Doomsday Exam [Bureau 13 #2]

by Nick Pollotta

  “The telephone?” Raul suggested. “No, we don't dare. If Mystery Man has the abilities of Vampire X, then he also has the powers of Tanner. He could be tapping the entire Alabama phone system waiting for us to try such an act. What about trying Jess?”

  Watching the road, I shrugged “It's not time, but I'll try.”

  JESSICA! I screamed inside my head. JESSICA! ITS ED! CAN YOU HEAR ME, BABE? THERE'S TROUBLE! HELP, JESS, HELP!

  No answer. My telepathic wife must not be thinking of me at this exact instant. But when the hour mark came, we might be too far away from Huntsville for Jessica to focus on me. Damn-damn-damn! So close, yet so far.

  “No good,” I reported, my temples throbbing. Whew, even trying was a bit of a strain.

  Hunkering down in the seat, Raul rubbed his chin. “How do we contact a secret agency? An interesting problem.”

  “Got an interesting answer?”

  “Cogitating, Ed. Ruminating.”

  “Swell. Tell me when you start to think. Okay?”

  “As a great man once said, natch.”

  Keeping a careful watch on our Judas goat, I maintained a discreet distance behind him as he turned onto the highway and headed north. Ah, this shouldn't take too long. But we were wrong again.

  Soon it became obvious, that Mystery Man was much too smart to lay a trap for us at his own front door. Our vampire drove on through the day and into the night, stopping only for gas. I guess the blood he had consumed in the parking lot was tiding him over. Hospital food is supposed to be good for you. Ha.

  Slowly time passed as we rolled through Alabama, Tennessee and into Kentucky. Raul and I took turns driving and sleeping. The sandwiches Mindy had given us came in extremely useful. At one stop for fuel, I stole a box of .38 caliber ammunition from the desk of an attendant. Well, stole is perhaps the wrong word, as I did leave behind a hundred dollars in cash for a $24.95 box of bullets.

  As befitting a mage, Raul was surprised to discover that .38 ammunition would fit a .357 gun. Always polite, I started to explain the difference between a normal and Magnum round, but stopped when he yawned and attempted to turn on the radio. Hey, I can take a hint.

  Later on when he took over the driving again, I used my knife and pistolbutt to painstakingly cut a cross pattern into each of the soft-lead slugs. They were now incredibly illegal, and delightfully deadly, dum-dums. Not having a proper workshop, there was always the chance of doing a bad slice, and when I triggered the round it could jam and explode my gun. But that was a chance I would have to take. It was better than being totally unarmed.

  “If only we knew what the bastard was planning,” I said aloud, after successfully dodging a radar trap.

  “The kid?” Raul asked, adjusting the rearview mirror without touching it.

  “No, Mystery Man. Destroy the world? Conqueror it? Or something too fiendish to contemplate? Some hideous act we haven't even thought of yet.”

  Running through a gauntlet of pained expressions, Raul finally gave a diplomatic cough. Then another.

  “Okay, talk,” I sighed, bracing for the bad news.

  “Well,” the mage said. “When Katrina and I were perusing my file copy of the Aztec book—”

  “Your what?” I interrupted, almost dropping my gun.

  “My file copy,” he repeated. “When we captured the volume, I accidentally made a photostatic copy of every page.”

  Furious, I could only glare at him. Mages! “But isn't even that dangerous to read?”

  “Not a copy,” Raul stated earnestly. “It would be similar to trying to put electrical current into a photograph of a radio. Nothing happens. The Book itself does the conjure.”

  “Meaning any damn fool can operate it.”

  “Yep.”

  “Hardly good news.”

  “Anyway,” Raul went on, maneuvering past a pickup truck spewing blue-colored exhaust. “If Mystery Man was an ordinary guy who became an alchemist and then risked death to become a wizard for one day to get his mitts on this book, I decided to search for the other end of the spectrum, what spell, conjure, whatever, that would give him the most power. Permanently make him a real wizard.”

  “And?”

  “You won't like it.”

  “I'm braced.”

  A drum roll sounded from nowhere. “I think he's going for the World Mage Spell.”

