My team gave expressions of total bewilderment and the enemy alchemist only laughed in delight. Thirty seconds.
With a dry mouth, I forced a swallow. Here goes nothing. “AND AS A DULY AUTHORIZED LAW ENFORCEMENT AGENT OF THE JUSTICE DEPARTMENT OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT, I HEREBY CONFISCATE THIS WORK SHOP, IMPOUND THAT BOOK AND DECLARE THIS STORE A SEALED CRIMINAL SCENE, CLOSED TO ALL BUT AUTHORIZED POLICE OFFICIALS!”
With a thunderclap, the book slammed shut and the winds died. Caught by surprise, my team took a full second to reorient themselves. Alchemist Al had no such lapse.
Even as the magical boundary of the pentagram faded away, I sprayed him with the M16, the hardball and tumbling bullets punching a line of holes in his kimono. Screaming in pain, the baby mage raised an arm high, crushed a vial in his fist and vanished from sight about one heartbeat ahead of a staggering barrage of bullets, arrows, lightning bolts, rockets, missiles, shells, grenades, Fire Lance, Ice Storm, Death spell, Sleep spell, microwaves and every other assorted deathdealer the rest of my grim teammates possessed.
The rear cinder block wall disappeared under the fusillade, a mountain of dirt poured in and a section of the burning building crashed down around us. Bitterly, I cursed as we headed for the stairs. We had failed. Failed! Oh, we had stopped Laughing Boy for the moment. But he was still free and had, I checked my wristwatch, 58 minutes to conqueror the world. We didn't even know his name yet, or where he would go next.
Fifty seven minutes till doomsday.
FOURTEEN
“Okay, everybody search for clues!” I ordered, above the crackle of the flames and rumble of tumbling masonry. “We've got to know where this asshole went!”
Forcing our way out of the wind swept laboratory, my team squeezed past the ruin of the door, kicking aside mounds of dead rodents. With a finger snap, Katrina made the stonework wall ahead of us vanish. I raised an eyebrow. Guess canceling a spell that you cast didn't require any magic. We crossed the basement to clamber up the rickety staircase. Lying on their backs in the flames, cockroaches burst like popcorn and Jessica tripped on a blackened alligator. Even dead those things were dangerous. The ice wall at the top of the stairs was easy to breach, as the flames had already softened the material tremendously. A few machine gun bursts and the frozen air shattered into a pretty snowstorm, the white flakes vaporizing before they hit the floor. On the other side were a thousand smoking corpses, human and non, but the animal army was gone. When Mystery Man had fled, so did his influence.
The heat was almost unbearable as we reached the store, so Raul formed a tiny rain cloud over us, its cooling downpour giving much needed protection from the roaring inferno we nervously stood amid.
“Jessica where did Mystery Man discuss the matter most frequently?” Father Donaher asked urgently, loosening the starched white collar of his cassock.
Gamely, the telepath closed her eyes and slowly rotated, once, twice, paused, then jerked her head upwards. “Second story somewhere.”
“His private office!” I cried, remembering the desk and vault. “Triple time, harch!”
The stairs were gone, so we tilted a relatively undamaged bookcase against the charred wall, the sturdy shelves served well as temporary rungs. Tainting the thick smoke filling the store was the rancid pork smell of roasting human flesh. As horrible as it sounds, it made me both nauseous and hungry.
On the point, I went first. Reaching the upper story, I stood erect and checked for danger with gun at the ready. But the place was ablaze; shelves held neat lines of burning books, piles and stacks of paperbacks flared with sputtering flames from the ignited glue in their perfect bindings, the green metal file cabinets had warped from the intense heat spilling their contents to the fire, the linoleum tiles on the floor were melting, embers filled the air and fried bats littered the place making it resemble the aftereffects of a truly Homeric Halloween party. My dead football player was only smoking bones and discolored metal endo-skeleton.
Grabbing a warm fire extinguisher from the wall, I hosed us a foamy zone of safety to the next room. The floor tiles were sticky, but passable. In the office, the updraft from the hole in the roof, fed the flames as a bellows, making it hotter and even more difficult to breath.
