The Devil in Gray

by Graham Masterton

  “Of course I witnessed it. But who did it?”

  “Sorry, Sergeant. It’s a very long story.”

  “Somebody cut her head off, for Christ’s sake. But there’s nobody there.”

  “Like I told you, the hostage taker isn’t exactly visible.”

  “Meaning what, Lieutenant, or am I missing something?”

  “Meaning he’s here but you can’t see him, that’s all.”

  “So where the hell’s he gone now?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Sergeant. He could be standing right behind you, for all I know.”

  “What?”

  “Unlikely. I think he probably left the building already.”

  Hicks came over, circling as far away from Queen Aché’s sprawled and bloodied body as he could. He glanced down at her head but then he looked away.

  “You okay?” Decker asked him.

  “What do you think? I’ve spent the whole of my life trying to get away from this voodoo stuff. My grandmother, my aunts, and my uncles, they all had their spells and their magic cures and their coconut shells. My friends at school got sick, their parents took them to the doctor. When I got sick, they rubbed me with egg yolks and blew cigar smoke all over me. It made me feel like I was some kind of savage.

  “Why do you think I don’t like Rhoda doing her séances? It’s mumbo-jumbo. It’s slave stuff. Why can’t they leave it where it belongs, back in Africa, back in the past? I hate that stuff.”

  “Maybe you do, but it works.”

  Hicks said, “The Nine Deaths. Jesus. And that’s what he’s going to do to you.”

  Decker checked his watch. Three paramedics were coming through the basement, pushing a loudly rattling gurney. The police officers were milling around, wondering what to do. Decker said, “I still have five and a half hours till Saint James Day.”

  “How are you going to stop him?”

  Decker looked down at Queen Aché’s head. “I told you, I’m going to think.”

  “If I were you, I’d take the first flight out of here, as far away as possible.”

  “Uh-huh, that’s not the way to do it. You got to face up to things, sport. No use in running away.”

  Hicks gave Queen Aché’s head another disgusted look. “Something else, wasn’t she? Really something else.”

  “Oh yes. But she didn’t get any more than she deserved.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Cab said, “I guess I can be thankful for one small mercy.”

  “Oh yes? And what’s that?”

  “The whole time you failed to report back to headquarters, I didn’t sneeze once. It ain’t myrtle I’m a martyr to, it’s you.”

  Decker didn’t know what to say to that. Cab opened the folder on his desk in front of him and studied it for a while, and then he said, “Queen Aché accompanied you voluntarily to Main Street Station?”

  “Yes, Captain. No duress whatever.”

  “And she was mutilated and eventually decapitated by your prime suspect, whom you conveniently managed not to tell me the name of the last time we spoke? Right in front of you, and in front of Sergeant Hicks, and seven uniformed officers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have any idea what the political repercussions of this killing are going to be? I mean, do you have any idea at all? We haven’t informed the media yet, but I’ll give it another hour before somebody from the Egun makes a public complaint. Ms. Honey Blackwell is going to accuse us of everything from willful endangerment to institutionalized racism.

  “Apart from that, Decker, where the hell are you going with this investigation? The interim chief is screaming down the phone at me every five minutes and the Times-Dispatch has started calling us ‘Richmond’s Finest Fumblers.’”

  “Well, Captain, you have to understand that this is a very unusual case. Even more complex than it appeared at first sight. It’s going to take patience, and imagination, and even more patience.”

  “But you do have a prime suspect?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So … who is it?”

  “I’d rather not give you his name, sir, not just yet.”

  “I am your captain, Decker.”

  “Yes, sir. But I seriously believe it would jeopardize my investigation if I were to tell you his identity before I made my final move.”

  “Oh yes. And why is that?”

  “Because (a) you wouldn’t believe me, and (b) you couldn’t officially approve of what I’m planning to do in order to stop him.”

  “I don’t like the sound of the word ‘stop.’”

  “All right, ‘apprehend.’”

  Cab heaved himself up from his chair and walked across to the window. “You’re a good detective, Decker. Tell me that I can trust you on this.”