  There was a rimshot and cymbal crash, then I groaned. The World Mage Spell. It had never been fully successful, but the last time anybody got the foul conjure even partially functioning, in 1871, the newly formed Bureau waged a brutal war that burned old Chicago to the ground in their effort to kill the caster. Mrs. O'Leary and her demonic cow had been tough customers to beat.

  “Okay,” I said, rallying to the task. “The bigger the spell, the more limitations.”

  “How true,” Raul said, lifting a finger. “One, it has to be performed within the boundaries of the kingdom he stole it from.”

  “We're not a kingdom,” I reminded.

  “Magically this country is,” he stated. “Science obeys the letter of law. Magic follows the intent.”

  Okay, I bought that. “Continue.”

  He lifted another finger. “Two, it has to be on property he has legal access to.”

  Interesting. “And three?” I prompted.

  The hand closed and dropped. “There is no three.”

  “None?”

  “Nope.”

  Hoo boy. Deep in thought, we tooled on through the picturesque mountains of Kentucky. Semi-tractor trailers passed us regularly and I expertly used them as protective coverage between us and the compact. Twice already Raul had changed the color of our car, added a roof luggage rack, and even made the whole damn thing invisible for a while. Three near collisions later, we stopped utilizing that ploy.

  Craning my neck, I had tried following our young killer by using my sunglasses to keep track of his evil black aura, but had nearly lost our quarry when we started to tag along after a sports compact full of lawyers.

  Afterwards, we kept to sight and skill. Nothing fancy.

  Night had fallen once more, when the undead football player pulled off Interstate 70 and into Saddle Brook, just south of the Ohio River still in Kentucky. On the other bank of the river was the pleasant industrial town of Cincinnati. Despite its nickname, Cin was an ultra-squeaky clean place. Vulgar language in front of ladies was not permitted, pornographic magazines like The Physicians Medical Journal were not allowed to be sold, and once the locals had tried to edit the word hell out of the Bible.

  However, Saddle Brook was where the people from Cincinnati went to remember what a good time was. The streets were lined with massage parlors, adult bookstores, strip joints—both male and female—leather bars, biker taverns, saloons and 24 hour liquor supermarkets. Drug deals took place with total lack of regard for police or witnesses. Every window had iron grills, every door was triple locked, and we passed an all-night gun store. It kind of made me feel homesick for South Chicago. I wished we had the chance to stop so I could get some proper ammo. But our marathon vampire sailed on past, and I waved bye-bye to the boxes of semi-steel jacketed, hollow point, Magnum Express Supremes. They went in like a finger, came out like a fist. Now that was a proper bullet!

  Everywhere in sight, prostitutes jostled whores and streetwalkers, their outfits more garish and hair more colors than anything I had ever seen before in this dimension. Weaving through the heavy traffic, I started to explain the technical differences between the types to Raul, when the mage told me he already knew. Maybe my buddy did at that. Raul Horta was from New York, and no Boy Scout.

  We both gave a groan of relief as the Compact Kid pulled into the parking lot of La Petite Court; a combination motel, strip joint, nude mud wrestling parlor and topless bar. It was not much more than a carnal amusement park, where the rides charged by the quarter hour.

  The teenage terror chose the strip joint and left the vehicle unlocked. He wasn't coming back. Bingo. He also had c
hanged into street clothes somewhere along the way. That gave me an idea.

  “Base of operations, or relay point,” Raul postulated, his attention momentarily distracted by a buxom young lady with the most amazing ability to defy gravity.

  Keeping a hand on the steering wheel, I glanced at my watch. Six hours till midnight and the equinox. “Let's find out,” I said, parking the car and saying goodbye to the vehicle. In this neighborhood, an unattended Corvette wouldn't last ten minutes.

  “We'll need a disguise,” Raul stated, climbing out from the front seat. “Especially since he has seen our faces. Not to mention snacked on our hearts. I have recharged quite a bit in the last eighteen hours. Want me to do some magic?”

  “Honey, I can do you magic,” boasted a platinum blonde Oriental in low-cut lavender spandex and fake mink stole.

  We tended our apologies for the misconception, discreetly moved on and lowered our goddamn voices.

  “Better save it,” I decided, testing the draw on my Magnums. “Let's do this the normal way.”