At the desk, Raul tapped the bedraggled piece of office furniture with his silver staff, making the wood ring. “Speak!” the mage invoked. “Tell us what you know of your master's plans should failure come here. SPEAK!”
Muted groans and creaks came from the battered piece of mahogany, “...go into self-publishing ... maybe become an author...”
“No, not that! Speak of your master's plans concerning the book of magic he has recently obtained!” the angry wizard corrected.
“...no fail ... was impossible...”
So the arrogant fool firmly believed that he would have succeeded. There was no contingency plan. Maybe we had won. With twenty or so U.S. Army tumblers in your chest, almost anybody should be wearing grass for a hat. But could we chance it? No.
“Find the safe!” I bellowed, pouring sweat stinging my eyes.
“Here!” Jessica yelled, pushing over a stack of UFO magazines with the barrel of her Uzi.
Stepping close, I inquisitively touched the stout metal box with a finger, but immediately jerked away. My skin was a glossy white. Boy, was that going to hurt tomorrow.
Using our helmets, the team formed a bucket brigade from the bathroom, conveying endless amounts of tap water which we splashed upon the safe, each sizzled into steam upon contact. But even with Raul's rainstorm, we were clearly fighting a losing battle. Now the floor was growing uncomfortably hot to stand on even through our boots. Pretty soon, this place would reach critical tinderbox temperatures and explode.
Yet we kept on. The contents of that safe might be our only chance of tracking Mystery Man. Fifty-three minutes. Then the water only bubbled instead of steamed and Ken tucked the safe under one mighty arm. What a man!
Sprinting for the east wall, George blasted us an exit and we painfully jumped over the alley to the lower roof of the gas station. A gas station? Swell. What, no dynamite factory nearby to also be endangered?
Just then, the bookstore roof gave a mighty creak and collapsed with the roar of splintering wood. Spiraling gouts of red and orange flame formed a volcano into the sky, spewing an endless supply of embers and ash over the sleeping Cincinnati.
Dropping to the cooler back alley, we found Mindy still engaged in furious combat with Bruce Lee JR, their swords clanging audibly above the oncoming fire engines bells and police sirens.
“Alli-alli-oxen-free!” I shouted through cupped hands.
Reluctantly, Mindy broke and ran. Grinning in triumph, the vampire started after her and we cut him to ribbons with our weapons.
“Wow,” Mindy panted as she joined us near a dumpster. “He was really good.” Her sweaty body was trembling with near exhaustion.
“Well, now he's really dead,” George snapped, prying aside the manhole cover.
Sojourning through the smelly sewer, we surfaced on the other side of the street and took refugee in our van. Affecting repairs, we watched as police, fire engines and a helicopter arrived on the scene, hordes of reporters pushing their way through a growing crowd of civilians. Guess this was big news for Cin.
After bandaging my finger, I obtained gloves and a stethoscope from the equipment locker and got busy with the safe.
“Ed, what's taking so long?” Donaher asked after a whole minute.
Using only fingertip pressure, I manipulated the dial, spin left, spin right, jiggle-jiggle. “Its an excellent model,” I irritably snapped. “Top of the line. Even an expert yegg, a master safecracker, would have a tough job opening this box.”
Pushing me aside, George slapped a lump of C4 plastique onto the dial, pressed a button on the battery pack in his hand whose two wires led into the gray, clay material and with a subdued bang, the door jumped ajar.
“Usually,” I corrected, both hands busy
digging into the massed papers. I passed them on to Jessica who memorized each with a glance.
“Deed, tax receipts, insurance forms, nothing but normal business papers. Ah!” she cried in delight. “His name is Wilson C. LaRue!”
“Sure?” Mindy asked, draining a quart of that nasty tasting sports drink which is supposed to be good for you.
“Passport photograph matches the face we saw on the guy in the pentagram.”
“Never heard of him,” Raul stated, glancing at the picture.
As if that meant anything, 90% of the bad guys we fight are unknowns. The rest are major historical figures.
“Raul, Katrina, how long do we have before LaRue can perform the conjure again?” Father Donaher asked, sliding a new clean collar about his neck. As always, when dealing with vampires, his priestly dogcollar was lined with steel.
In response, Katrina shrugged and turned to Raul. This must be out of her league as a beginner mage.
