Play With Fire

by Justin Gustainis

  Then he began to consider the possibility that the spell might not require the bloody pentagram to be drawn over a map of the U.S., and started to wondering if the one calling himself Theron Ware had set up shop in another country, there to begin his campaign of fire and murder afresh. But nothing showed up in the international news reports to confirm his fear.

  Eight days after that chaotic, fearful night in Austin, Morris’s shoulder muscles had finally unclenched fully, and he actually felt like eating a full meal, for a change. He was mentally running down the list of friends who might like to join him for dinner at one of the city’s nicer restaurants when he got the call that made his body tighten up all over again.

  “Mister Morris, this is Father Bowen. I’m relieved to hear your voice – I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.”

  “My phone’s been on, far as I know, Father. And if this is about the Corpus Hermeticum, I already told you–”

  “I’m not in Montana, Mister Morris – I’m in Rome. I have no doubt you would have answered my call if you’d received it, but the local phone companies are on strike. Their computers are still processing local calls, but international calls aren’t going through – or haven’t been, until now. Something about the satellite uplink. Same for email. I’m just glad I’ve finally reached you.”

  “What are you doing in Rome, Father? Trying to keep your job?”

  “No, quite the contrary. I shall probably lose my job, at the very least, once the cover story I gave them falls apart, as it will, eventually.”

  “Now you’ve lost me. What cover story? To who?”

  “To Cardinal Abruzzi, who is in charge of the restricted room of the Vatican Library. I told him there was some doubt as to the authenticity of volume five of the Corpus Hermeticum that we had in Montana, and I wanted to compare his version against ours, which I’d brought to Rome with me.”

  “But the one you had in Montana is missing.”

  “Cardinal Abruzzi doesn’t know that – yet. But he allowed me access to the Vatican’s copy on the condition that, when I’m done, I show him in person what disparities exist – by comparing the Montana copy, side-by-side, with the Vatican’s. At which point my deception will be revealed, and I’ll be forced to suffer the consequences.”

  “That seems like a big step you’ve made there, Father. I had the impression that you had no interest in taking any chances, the last time we spoke.”

  “My refusal has weighted heavily on me ever since then. I could not stop thinking of the consequences for the world if you were right, and I, in my arrogance and pride, were wrong. And I thank God for those sleepless nights now, for surely it was He who sent them.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you were right. The ritual described in book five of the Corpus Hermeticum really is designed to open the Gates of Tartarus, allowing all the denizens of Hell to invade our world.”

  “Uh, Father, there’s something you should know about that. Last week–”

  “Last week, there was a mosque burned in Austin, where you live. Is that right?

  “Yes, it is. And afterwards–”

  “And afterwards, the world did not end, so you assumed you’d been wrong the whole time.”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  “You were wrong, Mister Morris, but because only because you lacked all the relevant information.”

  “Father if there’s a chase here, I’d suggest you cut to it.”

  “The Gates of Tartarus don’t open after the fifth sacrifice, Mister Morris – but after the sixth.”

  “Sixth? But a pentagram’s only got five points.”

  “True, but it also has a center. And according to the ritual, which I finished translating just yesterday, the sixth sacrifice must take place in the center of the pentagram that has been created by the points of the first five.”

  “In the center of the pentagram.”

  “Yes, and unlike the initial sacrifices, which called for the murder of a member of the clergy, this one calls for wiping out the entire congregation – by fire – while they are engaged in worship services.”

  “And the interval between five and six is still ten days?”

  “Yes, which means the final sacrifice will take place the day after tomorrow.”

  “Where, exactly, do you know?”

  “As I said, the phone and internet services have been unavailable here since I finished the translation. It is almost as if the Devil himself wanted to stop me from reaching you. I’m glad he has been thwarted.”

  “Father, your point is–”

  “I couldn’t remember the location of all five of the sacrifices, and have been unable to look them up on the internet that I had no access to. But I assume you have that information handy.”

  “Yes, I do. Hold on.”

  Morris was back on the line in four minutes.

  “Looks like the center point is someplace in Kansas,” he said. “It’s not near any of the larger population centers, so I’m gonna need a more detailed map to figure out where, exactly. Unless you have any more information for me, I’ve gotta go now, Father.”

  “Go, then, Mister Morris. And may God go with you.”

  Fifty-Four

  TWENTY MINUTES AFTER speaking with Father Bowen, Morris was on the phone again, calling the people who had joined him in Austin just over a week earlier.

  And no one answered.

  Morris hoped it was simply a question of Libby, Elly, Peters, Ashley, Fenton, and O’Donnell all being away from their phones, and that he wasn’t an undeserving victim of the “Boy Who Cried Wolf” syndrome. But all he could do, in each case, was leave a message – which is what he did.

