accessory, like we wear neckties over here. And like designer neckties, some of these things can get pretty damn pricey – although I wouldn’t say that this specimen here is what you’d call high-end.”

  “Apparently, these days,” said Colleen, “the janbia mainly serves a symbolic function, and is rarely used for business. But I gather there used to be a tradition in Yemen – you never took your janbia out of its sheath unless you were planning to cut somebody with it. And if you pulled it, you couldn’t put it back until it had drawn blood.”

  “The Arabs do love their knives,” Libby said. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  “Is holding it with a glove on gonna interfere with the... I don’t know – psychic vibrations?�
�� Fenton asked her.

  “I don’t think so,” Libby said. “But let’s give it a go, and find out.”

  “Where do you want to start?” Colleen asked. “Map of the United States?”

  Libby shook her head. “We’ve had zoos that were hit in Michigan, Indiana, and now Ohio. Let’s start with those individual states – it might save us some time.”

  Libby worked the keyboard for a minute or two, and then a detailed map of Ohio nearly filled her computer’s monitor.

  “Okay,” she said, “let’s turn the computer so that the screen is lying flat. And I’ll need one of you to hold it in place for me. The half with the keyboard’s a lot heavier, and I don’t want this thing flipping over on me while I’m working.”

  “I’ll do it,” Fenton said.

  “And you better give me a glove for my left hand before I pick up that knife,” Libby said. “I sure wouldn’t want to degrade any of the evidence.”

  Soon, dagger in one hand and pendulum in the other, Libby was bent over her computer.

  Pendulum gently swinging, she traversed the image of Ohio from west to east. When that failed to produce results, she had Fenton turn the computer sideways, then did the same thing from south to north.

  “Nothing,’ she said as she straightened up. “Okay, one down, two to go. Let’s take a look at Indiana now.”

  Libby slowly repeated the procedure over a digital image of the Hoosier state. East to west first, then south to north.

  “Nada,” she said finally. “Okay, bring up Michigan. Let’s hope the third time’s the charm, so to speak.”

  Libby sent the pendulum swinging over the map of Michigan and began slowly moving it to the right. Then, after half a minute or so, she softly said, “Hmmm. Let’s go again, just to be sure.”

  She brought the pendulum back to the western border of the state, and slowly began moving east once more. In a little while she said, without looking up, “Lady and gentleman, I believe we have a winner. Grab the grease pencil, Colleen, and see if Sheriff Welles has got a ruler in one of his desk drawers.”