Evil Ways (Morris and Chastain Investigations)

by Justin Gustainis

  "So you stayed put, until when?" Morris asked her.

  The waitress brought part of Hannah's immense meal, and a fresh pot of coffee for Morris and Libby. Hannah said, "I hope you'll both excuse me," and started in.

  After putting away a couple of mouthfuls of pancakes and sausage, Hannah said, "I stayed where I was, until I saw the spell that he was working on the bats. Lots and lots of bats, Quincey, which takes lots of energy." Hannah ate some toast. "And which leaves little energy to spare for other things, like paying attention to what's going on around you."

  Morris and Libby nodded agreement, then let her eat undisturbed for a while, since she was clearly very hungry. After a while, Hannah washed down a mouthful of egg with her coffee and said, as if she had not been silent for five minutes, "That's why most military snipers work in pairs: the shooter and a spotter, who also provides security. Putting a round exactly where you want it, from fourteen hundred meters out, takes a lot of concentration, so the sniper has someone to watch his back."

  "Unlike the guy last night," Morris said.

  "Exactly. Once he started his working. I made my way slowly through the trees to his position. No point in taking chances, after all--just because he was busy didn't make him deaf. It took me a little while to get there, I'm afraid. Long enough for those bats of his to do some damage."

  "Quincey and I weren't badly hurt," Libby said, "but a couple at the other end of the unit, senior citizens, I gather, were killed. I guess they just couldn't move fast enough to take shelter in time."

  Hannah silently bowed her head over her food, like a monk saying grace. She stayed that way for a while, and Libby actually began to wonder if she was crying. But when Hannah raised her head, her face was unmarked by tears, and her angel's voice sounded normal when she said, solemnly, "I honor the death of the innocent. Always."

  "Finish the story, why don't you," Morris said. "I have a feeling you were just getting to the good part."

  "Not much more to tell, really. He was so focused on directing and controlling the bats, he didn't even notice me. So, I came up behind him and blew his head off with a shotgun." She might have been discussing the weather in a place she rarely visited.

  Morris and Libby looked at each other. So attuned were they to each other by now, words were often unnecessary. Morris's expression said, I'm sorry you had to hear that, while the slight movements of Libby's mouth, head and shoulders told him, just as clearly, Well, that's what we hired her for.

  "Was this guy carrying anything to identify him?" Libby asked.

  "Nope. Nothing on his person, except magical stuff. I suppose I could have cut off one hand and brought it along for a fingerprint ID, but the police might have asked some embarrassing questions."

  Morris wondered whether Hannah was joking, but decided she'd better not ask.

  "I'm not second-guessing your work, Hannah," he said. "Clearly, this guy was nobody to take chances with. But it's a pity you couldn't take him alive. I would have liked to talk to him."

  Hannah produced one of her nightmare smiles. "Not to worry," she said cheerfully. "I said 'Hi' for you."

  Morris looked over at Libby and saw that she was staring into her coffee cup, a deep frown of concentration creasing her face.

  "Something wrong, Libby?" he asked.

  Without raising her head, Libby held up an index finger, asking for a little more time before answering. When she did look up, Morris saw a sparkle in her eyes that hadn't been there since this sorry business started.

  "I'm an idiot, Quincey, a fucking dyed-in-the-wool lame-brained idiot."

  "Don't be so hard on yourself, Libby," Morris said.

  "Oh, don't worry, you're a fucking idiot too," she said, and smiled. "We both should have figured this out two hours ago."

  "Okay, we're idiots," Morris said, evenly. "Duly stipulated. Now what is it that's so damn easy, we should have figured it out already?"

  "What's-his-name, Hardwick, was involved in the child abductions and murders, right?"

  "Well, one of them," Morris said. "But the FBI is working on the assumption that they're all connected, and they're probably right. It can't be just coincidence."

  "Agreed. And the wizard that Hannah dealt with last night was trying to kill me."

  Morris nodded. "I can't think of any other explanation that fits. I can't imagine he did it just to get at the two old folks down the way from us."

