“That’s because I have the gift. But you should be very careful if you’re starting to see people who have passed beyond. Especially people you love.”
Dan looked up at his sheet hanging on the line. He had seen a movie once in which the outline of a dead woman’s face had appeared on a sheet, and he half expected it to happen now.
“I was there, on the balcony. She was standing right here, looking up at me.”
“Whatever you saw, Dan, it wasn’t her.”
“Annie, she looked totally real. Totally solid. The grass—she was throwing a shadow on the grass and everything. Her hair and her dress…they were being blown around by the wind. If she wasn’t real, how could that have happened?”
“Dan, you can see dead people in your dreams and they have shadows, don’t they? You can see dead people in movies and their hair gets blown by the wind. It wasn’t Gayle, I promise you.”
Dan took a deep breath. “Okay. It wasn’t Gayle. But if I see her again—or it, or whatever she is—I’ll make sure that you get to see her, too.”
“That’s a deal.”
Annie opened a bottle of zinfandel, and they talked for over a half hour. She explained to him how witches could move solid objects from one place to another—from one room to another, from one city to another, even from one country to another.
“Transportation was discovered by the ancient Druids. They realized that everything in the world is connected by a network of what they called ley lines, and that anything could be moved along these ley lines by using the Earth’s own natural magnetism—especially anything made of metal or stone with any kind of metallic ore in it. But living creatures, too, because they contain minerals. People, even.”
“How about you? Have you ever managed to do it?”
Annie shook her head. “Once I tried to make all my dirty dishes vanish from the dinner table and reappear in the dishwasher, but they wouldn’t.”
“That sounds like Mickey Mouse in Fantasia, making all those broomsticks carry water for him. Maybe it only works if it’s something you’re passionate about. Or angry. Or vengeful.”
“Maybe I’m just not powerful enough,” Annie admitted. “Last night, I tried to locate that fourth witch again, the one who set fire to the map. I used salt, and I used needles. I even used a spider tied to a length of thread. I can sense that she’s very close. I can sense that much. She could be hiding in my closet for all I know. But she’s keeping herself very well cloaked.”
“We’ll find her. I have a feeling about it. That’s if she doesn’t find us first.”
Annie looked at him, wide eyed and serious. “This is scary, isn’t it? I mean, like, this is very scary. It seems like these witches can do whatever they want, and nobody can do anything to stop them.”
Dan held out his wine glass for a refill. “Nobody wants to believe in them, that’s why.”
“But you believe. And I believe.”
“Exactly. So it looks like stopping them is entirely up to us, doesn’t it?”
Dan climbed the steps back to his apartment. When he opened the door, he found that the living room was billowing with acrid smoke, as if the place was on fire. He pushed his way into the kitchen, coughing. His pizza was burned black, like charcoal. “Shit,” he said. He had lost his appetite after seeing Gayle, but this was all he needed.
He opened all the doors and windows to disperse the smoke. Then he went for a shower and washed his hair. He dressed in a black short-sleeved shirt and tan-colored chinos. As he came back into the living room, combing his hair, the NBC news was rerunning its footage of Chief O’Malley vomiting up the toad, over and over. This was followed by a discussion from a panel of experts—a Roman Catholic priest, a veterinarian, a gastroenterologist, and Roland Zod, the famous TV illusionist.
“From earliest times, the toad has had very strong religious associations,” said the priest, who had a crimson face and wild white hair. “The ancient Egyptians believed that the goddess Heket sprang out of the wetness of Ra’s mouth and that she looked exactly like a toad, as well as having the power to make the Nile flood every year. Even today the Orinoco Indians still beat toads to death with sticks, in the belief that this will make it rain.
“But in the Christian canon, toads have always been associated with heresy, and the devil. It is my personal belief that what happened to the chief of police this morning was a sign from Our Lord that we should return to the laws and morals of the Christian church.”
“So where do you suppose this unfortunate toad came from?” asked the veterinarian, blinking at him furiously.
