Black Magic Woman (Morris and Chastain Investigations)

by Justin Gustainis

  “Want to go home?”

  “You bet I do,” she said.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “So, what are we waiting for?”

  They turned and slowly walked, side by side, into the LaRues’ living room.

  CHAPTER 8

  EVERYTHING WENT WELL, at first—so well that it lulled them.

  At nine different locations around the house—nine is three cubed, and hence a very powerful number in white magic—Libby Chastain was placing small objects made of straw, wood, and silver wire. They looked very similar to the one that Quincey Morris had found in the house the day before. Over each of the charms, Libby recited a brief incantation in a language that Morris didn’t recognize. After the second time, he asked her about it.

  “It’s ancient Aramaic,” she said.

  “When did you start using that? Used to be, when you needed an ancient language for casting, you’d go with either Latin or Greek, right?” Morris had studied both, reluctantly, at Princeton.

  She nodded. “I’ve been working on Aramaic for the last couple of years. Tough going sometimes, but worth the effort. It’s got a lot of power associated with it, more than most of the other dead languages.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Mainly because it was the language spoken by a famous Jewish preacher a long time ago. A guy called Joshua bar-Joseph.”

  Frown lines appeared on Morris’s forehead. “Is this somebody I’ve heard of?”

  Libby Chastain produced a small smile. “I expect you have. He’s pretty well known, but mostly by his Greek name, for some reason.”

  “Which is—”

  “Jesus. Jesus of Nazareth.”

  “Oh. Him.”

  LIBBY PLACED THE eighth warding charm on the top shelf of a linen closet, as far toward the back as she could reach. Closing the door, she said to Quincey Morris, “One more to go.”

  “Whereabouts, do you think?”

  She considered briefly. “The kitchen. We haven’t put any in there yet, and it will give us a nice balance of forces with the other charms.”

  As they walked down the hallway toward the stairs, things were already happening in the LaRues’ kitchen. Drawers were slowly opening, seemingly of their own volition. Faced with an empty house, the spell cast by black witchcraft had lain dormant for a whole day, and it had gathered strength in that time.

  It was strong enough to open drawers, certainly. But not all of the kitchen drawers, no indeed.

  Just those containing the knives.

  THEY WERE TWO or three paces away from the door of the LaRues’ kitchen when Libby suddenly stopped.

  Morris continued on for an additional step before his awareness of Libby’s action brought him to a halt. He studied her for a moment before asking, softly, “What?”

  Her eyes narrowed in concentration, she shook her head slowly from side to side. “I don’t know,” she said, and Morris could hear the tension in her voice. “Something—there’s something stirring that wasn’t here before, or maybe it just wasn’t active earlier.”

  “Somebody else is in here?”

  “No, it isn’t human. It isn’t even alive, not really.”

  “‘Not really’ isn’t too helpful, Libby.”

  “I know, sorry. It’s just that the impression I’m getting isn’t well defined.”

  “Is it time for us to bail?”

  She was silent for several seconds before giving vent to a long sigh. “No, we’re almost finished. Getting the last warding charm in place may solve the problem all by itself. Even if it doesn’t, we’ll still be in a stronger position to deal with it.” She looked Morris in the eye, and whatever she saw there seemed to give her some measure of comfort. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go and do it.”

  She walked to the kitchen door, waited for Morris to join her, and opened it.

  QUINCEY MORRIS, WHO had hands quick enough to pick flies right out of the air, never bragged about the phenomenal speed of his reflexes. To him, it would be like boasting about how tall he was. He’d had no control over either one—it was just part of the package that he’d been born with.

  But even he might not have been fast enough, except that Libby Chastain’s premonition had brought him to peak alertness.

  The first thing he noticed as they entered the kitchen was four or five of the drawers on the far side of the room.

  Open.

  The second thing to get his attention was the faint sounds coming from those drawers.

  Utensils rustling, moving, rubbing against each other.

  What would the LaRues keep in there?

