Practical Demonkeeping pc-1

by Christopher Moore

  “Yeah,” Rivera said, “I thought it needed some of the Nailgun’s wizardry.”

  The Spider swept the junk food from the top of the typing table into the wastebasket and patted the top of the table. “Let’s see what you have.”

  Rivera placed the suitcase on the table and opened it. The Spider immediately began to shuffle through the papers, picking up a piece here or there, reading it, and throwing it back into the pile.

  “This is a mess.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’ll need to put this into the system to make any sense of it. I can’t use a scanner on handwritten material. You’ll have to read it to me while I input.”

  The Spider turned to one of his keyboards and began typing. “Give me a second to set up a data base format.”

  As far as Rivera was concerned, the Spider could be speaking Swahili. Despite himself, Rivera admired the man’s efficiency and expertise. His fat fingers were a blur on the keyboard.

  After thirty seconds of furious typing the Spider paused. “Okay, read me the names, addresses, and dates, in that order.”

  “So you need me to sort them out?”

  “No. The machine will do that.”

  Rivera began to read the names and addresses from each slip of paper, deliberately pausing so as not to get ahead of the Spider’s typing.

  “Faster, Rivera. You won’t get ahead of me.”

  Rivera read faster, throwing each paper on the floor as he finished with it.

  “Faster,” the Spider demanded.

  “I can’t go any faster. At this speed if I mispronounce a name, I could lose control and get a serious tongue injury.”

  For the first time since Rivera had known him the Spider laughed.

  “Take a break, Rivera. I get so used to working with machines that I forget people have limitations.”

  “What’s going on here?” Rivera said. “Is the Nailgun losing his sarcastic edge?”

  The Spider looked embarrassed. “No. I wanted to ask you about something.”

  Rivera was shocked. The Spider was almost omniscient, or so he pretended. This was a day for firsts. “What do you need?” he said.

  The Spider blushed. Rivera had never seen that much flaccid flesh change color. He imagined that it put an incredible strain on the Spider’s heart.

  “You’ve been working in Pine Cove, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever run into a girl up there named Roxanne?”

  Rivera thought for a moment, then said no.

  “Are you sure?” The Spider’s voice had taken on a tone of desperation. “It’s probably a nickname. She works at the Rooms-R-Us Motel. I’ve run the name against Social Security records, credit reports, everything. I can’t seem to find her. There are over ten thousand women in California with the name Roxanne, but none of them check out.”

  “Why don’t you just drive up to Pine Cove and meet her?”

  The Spider’s color deepened. “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why not? What’s the deal with this woman, anyway? Does it have to do with a case?”

  “No, it’s… it’s a personal thing. We’re in love.”

  “But you’ve never met her?”

  “Well, yes, sort of — we talk by modem every night. Last night she didn’t log on. I’m worried about her.”

  “Nailsworth, are you telling me that you are having a love affair with a woman by computer?”

  “It’s more than an affair.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Well, if you could just check on her. See if she’s all right. But she can’t know I sent you. You mustn’t tell her I sent you.”

  “Nailsworth, I’m an undercover cop. Being sneaky is what I do for a living.”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  “If you can find something in these names that will bail me out, I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks, Rivera.”

  “Let’s finish this.” Rivera picked up a matchbook and read the name and address. The Spider typed the information, but as Rivera began to read the next name, he heard the Spider pause on the keyboard.

  “Is something wrong?” Rivera asked.

  “Just one more thing,” Nailsworth said.

  “What?”

  “Could you find out if she’s modeming someone else?”

  “Santa Maria, Nailsworth! You are a real person.”

  -=*=-

  Three hours later Rivera was sitting at his desk waiting for a call from the Spider. While he was in the computer room, someone had left a dog-eared paperback on his desk. Its title was You Can Have a Career in Private Investigation. Rivera suspected Perez. He had thrown the book in the wastebasket.

  Now, with his only suspect back out on the street and nothing forthcoming from the Spider, Rivera considered fishing the book out of the trash.

  The phone rang, and Rivera ripped it from its cradle.

  “Rivera,” he said.

  “Rivera, it’s the Nailgun.”

  “Did you find something?” Rivera fumbled for a cigarette from the pack on his desk. He found it impossible to talk on the phone without smoking.

  “I think I have a connection, but it doesn’t work out.”

  “Don’t be cryptic, Nailsworth. I need something.”

  “Well, first I ran the names through the Social Security computer. Most of them are deceased. Then I noticed that they were all vets.”

  “Vietnam?”

  “World War One.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. They were all World War One vets, and all of them had a first or middle initial E. I should have caught that before I even input it. I tried to run a correlation program on that and came up with nothing. Then I ran the addresses to see if there was a geographical connection.”

  “Anything there?”

  “No. For a minute I thought you’d found someone’s research project on World War One, but just to be sure, I ran the file through the new data bank set up by the Justice Department in Washington. They use it to find criminal patterns where there aren’t any. In effect it makes the random logical. They use it to track serial killers and psychopaths.”

  “And you found nothing?”