“It was such a totally obvious trick,” said Roland Zod. He was thirtyish with a shiny, bald head and a pencil mustache. “It appeared that a toad came out of his mouth, yes. But in my opinion, it was a yellow balloon painted with eyes to make it look like a toad. The chief put his hand up to his mouth, spat out the balloon, which he immediately deflated and tucked into his cuff, and then dropped the real toad onto the floor.”
“Do we know if Chief O’Malley has ever had any training as a stage magician?” asked the gastroenterologist with undisguised sarcasm.
“And why would he resort to such a stunt?” asked the priest. “At best, it could only make him look ridiculous.”
“He did it to impress his audience,” Roland Zod retorted. “Jesus was always pulling off tricks like that to make his point. Changing water into wine, feeding five thousand people with nothing but a couple of fish, raising the dead. Well, the allegedly dead.”
“You’re trying to suggest that Jesus was nothing more than a conjuror?”
“A good conjuror. Maybe even a great conjuror. But I’m just asking you, Reverend, what is the most rational explanation for Chief O’Malley bringing up a live toad? Miracle, personal warning from God, or trick?”
Dan switched off the sound. It was plain that the media still had not been told about the toads in Chief O’Malley’s stomach, although a streamer along the bottom of the screen said, L.A. police chief still in critical condition at Cedars-Sinai.
He was on his way to the kitchen for another stout when the phone rang. It was Ernie.
“El Gordo! How’s it going, fella?”
“How’s it going? Everything is going loco. That’s why I’m calling you. Days is organizing a SWAT team to bring in Orestes Vasquez.”
“What? On what charge?”
“Well, it’s not for casting spells. From what I hear, the DA has managed to get an arrest warrant for some pissant immigration scam. Kitchen staff from Colombia with no green cards, something like that.”
“This is nuts. They don’t have any idea what they’re up against. You know that.”
“It may be nuts, but right now the LAPD is looking like a three-ring circus, and Days wants to show the media that he’s taking some action.”
“Why Vasquez? What about the Zombie? Annie thinks that it was Michelange DuPriz who worked that toad trick.”
“Listen, muchacho, don’t keep talking that black magic stuff, please. Days is going after Vasquez because Vasquez is the one who threatened Chief O’Malley if he interfered in any of his rackets. Days believes that Vasquez pulled off this toad thing by way of showing Chief O’Malley that he couldn’t break his promise without suffering the consequences.”
“Okay, maybe he’s right. But how the hell does he think that Vasquez did it, unless it was black magic?”
“Search me. And I don’t think Days has any idea either. Maybe he thinks he’s going to find something incriminating at Vasquez’s house.”
“What? Like a lily pond? This is madness, man. You’ve seen what we’re dealing with here.”
“Dan, you know where I stand on this. I’m willing to believe it if you can show me the evidence. But so far—okay, yes, you puked up all that money right in front of my eyes. But I was brought up to believe in God and the Virgin Mary and the Holy Spirit.”
“Oh, so nothing supernatural then? Do you know when SWAT is planning to go in?�
��
“Oh-three-hundred hours. When the White Ghost and most of his entourage are sleeping. Well, that’s what they hope, anyhow. They’ve asked for uniformed backup.”
“I’m going to call Days again. I have to. I can’t let him do this.”
“You think he’s going to call this off because of some cock-and-bull story about witches?”
“I have to try, El Gordo. Listen, I’ll call you back. If I can’t persuade him, then you and me have to go to Silverlake when the SWAT team goes in and see what we can do to keep down the casualties.”
“Who cares if the White Ghost gets wasted? Or any of those sacks of shit who work for him?”
“I’m not talking about Vasquez, you dummy. I’m talking about the SWAT team.”
“Oh, come on. Those guys, they have helicopters and body armor and helmets and the most advanced weapons you can think of.”
“Sure they do. But they don’t have the power of the voodoo, or whatever powers these other three witches can summon among them.”