  “You can trust me, Captain. Really.”

  “So how much patience are you looking for?”

  “Twelve hours’ worth, maybe a whole lot less. It depends on the suspect.”

  “All right, then, much against my better judgment. But if I give you that much rope, it’ll be your fault if you hang yourself with it.”

  “Hanging? That’s the least of my worries.”

  Billy Joe Bennett was polishing a Civil War coffee boiler when Decker and Hicks came into the Rebel Yell.

  “See this?” he said, holding it up. “This is a genuine rarity. When the army of northern Virginia went to war in 1861 they took along whole wagon trains of baking trays and sheet-iron stoves and cutlery and flour boxes and every convenience you could think of. But after six months of toting all that stuff around they threw away just about everything but a bucket and an ax and a frying pan.”

  Decker said, “I’m looking for a uniform.”

  “A uniform? Sure. Depends what you want. I’ve just bought a jacket from the Second Company, Richmond Howitzers, used to belong to Captain Lorraine F. Jones and it’s still got his name in it. I’ve got pants from Cutshaw’s battery, and any number of slouch hats and buck gloves and belts.”

  “I’m looking for a general’s uniform. I want to dress up like Robert E. Lee.”

  Billy Joe raised his eyebrows. “Fancy-dress party?”

  “Something like that.”

  It took almost a half hour of rummaging, but eventually Billy Joe came up with a double-breasted frock coat, a pair of gray pants with canvas suspenders, a broad-brimmed hat, a pair of long buck gloves, and a pair of high black riding boots. Decker tried on the hat and the frock coat, and Billy Joe stood back and nodded in approval. “All you need now is a white beard and Traveler. That was Lee’s favorite horse. Oh, and how about this?”

  He went over to the display cabinet and came back with the same wrist breaker that he had refused to sell to the customer from Madison, with a decorative scabbard for Decker to hang it on his belt.

  “Can’t have Robert E. Lee without his sword, wouldn’t be right. But don’t go swinging it about, Lieutenant. You don’t want to be taking anybody’s bean off, by accident.”

  As they drove away from the store, Hicks said, “Are you going to give me any idea what this is all about?”

  “You’ll see.” He picked up his cell phone and punched out Jonah’s number. “Jonah … it’s Decker Martin. No, don’t worry about that. No. Listen, you remember that store you took me to, to buy all those gifts for Moses Adebolu? That’s right. Can you do me a favor and go there and buy me everything it takes to make an offering to Changó? Bananas, spices, apples, and all those herbs, you know, like rompe zaraguey and prodigiosa. Oh yes, a live rooster, too. Why? You don’t need to know why. Just drop it all off at police headquarters. Yes, of course I’ll pay you.”

  When they reached Seventh Street he took a left and parked outside Stagestruck Theatrical Supplies. It was a small store with a window display of Shakespearean costumes—Romeo in doublet and hose, and Juliet in a long pearl-studded dress and a wimple. Decker went up to the diminutive old gnome behind the counter and said, “I’m looking for a bear
d.”

  “A beard, you say? Then you came to the right place. We have the finest selection of surrogate facial hair in all Virginia. What are you looking for? Goatee, Abe Lincoln, or Grizzly Adams?”

  They collected Jonah’s shopping from police headquarters. The sergeant on the desk handed over the basket containing the live rooster with obvious relief. “Damn thing wouldn’t stop clucking. Worse than my wife.”

  Next, they stopped at the Bottom Line Restaurant on East Main Street for hamburgers and buffalo wings and beer. Decker could eat only two or three mouthfuls of his hamburger. “Shit—I feel like the condemned man, eating his last meal.”

  “You have a plan though, don’t you?”

  “Not much of one.”

  “You’re going to dress up like Robert E. Lee?”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  “And you think—what? That Major Shroud is going to stop and salute you?”

  “Maybe. The point is that Major Shroud feels deeply aggrieved because he expected to be treated like a hero instead of a war criminal. He spent nearly 150 years sealed up in that casket. Can you imagine it? Never able to sleep, never able to die. That’s plenty of time to develop a raging homicidal obsession, wouldn’t you say?”

