"Whatever," Hardwick said. "Well, if you're going to deal with these people--how many are we talking about?"
"Two, Señor. A man and a woman."
"Dangerous?"
Baca made a small dismissive gesture. "In their own way, perhaps. But they should pose no great difficulty for me."
"Okay, fine. So why are you here? Do you need some help?"
Baca's laughter seemed to contain much genuine amusement, mixed with a heavy dose of disdain. "No, Señor, but thank you," he said, when the laughter faded. "I will have to manage with my own humble abilities."
Hardwick, stung by the man's contempt, said, "Well, then, what did Pardee send some Latino sorcerer over here for? Just to bust my balls?"
Even to a journeyman of the black arts like Hardwick, the fury that came off Roderico Baca was like a live thing.
"Latino!" He practically spat the word. "I am not Latino, Señor. My blood has not been polluted by centuries of intermarriage with the savages indigenous to South America. No, Señor, no. My family came to this country from Spain when I was seventeen years old. The Bacas can trace their ancestry back to King Philip the Second, one of the greatest rulers our nation has ever seen."
Hardwick caught movement in his peripheral vision, and turned his head in time to see the small bonsai tree behind the couch, which had been healthy and thriving a few minutes ago, wither and die before his eyes. He raised his hands from his lap, palms outward, like a man trying to stop an attacker--which is exactly what he was doing at that moment. "I meant no offense, I swear," he said. "It's just an expression, is all. Most people in this country who..." Hardwick searched desperately for a way to avoid saying "Latino" again, "speak Spanish as their native tongue have come here from South America. We Anglos rarely have the honor of meeting someone of pure Spanish blood."
After continuing the stare for a handful of heartbeats, Baca said, "Very well, Señor Hardwick. I accept your apology. I believe that you intended no insult."
"No, no, none at all," Hardwick said.
Baca nodded, as if suddenly bored with the subject. "As to the reason for my visit to you, Pardee has expressed concern that the individuals who have come to Kent today may, in time, be followed by others--persons whom I might not be present to deal with."
"Followed by others, who'll do what? Kill me?"
A Latinate shrug, which seemed to involve the man's entire body. "It is possible. But not, I think, on this occasion. I believe these two people hope to question you about what you have done--"
"Allegedly done. The evidence was thrown out, man."
A slight nod, the toothless smile again. "What you have allegedly done, and why, and for whom."
"Why? I mean if they're not cops, what the hell do they care?"
"That question remains unanswered for now, but Pardee nonetheless believes that these people may have interests that are inimical to his own."
"Inimical? What's that mean?"
Baca shook his head derisively. "And you, a college graduate. Of course, you did attend an American state university, so little should perhaps be expected. 'Inimical' in this instance means that these people may be Pardee's enemies. Apparently he knows one of them from an earlier encounter--a woman named Chastain, a so-called 'white witch.'"
"Doesn't matter who they are, man. I wouldn't say a fuckin' word about the Ceremony, or any of that stuff. Tell Pardee he can rely on me to keep my mouth shut."
Baca nodded solemnly, managing to convey both understanding and agreement in a few slight head movements. "I am sure that Pardee will accept your assurances."
"Of course, he will. He knows me. Now, if you don't--"
Baca went on as if the younger man had not spoken. "Or rather he would, if so very much were not at stake."
It took the space of three heartbeats for Tristan Hardwick to work out the implications of those words. He rose from the couch quickly. He may have been intending to attack Baca, or to run for the door, or even to get down on his knees and beg. Hardwick's purpose will never be known, because a wave of Baca's power instantly shoved him back to where he had been sitting. He gathered himself to try again, but Baca made a quick gesture with his left hand, and Hardwick found that he could not move. He was frozen in place, a helpless prisoner in his own body.