He could almost hear Ernie’s jowls shaking over the phone, like a dog that had been swimming in a neighbor’s pool. “I don’t know, muchacho. But call me, yes. I’ll come with you if I have to. You need a witness to prove to you how delusional you are. Let’s face it, man. Witches? Maybe some other phenomenon. But witches?”
He called Deputy Chief Days. A woman with a nasal voice said that Deputy Chief Days was completely tied up and couldn’t speak to anybody (especially a lowly detective from the West Hollywood Homicide Division).
“Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.”
Pause. “Why don’t you send him an e-mail, Detective, and I can try to make sure he looks at it first thing tomorrow.”
“Tell him tomorrow is going to be too late. This is about tonight. This is about Rosewood Avenue.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then a hoarse young lieutenant came on the phone. “Detective Fisher? This is Lieutenant Corcoran. I’ve been asked to ask what you know about Rosewood Avenue.”
“Rosewood Avenue is where Orestes Vasquez lives. The White Ghost. Your target for tonight.”
“For God’s sake, Detective, this is an open line.”
“What do you want me to do, tap it out in Morse code? That SWAT team is in serious jeopardy. You don’t have any idea how much. Deputy Chief Days needs to call this operation off until I’ve had time to talk to him about it.”
An even longer pause. “You want to talk to Deputy Chief Days and tell him to cancel a full-scale SWAT operation?”
“Pretty much. That’s it. Yes.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Dan Fisher.”
“Okay, Detective Fisher. I’ll make sure that the deputy chief is aware that you called.”
“But—”
The line went dead. Dan thought of trying to call back, but he knew that it was futile. He called Ernie instead and said, “Ernie? We’re on for tonight. Wear your vest. Oh, and Ernie? Wear your crucifix, too. The largest one you have.”
Chapter Eleven
Orestes Vasquez, the White Ghost, lived in a $3.5 million house screened from Rosewood Avenue by a row of tall, dark cypress trees, but with views from the rear of the property up to the canyons and out over the Silver Lake Reservoir. It was a modern house, faced with prawn-pink brick. It had three stories and three balconies and looked more like a medieval castle than a family home.
Dan and Ernie were already parked across the street when the SWAT team arrived. They were sitting in Dan’s Torrent listening to tamboraza music on the radio and drinking hot chocolate, which Ernie had brought in a flask. Dan didn’t usually like hot chocolate, but Ernie’s wife brewed it so rich and so dark that drinking it was like committing a sin, and he felt almost as if he ought to go to church and confess it.
“Here they come, God help them,” said Dan, as two black vans pulled up in front of them. Seven other police vehicles were positioned around the immediate neighborhood—squad cars and SUVs—with twenty-one uniformed officers and a dog handler. Less than half a mile away, on Silver Lake Ridge, three ambulances were waiting, too.
“Who’s this?” said Ernie, turning around in his seat, as a black Lincoln Town Car came up the slope and stopped right behind them.
Dan checked his rearview mirror. “Jesus. Deputy Chief Days. Looks like he’s come to oversee this little operation in person.”
Ernie switched off the music. “I hope for his sake that this doesn’t go as wrong as you think it’s going to go.”
The doors of the black vans swung open, and two six-man SWAT teams climbed out, all dressed in black fireproof coveralls and black bulletproof vests, with black Kevlar helmets that made them look like clones of Darth Vader. They were carrying 9mm Heckler & Koch submachine guns and .45-caliber Colt automatics, as well as breaching shotguns for blowing open doors, flashbang and stinger grenades, and rifles that fired bean bags at high velocity.
Dan climbed out of his SUV and made his way across to the SWAT team’s senior officer, a grim-faced sergeant who looked as if he had been the model for Major Chip Hazard in Small Soldiers.
The officer was waving to two high-grounders who were positioning themselves on the roof of the house next to the Vasquez residence. Dan flashed his badge and said, “Detective Fisher, Sergeant. Homicide, West Hollywood.”
“Appreciate your support, Detective, although I don’t think we’re going to be having much trouble picking these particular clams out of their shells.”