“Normally, it should take a person a couple of hours to recover from the systemic shock of having the spell disrupted,” Raul started, scratching at a bite on his cheek. “But as Mystery Man is in actuality three people, we had better operate in the assumption that it will only take him, say, forty minutes.”
Giving Mr. LaRue forty minutes for him to try and conqueror the world once more. We were down ten minutes already, leaving only 30 minutes for us to search the entire continental Unites States and locate this crazy bastard. Then blow him to hell in nine pieces.
Going to the computer terminal, I annexed the telephone modem and dialed 1-8-0-0-B-U-R-E-A-U-1-3. It was time to bring in the big guns. There was a hum, a click and then nothing. I tried again and got the same. As we murmured among ourselves, Raul and Katrina held a fast conference.
“When LaRue started the Big Drain, he caused major disruptions in the ethereal dimension,” Raul said scowling.
“First things to go would be highest magiks,” Katrina added, her thick accent noticeably absent.
“Like pocket universes,” Jess postulated.
They nodded.
So the Bureau was temporarily trapped in another dimension. Oh swell. We were totally alone on this one, with literally everything riding on our decisions. I sighed. So be it. Because unlike LaRue, I had a contingency plan. That was how we kept winning against the monsters. Usually.
Rummaging in my locker, I unearthed a codebook given to me years ago by the president as a reward and dialed a number so secret I couldn't even let the rest of team see what it was.
“CIA Information Center,” a calm female voice said from the monitor. There was no picture. “How can I help you Mr. Alvarez?”
Most impressive. My mouth started to ask a hundred questions, but we were in a hurry. “This is a priority one request. There is nothing more important.”
“Accepted,” she replied. “I am ready. Go.”
“I need a full personal read-out on a Wilson C. LaRue. Most importantly, any land or property that he has legal access to.”
There came the faint sound of tapping. “Working,” the voice said. “Wilson Charles LaRue, the only child of Brian and Willma LaRue. Father was professional magician; stage name ‘The Amazing LaRue'. Mother a carnival Tarot reader; ‘Wondrous Wilma'. Both deceased. Wilson was born in Dayton Ohio, October 23, 1948, Dayton General Hospital. Graduated from Cambridge Elementary School 1964, Dayton High School 1968. No criminal record. Served four years in the U.S. Navy stationed at Fort Hamilton as an assistant librarian. Discharged with honor. Currently a member of the Naval reserve. Owns and operates an occult bookstore in Cincinnati, Ohio, #435 North 8th Street. LaRue Books. Owns a 1989 red Toyota Corolla, vanity license plate: Matthew Adam George Ink Charles. Has leased a post office box #666 for his mail order business at the main branch of the Cincinnati Post Office. Rents a 10 by 6 storage locker at You-Store-It, Mulberry Drive, Cincinnati. Contents unknown. Had a safety Deposit box at People's Federal Bank. Lease expired and he withdrew the contents eight days ago. Rents with an option to buy a house, 2842 West Morris Avenue.” She gave a pause. “No other listed properties in either the IRS, state land registry, post office, FBI, Federal Banking Reserve, Justice Department, Pentagon, or CIA computer files.”
She hadn't listed the Bureau. But that was because we didn't exist. “You sure that's everything?”
“Are there any other questions?”
Damn! “No. Thanks.”
“Good luck,” she said, and the line went dead.
The unremarkable story on an ordinary man living an unspecial life. The safety deposit box was where he probably kept the cash receipts from his business. Raul had already said that buying the ingredients for the alchemist spell would cost a small fortune. The occult book business was a natural after learning what his parents used to do for a living. Apparently, Wilson had simply gotten his hands on the wrong book, one that contained real alchemical potions, and the rest is a sad story of power addiction and murder.
“Three places to search,” Ken noted with a frown. “Sir, should we split into smaller teams?”
“Faith, lad, we're not sure that we can take this guy as a group,” Father Donaher countered. “Smaller teams are just asking for a disaster.”
“We've got to hit him as a unit,” Mindy agreed, brandishing a scarred fist. “But where? At which location?”
“All of them,” I answered, buckling my seatbelt. “George, do your stuff!”