  Glancing at the human stew swirling around us, I chose my first customer. A skinny man dressed in leather and smoking a cigarette in a sequined holder. In my opinion, he had on far too much mascara.

  “How much for the leather jacket?” I asked.

  The question amused him. “Just the jacket, or me in it?” he countered.

  “Ah, just the jacket.”

  “Two hundred bucks.”

  I flashed cash. “One hundred.”

  “Done!” We exchanged goods.

  “Excuse me, miss,” Raul said to a mature woman in fringed vest, mini-shirt and dirty white boots. “I wish to purchase your vest. How much?”

  In a calculating manner, her wide red lips snapped juicy gum. The woman's bountiful jewelry must have weighed almost as much as she did. “Forty dollars.”

  “Twenty five, and toss in the gloves.”

  “You got it, handsome,” the lady said, jingling as she removed the garment. Nothing but flesh was underneath. This place was worse than Hong Kong. Just then, our Corvette rolled by and disappeared into traffic. Told you so.

  “And an extra ten for the crucifix,” Raul suggested.

  She glanced downward at her ample breasts. “I got one of those? Okay, sure.”

  Nobody else seemed promising, except a biker gang lounging on the corner, so I tried there next. Not every motorcycle rider was a thrill-kill nutcase. Many were very decent people, who simply enjoyed the freedom of the road. Peaceful, law abiding, patriotic folk.

  “Nice hogs,” I complemented as an opener. “My friend and I need some clothes to change our looks. And fast. Wanna sell?”

  For some reason this seemed to vastly interest them.

  “And what you offering, Mr. Money?” a bald fat boy asked, snapping a switchblade into life. His cronies chuckled and displayed more lethal ironmongery.

  Ho-hum, so much for doing it the nice way. I drew both of the .357 Magnums and let ‘em have a good look. “I'm offering a half ounce of hot lead apiece. Any takers?”

  Their heads shook no, then yes. Then no again. Impatiently, I gestured towards the alley. The question was so complex, it might take them a week to figure an answer.

  “Move,” I commanded, and they hustled into the darkness.

  Five minutes and six low-grade Sleep spells later, a punk rocker and a hippie strode in the strip joint. Once we were past the front door and photograph lined hallway, the music, laughter, noise, lights, smoke and smell formed a tangible atmosphere that threatened to overload the senses. I pocketed my Bureau sunglasses. They were useless in here.

  The place was a standard bump-and-grind establishment. Small tables were clustered around an equally small stage backed by a tremendous mirror greasy with handprints. On the runway was a pair of skinny, semi-clad women dancing listlessly to the hottest rock tunes, the volume loud enough to sterilize camels. A disco ball hanging from the black ceiling scattered light dots in a vain attempt to generate excitement. Hostesses in ripped lingerie loitered near every table, hoping to find a lonely drunk who wished their company. At fifty bucks a drink.

  Pitiful. My bachelor party had started in a place like this. I was bored then and I was bored now. None of the women were pretty, could dance and there were probably more diseases floating about in this dump than an illegal military virus factory. I felt itchy just standing here.

  Motioning in sign language, I grabbed a vacant stool at the bar, while Raul took a table. We each ordered drinks. That was mandatory in a place such as this, or else the burly bouncer let you sample his tasty homemade knuckle sandwich. Watching our adolescent undead, I noted that the boy seemed much too intense to be reporting a victory to the boss. In the rear of my brain, I was starting to get a terrible suspicion that this was not the end of the line, but merely a pit stop and our quarterback was going to feed.

  JESSICA!

  Still silence.

  Over in a dark corner, Dracula Jr. was chatting with an almost pretty young hostess in a satin lace teddy, spiked heel shoes and not much else. He smiled. She shook her head no. He grabbed her wrist. She looked him in the eyes, paused and then woodenly nodded yes. Hell and damnation! The bastard was here for blood!

  Shuffling through the crowd, the undead high school student escorted her into a back room. We rose to follow, but they promptly reappeared and she was pulling on a coat. Keeping his face towards the wall, Raul sauntered around behind them and rejoined me at the bar.

  “What now?” Raul asked tensely.