Baca rose slowly and began to remove the jacket of his expensive suit. "Pardee gave me a certain amount of discretion as to the precise means by which I might ensure your silence," he said, as if discussing whether it would rain tomorrow. He unbuttoned the cuffs of the white shirt and carefully folded each back three turns, to reveal wiry but strong-looking forearms. "At first, I was inclined to make this fairly quick, since I have other matters to attend to." Baca walked slowly toward the couch, and the younger man who would have screamed then, had he been able. "But that was before you called me Latino."
And then it began. Soon thereafter--very soon--it became unspeakable.
"They're giving us twenty minutes," Fenton said.
"Generous of them," Colleen muttered, scanning the big downstairs room of Annie Levesque's home.
Fenton, the latex evidence gloves he wore a stark contrast to his dark skin, was carefully opening drawers and giving the contents a quick look before closing them again. "We were lucky to get that," he told Colleen. "I told the Statie in charge that we have special training in these kinds of cases, and besides, if we found anything good, his guys could take credit for it with the media."
"Sometimes I think that's all these local guys think about," Colleen said, searching underneath the cushions of Annie Levesque's overstuffed sofa. "Who gets the fucking credit."
It took them eight and a half minutes to toss the single downstairs room and find absolutely nothing to indicate why Annie Levesque had been murdering children by extracting vital organs while they were still alive. They knew there was a central, malign intelligence directing this, there had to be. The abductions and murders were going on all over the country.
The two agents walked to the wooden stairs that led to the second floor. As they started up, Fenton said, "I also pointed out to Lieutenant McAsshole that we suspected Annie of connection to some terrorist organization, and I reminded him that those kinds of people often leave booby traps lying around their dwelling spaces. That seemed to make up his mind for him."
Colleen snorted. "That's us--cannon fodder for chickenshit cops everywhere."
The second floor contained the bathroom and two bedrooms, only one of which seemed to be in use for sleeping. Judging by the odor that permeated the bedroom, Annie Levesque hadn't changed her bedding in quite a while.
"I'll take this one," Fenton said to Colleen. "Why don't you get the room across the hall and the bathroom?"
Colleen looked at him, hand on one hip. "You're not being gallant or anything, are you, just to spare me the smell?"
"Gallant? Me?" Fenton looked a little embarrassed. "Hell, one of us has gotta do it, and my sense of smell isn't that sharp, anyway. My wife's always complaining that I don't notice whenever she buys a new brand of perfume, or something. Your nose is real sensitive, though."
"How the hell do you know that?"
"Ah, come on, I've seen you smell stuff that nobody else in the room even noticed. Remember that time in Jacksonville--"
"All right, okay, never mind," she said, and turned toward the door. "As long as you weren't being gallant."
"Fuck, no."
The room across from Annie's bedroom was apparently used for storage, and it looked like there was ten years' worth of junk in there. Since Fenton wasn't present, Colleen used her witch sense to scan the room, searching for anything that might hint of black magic. Nothing. She did the same with the bathroom. Nada.
She met Fenton in the hall, just as he was leaving the bedroom. She looked a question at him, and he shook his head. "Not a damn thing, except that old Annie had an interesting vibrator collection, and some real odd tastes in porn."
"Do I want to know what those were?"
> "Nah, keep your innocence for as long as you can." He made as if to step past her. "Excuse me."
"Where are you going?"
"Bathroom."
"But I just checked it. It's clean."
"I believe you. But, after breathing the air in that room for the last ten minutes, I need to wash my face."
Minutes later, as Fenton followed Colleen back down the stairs, he said, "Well, shit. I was hoping for some kind of a fucking lead, 'cause we sure could use one. But I guess it's okay to call in the locals, before they piss themselves with impatience."
He was almost to the door when Colleen said, "Wait."
Fenton stopped and turned back. "What?"
Colleen shook her head uncertainly. "I don't know, exactly. But there's something."
"That nose of yours again, huh?"
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm just psychic."
"Okay, we've still got a couple of minutes left. Go wild."