  “This is Morris. We were wrong – the gate to Hell didn’t open the last time because there’s one more sacrifice to go, in the center of the pentagram. This isn’t speculation – I just heard from a priest who translated book five. And it’s all going down Sunday, the day after tomorrow. Near as I can figure, the exact center is someplace called Oakley Kansas, a little burg in the northwest corner of the state. There’s no air service, so I’m flying to Denver and driving the rest of the way. I need your help. I’m not sure I can take this guy by myself. I sure as hell can’t sniff out black magic, and there’s a dozen churches in Oakley to choose from. I need you to meet me, as soon as you can get there, at the Buffalo Bill Motel, a couple of miles outside Oakley. Please do this. We fought the good fight – or tried to – in Austin. We need to do it again, one last time. Otherwise it will be the last time – for all of us.”

  Fifty-Five

  THE FIRST PRESBYTERIAN Church of Oakley was located in a quiet block of Maple Street, and as the blue SUV drove slowly past Theron Ware said, “This should serve very well. According to Pastor Lewis, whom I phoned an hour ago, Sunday services start at ten thirty and attract between one hundred and fifty and two hundred self-righteous prigs who worship the Sheep-Savior.”

  Sitting behind Ware, Mark furrowed his brow. “He said that about his own church?”

  Ware stifled the impatience he usually felt at Mark’s stupidity. He could afford to be patient – success was very nearly at hand, and afterward he would never have to hear Mark’s idiotic questions, ever again.

  “No, that’s my own interpretation of his remarks,” Ware said. “The important thing is two hundred people, more or less, will be inside that building on Sunday. That’s a manageable number, don’t you think?”

  Elektra was seated next to Ware. She peered through the side window at the building. “You think it’ll be enough for... you know?”

  “I’m quite sure it will be,” Ware said. “Our master will be very pleased. And you will, each of you, receive your reward soon thereafter.”

  Fifty-Six

  A GENTLE SNOW was falling as Morris pulled into the courtyard of the Buffalo Bill Motel at about four fifteen on Saturday afternoon. He slid the rental car into an open slot near the motel office and went inside.
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br />   “I’ve got a reservation,” he told the clerk, a blonde, painfully-thin woman in her early fifties. “Name of Quincey Morris.”

  She consulted her computer. “That’s right, Mister Morris. Got it right here. You’ll be staying with us for two nights?”

  “Yeah,” Morris said. “After tomorrow, it won’t... sorry – that’s right, two nights.”

  “Would you fill this out for me, please?”

  As Morris handed back the completed registration form, he asked, “Have you had any folks from back East check in today? New York, maybe, or Baltimore?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not supposed to give out that kind of information... but, no – you’re the only one’s checked in all day, and I’ve been on the desk since six.”

  “Great,” Morris said, although it was clear he felt otherwise. “Tell me, have you got a list of the local churches? Tomorrow being Sunday, and all.”

  “You’ll find that in your hospitality book, Mister Morris. Every room’s got one – should be right on top of the little desk in there.”

  “Okay, fine. How about a town map – got any of those?”

  “Yes, sir, got some right here. Have to charge you two dollars, though.”

  “No problem – I’m sure it’s worth every penny.”

  The motel lady had told him true. In his room – which was larger and cleaner than he expected in West Podunk, Kansas – there was indeed a small desk, and on it a binder marked “Guest Hospitality.” Mostly it contained ads for local stores and restaurants, but the last page was headed “Places of Worship.” Listed underneath were the names and addresses of thirteen local churches. Morris wasn’t superstitious, but he hoped the number didn’t mean bad luck – either for him, or for the world.

  He spent the next hour with the city map, marking on it the location of each church on the list. He wasn’t surprised to find that all of them were of some Christian persuasion or other. Oakley had Catholics, Episcopalians, Baptists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, and a few that Morris wasn’t sure about, like the Gateway Fellowship Church. Pity, in a way. A nice Buddhist temple would have been a likely target for Ware and made his job easier. But right now, it looked to him like Mission “fucking” Impossible. “Where the hell’s Tom Cruise when you need him?” Morris muttered.

  He tried to figure out something useful he could do by himself tomorrow morning. Just driving around town until he saw smoke billowing in the air seemed stupid and futile. Besides, by the time he saw smoke, it would already be too late.

  Morris had brought the Desert Eagle, disassembled in his checked luggage. He’d halfway expected a hassle from TSA anyway, but they’d let the bag go through. Morris would have welcomed the chance to blow Theron Ware’s brains out, but he didn’t figure the demon was going to make himself a passive target, any more than Ashley would have.

  He was contemplating the wisdom of calling in a bomb threat to every church in town tomorrow morning when there came a knock on his door.

  He picked up the Desert Eagle, cocked it, and held it alongside his leg – just in case Theron Ware or any of his crew had decided to be proactive about their security. Morris placed himself against the wall next to the doorway, grasped the knob left-handed, and flung the door open, ready to deal with whoever, or whatever, stepped through it.

  Nobody came through the door, but after a moment he heard a woman say, “Take it easy, cowboy. Nobody here but us good guys.”

  Morris carefully lowered the hammer of his weapon. He’d have known that voice anywhere. “Come on in, Libby.”

  Fifty-Seven

  THOSE WHO WISHED to bring the world to an end were up early Sunday morning – although, in truth, only the one calling himself Theron Ware knew that was the real objective.