  Buying some time to think, I took a sip of my drink and spit it back into the glass. Yuck! My mother made better tequila than this slop. “Continue to follow. This vampire is our only lead.”

  Just then, an oily bald man in skin-tight leather walked up to Raul and made the most astonishing suggestion. Completely unperturbed, Raul snorted in disdain, and the man departed pouting. Hey, wearing an earring did not mean you were gay. Just ask any pirate.

  “And at what point do we stop him from killing the girl?” Raul demanded, hand tight on his wizard staff.

  Sadly, I had known this question was coming, and was braced for the response. Five hours, thirty minutes till the World Mage Spell. If it was successful, humanity would be facing a god. An actual, Grade A, full-fledged god. There was little choice as to what we had to do.

  “We don't stop him,” I said honestly, feeling weary to my very soul. “In fact, I hope he kills her as soon as possible. Her death may be our only chance of saving the world.”

  Raul's jaw sagged.

  ELEVEN

  The mage recovered in under a heartbeat and stared at me as if I was a door-to-door Betamax salesman.

  “What was that?” Raul demanded, through clenched teeth.

  “This may be our sole hope of ever finding Mystery man,” I explained coldly, resting my arm on the table to lean closer. “Look, we're not dealing with a pro, but a high school kid. He just won the big game and wants to party. This is his celebration. Afterwards, he'll report to the boss.”

  Chewing air for a few moments, the mage had trouble speaking. “This is totally unacceptable,” he finally gushed.

  “Friend, don't make me pull rank.”

  He snorted. “Screw you and the regulations you rode in on. The whole purpose of the Bureau is to protect people from just this kind of danger, not put parsley behind their ears and ring a dinner bell!”

  Our conversation was starting to draw unwanted attention, so we moved to another corner where we could still keep watch. A hostess came over and we shooed her away by ordering more watery drinks.

  Scrutinizing our boy through a curtained window, we saw him and the girl walk across the parking lot, over to the motel section and enter a room. Only minutes remaining in which to act. If we were going to do anything, and we weren't.

  “Ed, please!” the mage implored, tears in his eyes.

  Slumping in my seat, I sighed, “No.”

  “But we have to do something!”
<
br />   “You got any ideas?”

  “Damn straight,” Raul growled. “We snatch the boob and wring the information out of him. Better to torture a monster, than let an innocent get killed.”

  “Wrong,” I said with conviction. “Because anything the slave vampire knows, Rasamor knows. I mean, Mystery Man should know.”

  “But he may not!”

  Lifting a wrist, I displayed my watch. “Can we take that chance?”

  Raul's face underwent a wide variety of expressions, none of them pleasant, until at last he accepted the awful truth.

  “Come on,” I said standing. “Let's go.” Tossing a few bills onto the table, I started shoving my way through the drunk, leering crowd. The waitress moved in fast to get the cash before a patron did. Before joining me, Raul downed his drink and then mine. For once, I said nothing to stop him. All mages drink. Raul just a bit more than the rest, and for good reasons.

  A short talk and surreptitious money exchange with the reception clerk of the motel, Raul and me got the room with our lucky number on it, which by purest coincidence just happened to be right next door to Vampire Boy and his unwilling date. In the room, we dimmed the lights and Raul produced a peeper pen. Sheathed in teflon coated surgical steel, you could easily shove it into almost any wall and the needle tip made only a minuscule hole in the other side. Inside the pen was a prism and lens assembly that gave a wide-angle view of what was happening in the next room. There wasn't a PI in the civilized world that didn't have one, or would admit that they did.

  Braced for what I might see, I took the first look. “Goddamn it, we're behind a picture!”

  Moving the peeper a foot to the right, we gauged the location of the picture from the position of the portrait in our room, and managed to get a clear view this time. It wasn't pretty.

  Pert breasts sticking up from a ripped lace bra, the girl was spread-eagle on the bed, hand and legs tied to the four corners with torn sheets, panties dangling off an ankle. He was stark naked, his lean body pumping hard. But suddenly he stopped, and she got an expression of raw terror contorting her face. She started to struggle wildly. The boy laughed and buried his mouth onto her neck. The girl went stiff, her fingers clawing at the air.