  “Not exactly. The files at the Justice Department only go back thirty years, so that eliminated about half of the names on your list. But the other ones rang the bell.”

  “Nailsworth, please try to get to the point.”

  “In each of the cities listed in your file there was at least one unexplained disappearance around the date listed — not the vets; other people. You can eliminate the large cities as coincidence, but hundreds of these disappearances were in small towns.”

  “People disappear in small towns too. They run away to the city. They drown. You can’t call that a connection.”

  “I thought you’d say that, so I ran a probability program to get the odds on all of this being coincidence.”

  “So?” Rivera was getting tired of Nailsworth’s dramatics.

  “So the odds of someone having a file of the dates and locations of unexplained disappearances over the last thirty years and it being a coincidence is ten to the power of fifty against.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Which means, about the same odds as you’d have of dragging the wreck of the Titanic out of a trout stream with a fly rod. Which means, Rivera, you have a serious problem.”

  “Are you telling me that this suitcase belongs to a serial killer?”

  “A very old serial killer. Most serial killers don’t even start until their thirties. If we assume that this one was cooperative enough to start when the Justice Department’s files start, thirty years ago, he’d be over sixty now.”

  “Do you think it goes farther back?”

  “I picked some dates and locations randomly, going back as far as 1925. I called the libraries in the towns and had them check the newspapers for stories of disappearances. It checked out. Your man co
uld be in his nineties. Or it could be a son carrying on his father’s work.”

  “That’s impossible. There must be another explanation. Come on, Nailsworth, I need a bailout here. I can’t pursue an investigation of a geriatric serial killer.”

  “Well, it could be an elaborate research project that someone is doing on missing persons, but that doesn’t explain the World War One vets, and it doesn’t explain why the researcher would write the information on matchbook covers and business cards from places that have been out of business for years.”

  “I don’t understand.” Rivera felt as if he were stuck in the Spider’s web and was waiting to be eaten.

  “It appears that the notes themselves were written as far back as fifty years ago. I could send them to the lab to confirm it if you want.”

  “No. Don’t do that.” Rivera didn’t want it confirmed. He wanted it to go away. “Nailsworth, isn’t possible that the computer is making some impossible connections? I mean, it’s programmed to find patterns — maybe it went overboard and made this one up?”

  “You know the odds, Sergeant. The computer can’t make anything up; it can only interpret what’s put into it. If I were you, I’d pull my suspect out of holding and find out where he got the suitcase.”

  “I cut him loose. The D.A. said I didn’t have enough to charge him.”

  “Find him,” Nailsworth said.

  Rivera resented the authoritarian tone in Nailsworth’s voice, but he let it go. “I’m going now.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “One of your addresses was in Pine Cove. You want it?”

  “Of course.”

  Nailsworth read the name and address to Rivera, who wrote it down on a memo pad.

  “There was no date on this one, Sergeant. Your killer might still be in the area. If you get him, it would be the bailout you’re looking for.”

  “It’s too fantastic.”

  “And don’t forget to check on Roxanne for me, okay?” The Spider hung up.

  30

  JENNY

  Jenny had arrived at work a half hour late expecting to find Howard waiting behind the counter to reprimand her in his own erudite way. Strangely enough, she didn’t care. Even more strange was the fact that Howard had not shown up at the cafe all morning.

  Considering that she had drunk two bottles of wine, eaten a heavy Italian meal and everything in the refrigerator, and stayed up all night making love, she should have been tired, but she wasn’t. She felt wonderful, full of humor and energy, and not a little excited. When she thought of her night with Travis, she grinned and shivered. There should be guilt, she thought. She was, technically, a married woman. Technically, she was having an illicit affair. But she had never been very technically minded. Instead of guilt she felt happy and eager to do it all again.

  From the moment she got to work she began counting the hours until she got off after the lunch shift. She was at one hour and counting when the cook announced that there was a call for her in the office.

  She quickly refilled her customer’s coffee cups and headed to the back. If it was Robert, she would just act like nothing had happened. She wasn’t exactly in love with someone else as he suspected. It was… it didn’t matter what it was. She didn’t have to explain anything. If it was Travis — she hoped it was Travis.

  She picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Jenny?” It was a woman’s voice. “It’s Rachel. Look, I’m having a special ritual this afternoon at the caves. I need you to be there.”

  Jennifer did not want to go to a ritual.

  “I don’t know, Rachel, I have plans after work.”

  “Jennifer, this is the most important thing we’ve ever done, and I need you to be there. What time do you get off?”

  “I’m off at two, but I need to go home and change first.”

  “No, don’t do that. Come as you are — it’s really important.”

  “But I really…”

  “Please, Jenny. It will only take a few minutes.”

  Jennifer had never heard Rachel sound so adamant. Maybe it really was important.

  “Okay. I guess I can make it. Do you need me to call any of the others?”

  “No. I’ll do it. You just be at the caves as soon as you can after two.”

  “Okay, fine, I’ll be there.”

  “And Jenny” — Rachel’s voice had lowered an octave — “don’t tell anyone where you are going.” Rachel hung up.