  They made certain preparations to their motel rooms and left before dawn, without bothering to check out. It was still dark when they entered the First Presbyterian Church, bringing with them six large, brightly-wrapped, beribboned boxes. Each box, which would not have looked out of place under a Christmas tree, bore a card reading, “Do not open until after today’s service.”

  The boxes were distributed at strategic points around the church. The locations were chosen to facilitate the spread of the fire that would break out during the morning’s worship service. If some impatient soul tore off the wrapping early, he would find a container of hard plastic, sealed by magic and impossible to open.

  The incendiaries in place, Ware and his group then broke into Wilson Tire Company, a low, wide building directly across the street from First Presbyterian. They did not turn on the lights, but there would soon be sufficient daylight coming through the windows for their purpose.

  Ware opened a large, leather satchel and began to lay out the magical implements and ingredients for the final spell. He talked to the others as he worked.

  “The church service starts at ten thirty. That is also the time when I will activate the spell that will ignite the devices we left behind at the motel. The resulting conflagration should draw every fire truck, ambulance, and police car in this town, and probably more. That will put them all several miles outside the city, and well out of our way.”

  “What time’s the Big Barbecue start across the street?” Jeremy asked, with a tight grin.

  “I want to allow for any late-comers,” Ware said, “so we will start the ritual at ten forty-five. Or, rather, you will, my loyal and trusted friends. While you read aloud the text of the spell, I will use my magic to set off the incendiaries in the church, and then to keep the doors sealed, lest any of the faithful manage to escape their well-deserved fate.”

  “When’s... he gonna show up?” Elektra asked.

  “You mean My Lord Lucifer? Once the ritual is completed, and the good Presbyterians across the way have been reduced to charred bones and ash, things should start to happen.”

  “He oughta be pretty happy, with all the shit we done for him, the last few weeks,” Mark said, his bravado as transparent as the store’s large front window.

  “I’m not sure happy is a word I would use in connection with My Lord Lucifer, but he should certainly be pleased with us – pleased enough to give us reward beyond measure.”

  “Anything we want, right?” Mark asked. “Money, pussy...”

  “Power, like yours,” Jeremy added.

  So softly that only Ware could hear her, Elektra breathed, “Beauty.”

  “Everything you have ever dreamed of shall be yours,” Ware said with a silken smile. “You have my word.”

  “What about you, Theron,” Jeremy asked him. “What do you want?”

  “I’ll let that come as a surprise,” Ware said. “But I guarantee you this – you will be in awe of what I will achieve. Literally.”

  “Sounds really cool,” Mark said. “I can hardly wait.”

  “Nor can I,” Ware said. “Nor can I.”

  Fifty-Eight

  MORRIS AND CHASTAIN were up early, too – although, in truth, they had barely slept at all. Libby Chastain was up most of the night preparing contingency spells, and Morris was too tense to manage more than an hour’s doze in his room’s easy chair.

  Through a combination of phone calls and checking several churches’ websites, they had learned that the earliest religious service in Oakley this morning would be the eight o’clock mass at St. Joseph’s Roman Catholic Church. The last, as far as they could tell, was the worship service at Kroner Baptist that began at noon.

  Their strategy for preventing the end of the world had been articulated by Morris just after four in the morning. “We’ll take separate cars and cruise the churches, beginning about seven thirty. If you get a whiff of black magic at any of them, you’ll pull over and find a place to put the anti-combustion spell into operation. I’ll keep moving, in case what you smell is a fake-out, like last time. If I find any church on fire, I’ll call you on my cell, and you’ll hightail it over there, while I try to disrupt their spell any way I can.”

  “And if the church w
here I am turns out to be the real deal, then I’ll call you,” Libby had said.

  “And I’ll get back there, quick as I can. I don’t imagine Ware and his bunch will take kindly to having their plans disrupted, and you may attract some hostile attention, once they figure out that you’re in the field.”

  “Hostile attention.” Libby had mustered a thin smile. “A fancy way of saying that they’ll probably try to kill me.”

  “Yep – but I don’t plan to let ’em,” Morris said.

  “Good.”

  Fifty-Nine

  MORRIS HAD MAPPED out a route that would take them past all thirteen of Oakley’s houses of worship. They began at seven thirty, with a slow drive past Saint Joseph’s, where the first mass was due to begin in half an hour. Libby went first in her rental Buick, with Morris a few hundred feet behind in a Camry.

  The first time they drove the circuit, it took twenty-two minutes. But then, they had to slow down to look for street signs. The second time, they made it in eighteen minutes. Traffic was light, that early on a Sunday, but they knew it would pick up as Oakley’s God-fearing citizens started making their way to the religious services of their choice.

  Midway through the third circuit, Morris picked up his phone and speed-dialed Libby.

  “Hey, cowboy.”

  “How’re you doing for gas, Libby?”

  “Just over half a tank. You?”

  “Closer to a quarter. Better pull into the next open gas station, so we can fill up. Be a shame to have the world end because one of us ran out of gas on the way to save it.”

  “Amen to that.”

  They stopped at a Shell station, bought gas and took a quick bathroom break. Then it was on the road again.

  When nothing had happened by ten o’clock, Morris began to second-guess himself.