Colleen began to walk the unpolished wooden floor slowly. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she did know one thing: if Annie Levesque was a practitioner of the black arts, then she would have a special room in which to do her devil's work. It clearly wasn't upstairs, and you could see all of the main room here, just by turning in a circle.
Carefully, so as not to draw Fenton's attention, Colleen let her witch sense come to the fore. Almost immediately, she stopped and stared down at the wood beneath her feet. Then she dropped to one knee and began running her fingers over the floor's surface, as if feeling for something she had lost there. Then her fingers stopped. There it was: the barely visible line of a trap door leading into some kind of cellar.
Fenton, his back to her, was flipping through some magazines that had been left lying around, shaking each to see if anything would drop out. Colleen called her witch sense back, then, still on one knee, called, "Mulder? I've found something."
Fenton dropped the magazine and came over. "What'd you call me? Mulder?"
"Sorry," she said with a little smile. "I've wanted to say that, just once, ever since I joined the Bureau."
"Uh-huh, sure. Okay, Scully. What you got?"
Colleen had a heavy-duty folding knife in her shoulder bag, intended for use as a tool, not a weapon. It was as a tool that she employed it now, sliding the blade down into the thin crack in the floor. "I've got this, Special Agent, and I bet it leads to her workroom." Using the blade as a lever, she pried the trap door up a couple of inches, until she could get her fingers around the edge. Then she threw the hinged wooden door back all the way, sending it crashing onto the floor. The black square it revealed did not appear welcoming. Indeed, to Colleen it smelled like the deepest pit of hell.
"Okay, you might as well call in the Dudleys," she said to Fenton. "They can start on the rest of the place, but this baby down here--this is all ours."
The Shady Tree Motel, the only place where Morris and Libby had been able to find accommodation, was located a little way outside of Kent, on a bare patch of grass and asphalt surrounded on three sides by low hills and the trees that grew on them. Judging by the number of cars parked in front of the units when the two returned, business at the Shady Tree was not exactly booming.
They had requested adjoining rooms, with a connecting door between them. Management was happy to oblige but, as epitomized by desk clerk/owner Ted Landry, was a little puzzled. Couples checking into the Shady Tree didn't usually bother with the charade of separate rooms. Not in this day and age--unless they were going to host one of those swingers' parties, something that had happened a couple of times before. Ted hoped that was the case again. He had managed an impromptu invitation to the last one, and had happy, erotic memories of what followed.
Libby Chastain and Quincey Morris, who were neither lovers nor swingers, could have shared a single room if accommodations were tight, and had done so on a few occasions in the past. They were comfortable with each other, and had a clear sense of their mutual boundaries. But, given the choice, they preferred the space and privacy of separate rooms.
Still, they enjoyed each other's company, most of the time. After leaving Tristan Hardwick's neighborhood, they had grabbed a quick dinner at a Friendly's restaurant before returning to the motel. Although Libby had the corner room, she had ended up next door in Morris's, leaving the connecting door open. Libby, shoes off, now lay on one side of the double bed, with Morris seated on the other, his back against the headboard. The room lights were off, the only illumination coming from the TV screen. The two of them gave little attention to the dumb horror movie that was playing, as they puzzled over the unusually strong black magic that Libby had detected coming from Hardwick's house.
"I don't get it," Morris said. "I spoke on the phone yesterday with a couple of people who know, or at least know about, this Hardwick fella. They both told me, independently, that he's a middleweight, at best. And one of them said that she was pretty sure Hardwick had been brought into the game by what's his name, Godfrey, in Cleveland."
"Morgan Godfrey," Libby murmured. "Now, there's a name to conjure with, you should pardon the expression."
"Yeah, I hear you. But it sure wasn't him you were sensing at Hardwick's place. That bastard's been dead for, let me think, three years, now."
"I'm not supposed to wish him damned and in hell, that's too much like a curse. So let's just say that I hope he didn't see heaven."
"That's a pretty safe bet," Morris said. "All right, so we're left with two possibilities--not counting the notion that your witch sense was somehow off, which I'm not inclined to consider very seriously."