  Jennifer immediately dialed her home phone and got the answering machine. “Travis, if you’re there, pick up.” She waited. He was probably still sleeping. “I’m going to be a little late. I’ll be home later this afternoon.” She almost said, “I love you,” but decided not to. She pushed the thought out of her mind. “Bye,” she said, and hung up.

  Now, if she could only avoid Robert until she could think of a way to destroy his hope for their reconciliation. Returning to the floor of the cafe, she realized that somewhere along the way her feeling of well-being had vanished and she felt very tired.

  31

  GOOD GUYS

  Augustus Brine, Travis, and Gian Hen Gian were squeezed into the seat of Brine’s pickup. As they approached Effrom and Amanda’s house, they spotted a beige Dodge parked in the driveway.

  “Do you know what kind of car they drive?” Travis asked.

  Brine was slowing down. “An old Ford, I think.”

  “Don’t slow down. Keep going,” Travis said.

  “But why?”

  “I’d bet anything that Dodge is a police car. There’s a whip antenna pinned down on the back.”

  “So what? You haven’t done anything illegal.” Brine wanted to get it over with and get some sleep.

  “Keep going. I don’t want to answer a lot of questions. We don’t know what Catch has been doing. We can come back later, after the police leave.”

  The Djinn said, “He has a point, Augustus Brine.”

  “All right.” Brine gunned the pickup and sped by.

  In a few minutes they were sitting in Jenny’s kitchen listening to the answering machine. They had gone in the back way to avoid the burnt, doughy mess in the front yard.

  “Well,” Travis said, resetting the machine, “that buys us a little time before we have to explain it to Jenny.”

  “Do you think Catch will come back here?” Brine asked.

  “I hope so,” Travis said.

  “Can’t you concentrate your will on bringing him back until we can find out if Amanda still has the candlesticks?”

  “I’ve been trying. I don’t understand this much more than you do.”

  “Well, I need a drink,” Brine said. “Is there anything in the house?”

  “I doubt it. Jenny said she couldn’t keep anything in the house or her husband would drink it. She drank all the wine last night.”

  “Even some cooking sherry would be fine,” Brine said, feeling a little sleazy as he spoke.

  Travis began going through the cupboards.

  “Should you find a small quantity of salt, I would be most grateful,” the Djinn said.

  Travis found a box of salt among the spices and was handing it to the Djinn when the phone rang.

  They all froze and listened as the machine played Jenny’s outgoing message. After the beep there was a pause, then a woman’s voice. “Travis, pick up.” It was not Jenny.

  Travis looked to Brine. “No one knows I’m here.”

  “They do now. Pick it up.”

  Travis picked up the phone, and the answering machine clicked off.

  “This is Travis.”

  Brine watched the color drain out of the demonkeeper’s face as he listened. “Is she all right?” Travis said into the phone. “Let me talk to her. Who are you? Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

  Brine couldn’t imagine what was going on in the conversation.

  Suddenly Travis screamed into the phone, “He’s not an Earth spirit — he’s a
demon. How can you be so stupid?”

  Travis listened for a moment more, then looked at Augustus Brine and covered the receiver with his hand. “Do you know where there are some caves to the north of town?”

  “Yes,” Brine said, “the old mushroom farm.”

  Travis spoke into the phone, “Yes, I can find it. I’ll be there at four.” He sat down hard on one of the kitchen chairs and let the phone fall into its cradle.

  “What’s going on?” Brine demanded.

  Travis was shaking his head. “Some woman is holding Jennifer and Amanda and her husband hostage. Catch is with her and she has the candlesticks. And you were right, there are three invocations.”

  “I don’t understand,” Brine said. “What does she want?”

  “She thinks that Catch is some kind of benevolent Earth spirit. She wants his power.”

  “Humans are so ignorant,” the Djinn said.

  “But what does she want with you?” Brine asked. “She has the candlesticks and the invocations.”

  “They’re in Greek. They want me to translate the invocations or they’ll kill Jenny.”

  “Let them,” the Djinn said. “Perhaps you can bring Catch under control with the woman dead.”

  Travis exploded. “They thought of that, you little troll! If I don’t show up at four, they’ll kill Jenny and destroy the invocation. Then we’ll never be able to send Catch back.”

  Augustus Brine checked his watch. “We’ve got exactly an hour and a half to come up with a plan.”

  “Let us retire to the saloon and consider our options,” the Djinn said.

  32

  THE HEAD OF THE SLUG

  Augustus Brine led the way into the Head of the Slug. Travis followed, and Gian Hen Gian shuffled in last. The saloon was nearly empty: Robert was sitting at the bar, another man sat in the dark at a table in the back, and Mavis was behind the bar. Robert turned as they entered. When he saw Travis, he jumped off the stool.

  “You fucking asshole!” Robert screamed. He stormed toward Travis with his fist cocked for a knockout blow. He got four steps before Augustus Brine threw out a massive forearm that caught him in the forehead. There was a flash of tennis shoes flailing in the air as Robert experienced the full dynamic range of the clothesline effect. A second later he lay on the floor unconscious.