  Spatulas. Forks. Whisks. Spoons.

  Knives.

  Because of these curious noises, Morris was looking right at the open drawers when something burst out of one to fly toward them with terrible, blinding speed.

  Knives!

  He sensed rather than saw the object’s trajectory, identified its target by instinct rather than conscious thought, and was only just quick enough to snap his open right hand out to one side and block its path.

  Which is why the razor-sharp paring knife did not bury itself in Libby Chastain’s throat, as it seemed intent on doing.

  Instead, the four-inch blade stabbed clear through Quincey Morris’s right hand, stopping only when the plastic handle was jammed flush against his palm.

  Throughout the kitchen, the sounds of metal rubbing against metal quickly grew louder.

  LIBBY CHASTAIN MAY not have had Morris’s lightning reflexes, but that didn’t mean she was either slow or stupid. Rather than stand gaping at the knife that now transfixed Morris’s bleeding hand, she grabbed his arm above the elbow and yanked him back out of the room with her.

  Their legs got tangled up as they scrambled backward, causing the two of them to fall to the floor in the hallway outside the kitchen. This was what Libby had been trying for, and her reason was made clear an instant after they landed on the carpet—two more kitchen knives flew through the air where they had been standing and buried themselves in the wall beyond.

  Libby hooked one foot behind the kitchen door and slammed it shut with a powerful movement of her leg. After a moment, she sat up and twisted around until her back rested against the door. Then she looked at Morris, whose hand was bleeding all over the carpet. “Can... can you sit up?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said through gritted teeth. A few seconds later, he was sitting next to her, his back supported by the kitchen door. They could both hear, and feel, the thuds as more knives struck the door from the kitchen side, like hungry animals eager for release.

  “Let’s see,” she said, gently taking his impaled hand in both of hers. After a quick examination, she said, “We can’t stop the bleeding unless we bandage it, and we can’t bandage it with that knife in here.” She looked at him and said quietly, “It’s got to come out, Quincey.”

  Morris, whose face had gone the color of dirty milk, nodded slowly. “Do it, then.”

  “All right,” she said. “But first, let me make it a little easier for you.”

  Still cradling his injured hand, she began softly reciting something in the language she had identified as ancient Aramaic. This went on for half a minute or so. After that, looking down at Morris’s hand, she made a cryptic sign in the air just above it and said a two-word phrase. Then she gripped the handle of the paring knife and pulled the blade out in one quick, smooth movement.

  Morris looked at her. “That should have stung like a bastard,” he said. “But I didn’t feel a thing.” He looked at his injured hand in wonderment. “In fact, I still don’t feel a thing. It doesn’t hurt at all, now.”

  Libby nodded. “I’ve temporarily blocked your nerves from sending pain signals. It won’t last long, though, so we’d better get you—”

  They felt the bone-rattling impact behind them a fraction of a second before the crashing, grinding sound of it reached their ears. As they looked at each other, identical expressions of shock on their faces, they
felt it—and heard it—again.

  Something was battering against the kitchen door from inside—something that was a hell of a lot bigger than a butcher knife.

  Libby Chastain was suddenly going through the voluminous pockets of her jacket, which she had not taken off since arriving in the house. As she searched, not quite frantically, through the objects she had in there, she said to Morris, “Brace yourself as well as you can! Dig your heels into the carpet, if that helps. We have got to hold the door!” Another smashing blow from within the kitchen followed hard upon her words.

  Morris made his position against the door as secure as he could, trying not to think about the blood he was losing from his injured right hand. Libby’s impromptu magic had stopped the pain of his wound, but had not done anything about the bleeding. “Not to argue with you,” he said, “but why don’t we just high-tail it out of here?”

  “We wouldn’t get far,” she said, removing two small bottles from a pocket. “We move, the door’s smashed open, and we’re pincushions a few seconds later, believe it!”

  “I do!” Morris said, as another splintering crash shook the door and its surrounding structure. There were cracks in the doorframe now. “But if the door comes down on top of us, we’re pancakes and pincushions, right?”