"Nor I," Libby said. "It's never let me down before."
"So, either the intel we got on Hardwick was out of date, or just plain wrong..."
"Or Mister Hardwick was entertaining a visitor. Not the late Morgan Godfrey, but somebody at least as powerful, if not even more so."
"Somebody you couldn't handle, if push comes to shove?"
Libby gnawed her lower lip for a few moments before saying, "I don't know, Quincey. It's impossible to say. I guess it's like two gunfighters facing off in the Old West--they don't find out for certain who's the fastest, until one of them is lying dead in the street."
"I reckon I've got an ancestor or two who would've understood that metaphor pretty well," Morris said. "Maybe we'd be wise to avoid that particular showdown, if we can."
"Excellent idea, Tex. I haven't got anything to prove. But, we've still got a job to do."
"I know. Well, if our second scenario is the right one, and Hardwick had himself a visitor tonight, maybe whoever it was will be gone by tomorrow."
"Yes, the Goddess willing. So, you're thinking we cruise Hardwick's street again tomorrow, and see what kind of vibes I pick up."
"Yup. Then, depending on what you find, we decide whether we're going to move on Hardwick. And if we do, how."
Libby nodded, a trifle sleepily. "As plans go, there's this to say for it: I haven't got a better one."
The conversation eventually drifted into companionable silence. After a while, Libby dozed off. Morris saw that the horror movie on TV was over, and coming up next was Once Upon a Time in the West, one of his favorites. He decided he might as well just let Libby stay where she was, for now.
The room was quiet then, apart from the muted sounds of gunplay, macho dialogue, and the film's twangy soundtrack. A couple of hours later, Charles Bronson was just about to face off against Henry Fonda in the film's final showdown when Morris said, "Libby."
There was something in those two syllables that caused Libby Chastain's eyes to snap wide open. In a voice that did not sound sleepy at all, she asked, "What? What is it?"
"Do you hear something?"
Chapter 14
Roderico Baca stood on one of the hills overlooking the Shady Tree Motel and prepared to release hell--or a reasonable facsimile thereof. He had arrived a bit later than planned, having spent too much time enjoying himself with the late Tristan Hardwick. Thinking about that, he smiled t
o himself, wondering what the stupid police would make of what he had left behind.
But despite the delay, plenty of time remained for Baca to do his work. He knew that Chastain was down there--he could smell the bitch. He would assume, for now, that the man was with her. The two might even be fucking, right this minute. If so, they were about to gain a whole new understanding of coitus interruptus.
Baca had spent almost an hour in preparation, once he had set upon the method by which he would destroy Chastain and her companion. Several others might well join them, constituting what the U.S. military calls "collateral damage." Baca was not bothered in the slightest by this prospect.
He had chosen the spell he was using with great care. Pardee had said he wanted Chastain's death to be nasty.
"Nasty" was one of the things that Roderico Baca did best.
He had drawn the necessary symbols in the earth, using a silver dagger he had made with his own hands. Then he mixed four of the key ingredients in proper proportion, all without the use of any kind of light. Baca had acquired the ability to see in the dark. That was appropriate, since, in a sense, it was where he lived.
Once the dry ingredients were mixed, to the accompaniment of the proper incantation, Baca was ready to add the final component. He reached into his leather bag and produced a small glass vial of baby's blood. The ancient spell specified that this ingredient be fresh--blood that is not refrigerated tends to congeal into an unworkable sludge very quickly.
Baca had made one stop on the way here from Hardwick's place. He knew the ingredient was fresh.
Although it is theoretically possible to perform black magic at any time, Baca much preferred the night for his work. Quite apart from the symbolism (and in magic of any kind, symbolism counts for much), it was known that the Dark Powers were stronger and more active after the light had fled. The darkness was also beneficial for a more pragmatic reason: some of the creatures that a black magician will call to do his bidding only come out at night.
Evil Ways (Morris and Chastain Investigations) Page 15