  "Me, neither," Libby said. "So here's the gazillion-dollar question, Tex: who killed Hardwick?"

  Morris sat there, gently tapping his fingertips against the side of his cup. Finally he said, "You're right, Libby. We are idiots."

  "Not that it's any of my business," Hannah said between mouthfuls, "but what the hell are you two having conniptions about?"

  "Hardwick was killed by black magic," Morris said. "I heard that he was found turned completely inside out."

  "And you believe third-hand information like that?" Hannah said.

  "Actually, I do, but it doesn't even matter--"

  "Because," Libby said, "I sensed powerful black magic at Hardwick's house last night, which is the night he was killed. I told Quincey that stuff was too strong to be coming from Hardwick himself. And the man controlling those bats was a black wizard of considerable power and skill, had to've been. That's no easy job he took on, and, from all indications, he performed it flawlessly."

  "Until I ventilated his skull for him," Hannah said.

  "Yes, and if I haven't thanked you for that," Libby said, "thank you, Hannah, for almost certainly saving our lives last night." There was no mockery in her voice this time.

  "All part of the service," Hannah said. "But how do you know for sure that whoever offed Hardwick was also Mister Batman?"

  "Come on, Hannah," Morris said. "This is Kent, Ohio, not New York or London. How many people with that kind of power do you expect to find in a burgh this size, anyway? No, it had to have been the same guy, both times."

  "Which means these cases are connected," Libby said. "It's the only explanation that makes any sense. The people involved in this campaign to murder children for their organs, they're the same bastards trying to kill me, for whatever reason."

  After that, it was quiet at their table--until Libby got an odd expression on her face and began flexing the fingers of her right hand. Then she pulled an unused paper napkin closer and said, "Do either of you have a pen?"

  The message was the same one that was simultaneously being received by Allie Mercer and a number of other women. Once it was complete, and Libby's hand had returned to her full control, she shared the contents with her companions, and briefly explained what they meant.

  "So, you're going to be doing it again, that astral transference you used to talk to me in L.A.," Morris said.

  "Pretty much, except my destination won't be anywhere on this plane. We'll be meeting in, it's hard to explain... somewhere else."

  "Save a lot of money on hotels that way," Hannah said, without smiling.

  Later, after most of the plates were cleared away, Morris said, "Well, I'm sure enough glad not to've ended up as bat food last night, but that means we're still up shit creek, Libby. Hardwick was the only lead we had. Once he was taken out of the picture, the guy who killed him became our only lead, even though we didn't know it at the time. And once Hannah did her number on him--the number of our leads went down to zero. We've got diddly-squat, now."

  Libby seemed about to say something, when Hannah said, "Know what? I may be able to help you with that."

  She produced her cell phone, a sleek, black-covered instrument, not unlike Hannah herself, and said, "Let me just make a couple of calls."

  Chapter 17

  The institution's official name is Massachusetts Correctional Facility, Cedar Junction, at Walpole, but everybody involved in corrections (on both sides of the law) in New England just calls it Walpole. Like every maximum-security prison in the world, it is a cold, gray place, made of stone, brutality, barbed wire, and d
espair.

  FBI Special Agents Fenton and O'Donnell were shown every courtesy by the prison administration, once it was made clear that they were not at Walpole to investigate any of the many accusations of human rights violations that had been leveled by inmates over the years.

  They had been waiting in Interview Room 4 for about ten minutes when they heard an iron door opening and closing nearby, then another, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Vincent Israel, hands shackled to the heavy belt that was fastened around his waist, was brought in by a bored-looking C.O. who looked a question at Fenton, then left after receiving a nod in return.

  Israel didn't look a lot like his mug shot, taken at the time of his arrest three years ago. His head was shaved now, and he had scar that ran down the right side of his face, parallel to his eye and about half an inch away. The slash that caused the scar must have missed Israel's eye very narrowly. The man's muscular arms, revealed by the short-sleeved prison shirt he wore, bore several crude tattoos that had probably been acquired after Israel's incarceration. A stylized swastika was prominent on one arm, the initials "A.B." dominating the other one. From the moment he'd entered the room, Israel's eyes had been on Colleen, whom he was staring at with the kind of intensity that a long-time dieter will give to a hot fudge sundae.