  “I’m working on it!” she snapped. “Be quiet and let me!”

  Each of the bottles contained a fine powder, one gray, the other green. She poured a small quantity of the gray into her right palm, and an equal amount of the green into her left. Then she passed them back and forth between her hands to combine them. Another blow to the door at her back almost caused her to spill the stuff, but she held on. After nine such passes, she let the roughly mixed powder trickle out of the bottom of her fist onto the hall carpet.

  She used the thin stream of powder to make a small circle on the floor, with an inverted triangle inside it. The remainder she let fall into the center of the triangle, where it formed a mound an inch or so high.

  In the meantime, the assault against the kitchen door continued. Morris thought the blows were getting stronger, and there were cracks in the door itself now. Despite his desire not to distract a witch when she was working, Morris could not help what came out between his clenched teeth: “Libbyyyyy...”

  “I know, I know!” she said tightly. From her left-hand coat pocket she pulled a disposable lighter, held it just above the small mound of powder, and flicked the ignition.

  The powder caught fire immediately, but it burned slowly, with a flame of deep blue. Libby held her hands, palms down, an inch or so over the flame. “Benedic Domine creaturam istam ignis,” she chanted. “Clarifica in me hodierno die, licet igno filio tuo...”

  Morris knew enough Latin so that he could have followed what she was saying, but his attention was distracted by the crashing impacts, behind him, each one a blow from a giant’s fist. Every collision was bringing splinters and plaster dust down on them now, and he figured the door was good for another minute, tops.

  Morris wondered whether he possessed enough grit to throw himself on top of Libby when the door went down. He would then most likely become what Libby had termed a “pincushion,” pierced by every sharp object in the LaRues’ kitchen. But Libby would survive, would be able to make the house safe again, and would then seek out whoever was responsible for inflicting this evil on the LaRue family.

  And may God help you, whoever you are, he thought, when this good, gentle woman catches up with you. For in her righteous anger she will be pitiless.

  Morris was working out the move in his mind, calculating the fastest way to knock Libby flat and cover her completely with his body when she suddenly cried, “Finis!”

  Morris noticed that the oddly colored blue flame had gone out, seemingly of its own accord. The sudden silence was like balm to both his ears and nerves. There was no sound from the kitchen, no more blows against what was left of the door. There was nothing but blessed quiet, broken only by Libby Chastain’s labored breathing.

  Quincey Morris spent several seconds reveling in the sweet knowledge that he wasn’t going to die, after all. Suddenly he said, “Latin!”

  Libby looked at him.

  “You cast that spell in Latin,” Morris said. “What happened to ancient Aramaic, the language of Jesus, and all that?”

  She shrugged. “Under stress, you go with what you know best. I’ve been working with Latin for a long time, and I’m not likely to make mistakes with it.”

  “Stress?” Morris grinned crookedly. “Were you feeling stressed about something?”

  Libby started replacing her magical ingredients in her pockets. “I’d whack you one, if you weren’t already bleeding,” she said, with a smile of her own. “Come on, let’s get that last warding charm in place, so the LaRues can come home. But first, I want to bandage that hand of yours.”

  CHAPTER 9

  VAN DREENAN FINISHED looking at the last one of the three files and tossed it onto Fenton’s borrowed desk. He was, in fact, familiar with their contents already, since the information, complete with crime scene photos, had been e-mailed to the South African Occult Crimes Unit a week earlier.

  But it was always good to refresh your memory of the specifics of a case; sometimes, even the smallest detail could make a difference. Besides, Fenton seemed to expect him to examine the files before they talked, and Van Dreenan wanted to keep Fenton happy, within reason. He was going to need Fenton.

  “All right, we’ve gone over the specifics,” Van Dreenan said. “What are your thoughts on our case, Agent Fenton?”

  “It’s not ‘our case,’ Detective Sergeant. It’s mine. You’re here purely in an advisory capacity.”