  “He’s not going to believe that General Lee is still alive, though, is he?”

  “I don’t know. If he doesn’t, then this isn’t going to work. But he’s not mentally stable, there’s no question of that. Who would be, after being buried alive for so long? And if we can take him by surprise—”

  “I still think we should call in the SWAT team.”

  Decker shook his head. “Waste of time. When Shroud’s invisible he’s not a solid physical presence in the same way as you or me. He has the kinetic energy to push us around, that’s for sure, but I don’t think we can hurt him with bullets. It’s all part of the same Santería magic that allows him to walk through walls. God knows how it’s done. I mean, it defies every law of physics you can think of. But maybe it’s like ultraviolet light, which you can’t see, or dog whistles, which you can’t hear. Just because you can’t see them and you can’t hear them, that doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

  “Too heavy for me, Lieutenant.”

  Back at Decker’s apartment, Hicks hung up his coat and angled one of the armchairs so that he was facing the door. He laid his gun on the coffee table beside him, for all the use that was going to be. Decker unloaded all of Jonah’s shopping in the kitchen, including the fretfully clucking rooster, and then went through to the bedroom.

  “Help yourself to a soda,” he told Hicks. “I don’t know how long we’re going to have to wait for Major Shroud to make an appearance.”

  “Not too long, Lieutenant, if you want my opinion. The way he was talking, he’s just champing at the bit to cut you into chitterlings.”

  “Sure. Thanks for the reassurance.”

  Decker laid out his Civil War uniform on the bed. He hoped to God that he hadn’t misjudged Major Shroud’s motives, or overestimated how much control Major Shroud was able to exert over the spirit of Changó. But when Major Shroud had ordered him to, Changó had immediately returned to protect him—in spite of Queen Aché’s offer of apples and herbs. Why would Changó have done that, unless—in this unholy symbiosis of god and man—Major Shroud was the dominant partner? Men and their gods are inseparable, and sometimes the gods have to do what men bid them to do, for the sake of their own survival. When men don’t believe in them any longer, gods die.

  Decker picked up the photograph of Cathy on the Robert E. Lee footbridge. If I get out of this, the first thing I’m going to do is visit your grave and lay camellias on it, heaps of camellias, your very favorite flower. Wherever you are now, I love you still, and I always will, just as much as you love me, and more.

  He pulled on the rough gray Civil War pants and fastened the withered suspenders to hold them up. The pants were two or three inches too short in the leg, but that wouldn’t matter when he put his boots on. He picked a plain gray shirt out of his closet, and then he shrugged on the heavy frock coat and fastened it right up to the neck. It smelled of dry-cleaning, and age.

  The boots were a size too tight, but he managed to force them onto his feet by repeatedly stamping his heels on the floor. He didn’t know how he was going to get them off, but he could worry about that later. Finally, he went into the bathroom and painted his chin and his upper lip with the spirit gum that the gnome in Stagestruck had sold him. He took his bristly white beard out of its polythene bag and carefully pressed it on. In a few minutes, he looked twenty years older. A slightly sharp-faced version of General Lee, but not an unconvincing likeness, apart from his Italian designer glasses. He adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, hung his saber onto his belt, and then he stood in front of the full-length mirror and struck a pose.

  He came out of the bedroom, stalked across to where Hicks was sitting, and stood in front of him. In a deep, sonorous voice, he said, “After four years of arduous service marked by unsurpassed courage and fortitude, the army of northern Virginia has been compelled to yield to overwhelming numbers and resources.”

  “Holy shit,” Hicks said, rising to his feet.

  “Think it’ll work?” Decker asked.

  “Well, you sure convinced me.”

  Decker took off his hat and sat down. “This is madness, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. This whole thing is madness. Maybe the only way to fight madness is to act even madder.”

  “Well, sport, I hope you’re right. I don’t know what the media are going to make of it, if I get chopped into pieces while I’m all dressed up like Robert E. Lee.”