Jumping behind the wheel, George hit the gas and I swear to god that our fourteen ton van did a wheely pulling away from the curb.
“Sir, I mean, Ed,” Katrina said hesitantly, as we rocketed through the empty streets. “Might not LaRue have another legal name?”
“Explain,” I demanded.
“In Russia, actors can have stage name and it is their second legal name. Your John Wayne could write checks under that pseudonym, but born as Marion M. Morrison.”
“No good,” I countered. “Everybody's name is listed with the IRS. If he had another, we'd know it.”
“A question, sir?” Ken asked, scratching an armpit.
“Yeah?”
“Since LaRue has absorbed the powers of Tanner and Rasamor Hoto, might it be possible that he has some nebulous legal claim on their property?”
Seven jaws sagged.
“Jesus H. Tap Dancing Christ!” I cried. “Yes!”
Father Donaher smacked me on the head and I apologized.
Scrambling for the phone, I hit redial and quickly explained. Tanner was an alien machine and thus of highly questionable legal status, so it couldn't own any property. However, Rasamor Hoto was filthy rich.
“Negative,” I announced replacing the receiver. “Hoto has been in our custody for ten years and thus has been declared legally dead. As a foreign national, his property was been confiscated by the Japanese government and resold.”
As Jessica loaded her taser and Raul consulted his crystal ball, Mindy ripped open a jumbo bag of dried fruit snacks. Instantly alert at the sound of food, Amigo was by her side, forked tongue lagging, scaly tail wagging.
“You know, I didn't see any coffins in that store,” Ken said, thoughtfully rubbing the scar on his cheek.
Father Donaher dismissed that idea. “A vampire needs a dirt filled coffin to rest in when they're not in their homeland. An American vampire, in American, can sleep at the Holiday Inn with impunity.”
“Fascinating,” he said, sounding impressed.
“Sure makes ‘em a bitch to find, though” Mindy munched.
Ain't it the truth.
We hit the storage place first. Nada. Just old furniture and mementos of his parents, family photos, pressed flowers in albums, a big box of eight track tapes. Guess everybody had some of those around somewhere gathering dust. As the team took its leave, Donaher blessed the metal cubicle, Katrina spot-welded the door shut and then Jessica sealed it as a criminal scene. Just in case Wilson did a surprise return. Twenty four minutes to go.
The post office box was
empty. LaRue had not shrunk himself to an inch in height and hidden inside, but I sealed it anyway. We were leaving nothing to chance.
There remained his house and 18 minutes.
The neighborhood was quiet and clean, as most were in Cincinnati. His house was a two story Cape Cod with bricking, a white picket fence and a smiling lawn jockey. Whew. This fiend would stop at nothing. His car was parked in front, but my sunglasses, binoculars, radar and infrared thermal scan showed the vehicle unoccupied.
Parking on the corner, I spotted a group of young adults singing in the backyard of a neighboring house. At midnight? They didn't sound drunk.
Rabbinical students from Hebrew Union College, sent Jessica.
Great. The innocent bystanders were also highly trained observers and just over the fence of a possible major battle. On the other hand, we might be able to use the seminary students to aid us against LaRue and his unholy slaves. Blood drinking vampires were the absolute archenemy of the Orthodox Jews.
The yard directly behind LaRue's home was empty, just grass and the house on the right had an above ground swimming pool full of water. An inflatable raft and a purple unicorn floated serenely in the calm chlorine. Mentally, I logged the position of the pool. It also could come in handy.
“Suggestions?” I asked.
“Blow the place to tinder with the Amsterdam missiles in the launching pod of the van,” Ken offered eagerly.
George grinned approval. He would.
“We go in silent,” I stated, because Katrina was drained. “Raul, how's the magic?”
Bending an ear, the mage listened to his staff, obviously not pleased with the answer. “One, maybe two, major spells then I'm kaput.”
“Dome of Silence?” Donaher asked hopefully.
I nodded.
“Done,” Raul said gesturing, his staff leaving sparkle trails in the air. Tongue between lips, Katrina hastily scribbled notes into her mostly blank book of spells.
Doomsday Exam [Bureau 13 #2] Page 19