  Colleen and Morris both displayed their FBI identification as soon as Israel was seated. Now Fenton, who was looking at the "A.B." tat, said, "I see you've gone and hooked up with the Aryan Brotherhood."

  Israel tore his eyes off Colleen long enough to answer Fenton. "Man does what he's gotta, to survive. In here, you don't belong with somebody, then you're meat for everybody." He looked Fenton up and down, with undisguised contempt. "First week I was inside, three... African Americans jumped me, and beat the livin' shit out of me. They took my smokes, my lighter, and my watch. Then they gang-fucked me for about an hour, although it seemed a hell of a lot longer. That shit don't happen no more, now I'm with A.B." Israel had clearly wanted to say "niggers" instead of "African Americans," but was probably unsure whether he could afford to piss Fenton off.

  Fenton gave him a broad smile and said, "I'm a little surprised those Nazis would be interested in a guy named, you know... 'Israel.'"

  "You think I'm a kike, because of the name?" Israel made a disgusted sound. "Ain't none of them in my family. Way I hear it, one of my ancestors was some kind of preacher in Massachusetts, 'round the time the Puritans come over from England. His real name was probably Smith or Jones--some shit like that. But he was such a holy roller, he changed it to Israel, maybe to prove that he'd read the Bible. And the name stuck. I ain't no fuckin' Jew, no way."

  "Before we talk any more, there's some things you need to get straight," Colleen told him. "We can't get you a transfer out, or a new trial, or an appeal that your lawyer didn't try already, and get thrown out of court."

  Israel looked up from her body to her face, then gave a small nod of something that might almost have been respect. Behind the walls, hope is the thing that will hurt you worse than a shank between the ribs, once it comes crashing down around you--as it always does. By refusing to offer him any false hope, Colleen was showing the only kind of honesty that Israel was prepared to accept.

  "Okay, so that's what you ain't got." Israel went back to his close examination of Colleen's breasts. "What have you got, and what do you want out of me in exchange for it?"

  "We might be able to make your life in here a little better," Fenton said. "No guarantees, but if we tell the Deputy Warden that you cooperated in our investigation, and make a specific recommendation on how he might express our gratitude, I think he'll take it seriously. Might be able to get you a better job. Where are you now, the laundry? I think we could help with that, if we had a reason to."

  "We also have a few bucks that we're allowed to use, to pay informants," Colleen said. "We could make sure some of it gets into your commissary account. Get you some extra smokes and candy bars."

  "All that? Damn!" Israel's sarcasm wasn't subtle. "And what is it you're lookin' for, in return for all that generosity?"

  "We want Pardee," Fenton said. He had been watching the man's eyes as he'd said the name. Most cons are good liars, and even better at reaction concealment. But dilation and contraction of the pupils is an autonomic response, outside the control of the will, that is geared to strong emotion.

  Fenton had seen Israel's pupils contract, an instant after he'd said Pardee's name.

  "Pardee?" Israel pretended to consider his list of friends and acquaintances. "Nope, don't think I know the name."

  "We hear otherwise," Colleen told him.

  "That right?" Israel said to her chest.

  "We've been told, by somebody who would know, that Pardee's the guy got you involved in all this occult bullshit," Fenton said. "That he's the one, put you up to snatching that kid, and cutting him open."

  "That wasn't me, man." Israel didn't even bother to act indignant. Protesting his innocence was probably just a reflex by now. "The cops got the wrong man, and their evidence at the trial wasn't worth shit."

  "The jury thought otherwise, though, didn't they?" Colleen said. "Took them less than three hours to come back with a verdict, too. Guilty on all counts: kidnapping, felony assault, and aggravated murder in the first."

  Israel gave an exaggerated shrug, which caused his shackles to jingle briefly. "What can I tell you? I'm innocent."

  "So you didn't snatch the kid, you didn't kill the kid, and you never heard of anybody named 'Pardee,'" Colleen said.