  All they could do now was sit and wait. Midnight passed, and Hicks checked his watch and said, “That’s it, Saint James Day,” but after twenty minutes there was still no sign of Major Shroud, and the only sound they heard from outside was the lonely hooting of a riverboat.

  Decker said, “If this doesn’t come to anything … you know, if Shroud doesn’t show … you won’t mention this to anybody, will you?”

  “What, you dressing up like General Lee?” Hicks hesitated, and then he smiled and shook his head. “What kind of a partner do you think I am?”

  “You’re a good partner, Hicks. Hardworking, bright. I think you’re going to go far.”

  “I don’t know. This investigation, you know, it’s thrown me completely. I keep asking myself, how would I have handled it, if I’d been in charge? You know what I mean?”

  “Sure, I know what you mean. And what was your answer?”

  “I wouldn’t have dared to do anything that you did.”

  “Of course you would. Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “You think I would have arranged a séance with my partner’s wife, without even asking him?”

  “I’m sorry about that, I told you.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. It was the right thing to do. Do you think I would have blackmailed Queen Aché into looking for Changó for me?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “That woman frightened three colors of shit out of me. I wouldn’t have dared to do that.”

  “You can’t say that. Maybe you would.”

  “I wouldn’t, because I didn’t want to believe in any of this Santería stuff. You didn’t want to believe it, either, but at least your mind was open, and you followed the clues where they led you.”

  The white-bearded Decker said, “That’s where you’re wrong, sport. I didn’t follow any clues. I was shown the way, by a spirit who loves me more than I even realized. That was the only reason I believed in the Devil’s Brigade, and Changó, and that was the only reason I went looking for Major Shroud.”

  Hicks looked at his watch. “How about a cup of coffee? Want me to make it?”

  “Sure, sounds like a good idea.”

  Hicks went into the kitchen and switched on the light. As he did so, there was a ring at the doorbell. He turned and stared at Decker, and Decker
pulled his Anaconda out of his holster and cocked it.

  There was a long pause, and then the doorbell rang again.

  “Think it’s him?” Hicks asked, in a hoarse whisper.

  “He’d just walk through the wall, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t ring the bell.”

  “Yeah. But it could be him.”

  “Go take a look through the spyhole.”

  While Hicks went to the door to see who was there, Decker went from lamp to lamp, switching them off, so that the light was subdued, apart from a single bright desk lamp directly behind him. Then he stood in the center of the room, stiff-backed, bearded chin protruding, as if he were General Robert E. Lee himself, expecting an audience.

  Hicks turned around and said, “It’s not him.”

  “It’s not? Then who is it?”

  “Friends of yours. Sandra Plummer and her mother.”

  “What? What the hell are they doing here?”

  “You want me to let them in?”

  “Of course I want you to let them in.”

  Hicks opened the door and Sandra came in, blinking against the light. She was wearing a gray duffel coat and a maroon woolly hat. Eunice Plummer came in right behind her, her hair even wilder than usual, dressed in a long brown raincoat.

  “Where’s Lieutenant Martin?” she asked.

  Decker took off his hat. “Right here, Ms. Plummer. Don’t let the beard fool you.”

  Eunice Plummer peered at him closely. “My goodness, it is you. Why are you dressed up like that?”

  “Because I’m expecting a visitor, Ms. Plummer. I’m expecting the man who killed Jerry and Alison Maitland, and George Drewry, and John Mason. Apparently I’m next on his list.”

  “But why do you have to look like Robert E. Lee?”

  “I’m flattered—you guessed who I was supposed to be. It’s called psychology, Ms. Plummer. Catching your suspect off guard. But what are you two doing here? It’s past midnight.”

  “The So-Scary Man is coming,” Sandra said, emphatically.

  “How do you know that, Sandra?”

  “She woke me up and said she could feel it,” Eunice Plummer said, somewhat impatiently. “I told her she was imagining things, and to go back to bed, but she wouldn’t. I’m afraid she threw a bit of a tantrum, so in the end there was nothing I could do but bring her here and show her. Otherwise she could have suffered an episode.”