  “Of course, yes. I was speaking out of old habit. But, in any event, what are your views?”

  “For this kind of crime, it’s... unusual,” Fenton said, frowning. “I mean, BSU has run into ritual murders before. It’s not nearly as common as a lot of people think, but it does happen. But this—” Fenton made a gesture toward the files strewn across the desk, “is outside any of the patterns we’re used to.”

  “Not a surprise, really,” Van Dreenan said. “Because what you have here isn’t ritual murder.”

  “Oh, come on! Three kids butchered, all in the same exact way. Bodily organs removed and taken away, for God knows what purpose. And the free histamine level in the victims’ blood shows that they were all alive when they were cut open, like fucking animals in a slaughterhouse! If that doesn’t sound like ritual murder to you, pal, then maybe you better get back on—”

  Van Dreenan had held up one hand, palm toward Fenton, in an effort to stem the tirade.

  “Please, Agent Fenton, I did not wish to give insult to your intelligence. We are differing over a semantic distinction, although it is an important one.”

  Van Dreenan leaned forward in his chair. “Please, if you would—define a ritual for me.”

  A scowl remained on Fenton’s face. “Look, I’m not going to play—”

  The hand went up again. It was not a peremptory gesture, such as a traffic cop would make, but rather a plea for peace.

  “I am not wasting your time with idle chatter, as you will soon see. For the moment, humor me, please. Now, then, what is a ritual?”

  Fenton took a deliberate deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked at Van Dreenan for a few seconds before saying, “A ritual is a prescribed action having symbolic value, carried out as part of a ceremony, to achieve some predetermined purpose. That do you?”

  “Full marks, Agent Fenton. That is good definition, and one that I agree with in all respects. Now, if you will indulge me just a little longer: what kind of ritual did these murders involve?”

  “That’s the point! We don’t know. I thought that’s what you were here for.”

  “Perhaps,” Van Dreenan said. “Perhaps it is. But consider this question: if you do not know what kind of ritual was performed, how do you know there was any ritual involved at all?”

  F
enton just stared at him. Finally he said, “Victim profile was the same in each case: kids. Modus operandi was the same: isolated area, kid stripped and staked out on the ground, cut open while still alive, bodily organs removed. That’s pretty much the textbook definition of ritual.”

  Van Dreenan nodded. “In the psychological sense, yes. Any repetitive behavior can conceivably be considered ritualistic. But the religious meaning is somewhat different.”

  “I’m not sure I see the distinction.” Fenton didn’t sound angry any more, just interested.

  Van Dreenan made a head gesture toward the desktop. “We have both read the files, ja? And seen the photos. So, tell me: were any occult or esoteric symbols found at or near any of the crime scenes?”

  Fenton didn’t have to consult the files. “No.”

  “Any evidence of candles, torches, or incense being burned?”

  “No, none.”

  “Do we know how many people were present when these horrible acts took place?”

  “Hard to say for sure. The people who discovered the crime scenes tended to walk all over them before the police got there. Our best estimate is, two.”

  “So, we have no symbolism, nothing burned, and the bare minimum of people necessary to do the deed. A strange kind of ritual, wouldn’t you say?”

  Fenton shook his head in frustration. “So if it wasn’t a ritual, then what the hell was it?”

  For the first time since he’d started talking, Van Dreenan seemed to hesitate.

  “Agent Fenton, have you ever heard of muti murder?”

  “Did you just say ‘multi-murder?’” Fenton asked. “Multiple murders?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Van Dreenan told him. “Although it is true that the one sometimes leads to the other.”

  “If you’re trying to confuse the shit out of me, let the record show that you just succeeded,” Fenton said.

  “My apologies, it was not my intent.”

  Van Dreenan closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, as if trying to organize his thoughts. “Muti is derived from a Zulu word referring to a magic potion. That is why it is sometimes called medicine murder. You must remember that in many parts of Africa, magic and medicine are one and the same.”