“As a matter of fact, sir, I didn’t come to give you backup. I came to warn you off.”
The sergeant was making complicated signals to one of the marksmen on the roof. When he had finished, he turned to Dan and said, “Excuse me, Detective, you’ve come here to do what?”
Already Dan could hear the deep throb of helicopters approaching over the hills. “You don’t fully appreciate what you’re up against, sir. It’s not easy to explain this, but Orestes Vasquez has some very powerful people to help him.”
“Detective, members of our team have been keeping this house under close surveillance for the past nine hours, and we know exactly who’s in there, where they’re located, and what level of threat they present.”
The beat of the helicopters grew louder, and Dan began to grow increasingly worried. “You think you know how dangerous these people are, and under normal circumstances, yes, sir, your assessment would probably be spot on. But these are not normal circumstances, and these are not normal people.”
“You want to explain that?”
“If I tried to, you wouldn’t believe me. All I’m asking is that you postpone this operation until I’ve had the chance to prove how dangerous it could be.”
The SWAT teams were hurrying across the road now, their soft-soled urban boots pattering on the blacktop. They gathered around high, studded gates that shielded the White Ghost’s mansion from the world outside. Two officers began to fix a C2 explosive charge to the locks.
As they did so, two black Huey helicopters appeared over the hilltops, shining floodlights down onto the Vasquez house. They hovered only thirty feet over the chimneys, and Dan was deafened by the thump of their engines and the whack-a-whack-a-whack-a of their rotor blades. Their doors were already open, and four SWAT officers had fastened ropes to the D-rings at the rear, ready to rappel down to the roof.
The SWAT sergeant was shouting orders into his helmet mike. “Go! Go! Go! Let’s breach that gate! Blue leader, make sure you knock out those security cameras. Go!”
There was a muffled bang as the gates were blown apart, and brown smoke billowed across the street. The SWAT sergeant stalked toward the entrance, taking out his automatic as he did so, still barking instructions.
Dan followed him and shouted, “Sir! You still have time! I swear to God, you need to call this off!”
The helicopter’s floodlights were swiveling all around, which made shadows lean at impossible angles, as if they were dancing or drunk.
The SWAT teams were yelling, “Go! Go! Go! Go!” They ran up the driveway between Orestes Vasquez’s five shiny black SUVs and vaulted over the ornamental flower beds and the decorative fish pools.
Dan stayed back by the blown-open gates. Maybe he was totally wrong and Orestes Vasquez would surrender without putting up a fight. But on the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t, and before he got too close, Dan wanted to see if the White Ghost was going to retaliate—and if he did, how. Helicopters were beating over the rooftop, police armed with submachine guns were running all over the gardens. Yet nobody had switched on a single light inside the house, and so far Dan hadn’t seen a single face at any of the windows.
“Let’s have those doors open!” shouted the SWAT sergeant, striding up to the wide porch.
Two explosives officers set another small C2 charge between the double oak doors. At the same time, the four rope-sliders were beginning their descent from the helicopters.
Ernie came up behind Dan and said, “So much for black magic. Looks like we’re going to collar Vasquez without even breaking a sweat.”
But at that instant, there was a blinding crackle of lightning, right over the top of the house. It was so dazzling that Dan could still see it on his retina after it was gone, like the wriggling, jerking branches of an immense upside-down tree.
The two Hueys dipped and tilted, their engines moaning, and almost collided with each other. Below them, all four ropes were on fire, and the SWAT officers clinging to them were blazing, too. Dan could hear them screaming as they were swung around and around in fiery circles.
There was a bellow of thunder that made the driveway shake underneath his feet. Ernie crossed himself and said, “Madre mia!”
There was another blast of lightning, and this time it seemed to split itself into four convulsive snakes—each of which struck at one of the burning rope-sliders. The men exploded in a shower of scarlet flesh, with heads and arms and rib cages flying in all directions, as if they had been bombed.
The 5th Witch Page 9