  Israel grinned at her. "That's a big ten-four, honey. But say 'snatch' again for me, will you? I love it when chicks talk dirty."

  "Too bad," Fenton said, and pushed his chair back. "Because if you don't know anything about Pardee, then you've got nothing of interest to us."

  Colleen, playing along, began to gather together the papers she had laid out in front of her.

  "Aw, shucks," Israel said. "Now I'll never get that job in the library. And just think of all them candy bars I'm gonna miss out on."

  Instead of standing up, Fenton said, "I think I hear you saying you don't care for our offer."

  Israel shrugged again.

  "Just for the sake of discussion," Colleen said, "if we were able to come up with something you found interesting, what could we get for it?"

  "Well, for instance, if I did remember this guy, Pardee," Israel said, "I'd tell you everything I know about him."

  "Including where he is now?" Colleen asked.

  "Get real, lady," Israel said. "I been in here going on three years. Don't know for sure where anybody is now. Except my mom. She writes once in a while, and her return address ain't changed."

  "If you don't now where Pardee is now..." Fenton let the sentence trail off.

  "I might be able to tell you about a real nice deal that this Pardee fell into. Where somebody with a whole pile of money was willing to spend some of it on Pardee and his magic tricks. Something that sweet, a guy wouldn't be in a hurry to walk away from it. There's a good chance he'd still be with this rich guy. I might know the name."

  "Uh-huh. All right," Fenton said. "Say we thought this was interesting enough to go to some trouble over. A better job and more commissary money doesn't do it for you. So what do you want?"

  "Despite what you hear about prison," Israel said to Fenton, "it's possible for a man to find some of life's little luxuries in here, if he's got money, or the right connections, or maybe if he does favors for the right people. Booze? Yeah, sure, there's booze. I mean apart from stuff like raisin jack, that you can make yourself. Not impossible to get yourself on the outside of a pint of mediocre Scotch, brought in from outside. Weed, same thing. Stuff from the pharmacy, yeah, that's around. Even coke, if you know a friendly guard who's maybe gettin' behind in his car payments. But there's one thing ain't available behind the walls. California, maybe, but not in this state." Israel turned and looked at Colleen again, and now the hunger in his eyes was
almost palpable. "Pussy," he said. "That's the one thing I can't get in here."

  "Watch your mouth, asshole," Colleen snapped. "The same juice that lets us get you a better job also gets you a month in the Hole, if we want it that way. Maybe two months."

  Israel gave her a crooked smile. "Threaten me all you want, honey. It just gives me a hard-on to hear you talk about juicy holes."

  Then he turned back to Fenton. "You wanna find Pardee, I'll tell you how. Give you everything I know about him. But first, you get me a woman. And until you find a way to juice that, we got no more to talk about."

  Israel turned toward the door and called out, "Sir? I'm all done in here, now."

  As the C.O. who had brought him in reappeared, Israel looked back at Fenton and Colleen with a nasty grin. "You folks be sure and come on back, whenever you're ready to continue our conversation." Then he gave Colleen a wink, and allowed the guard to lead him out of the room.

  Once they were alone, Fenton looked at Colleen. "Well, shit. Think he means it?"

  "Take it from the woman he's gonna be thinking about when he jerks off tonight," she said, and shuddered. "He means it, all right."

  The Ouroboros Bar and Grill occupied the middle of a block on one of downtown Cleveland's less busy side streets. Business was slow around four o'clock in the afternoon, as Libby and Morris followed Hannah Widmark through the door. The sunny day made the interior gloom of the place seem darker than you'd expect, even for a bar.

  As soon as they were inside, Hannah made a head gesture toward a nearby empty table. "Just sit and chill for a second, while I have a word with Frank. He's kinda jumpy sometimes, and he gets nervous when strangers come in."

  "You mean he might run?" Morris asked quietly.

  "No," Hannah told him. "That's not what I mean."

  She walked over to the bar and took a seat. After a moment, the bartender wandered over. Morris couldn't see him clearly, since his eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, but Hannah's friend looked tall and thin and very pale. But there was nothing about the way he moved or stood to suggest weakness.