Evil Dark

by Justin Gustainis

  Karl murmured in my ear, "I thought it was quite elementary."

  Castle gestured to my right. "As you can see, we have some comfortable armchairs, from which our customers sometimes view our wares. Perhaps we might sit down?"

  He walked us over to where three upholstered chairs sat in a rough semicircle. When Karl and I were seated, Castle took the third chair and turned it toward us before sitting down. Each of these chairs probably weighed close to two hundred pounds, yet Castle had handled his the way I might move a metal folding chair. Magic or muscle? No way to know.

  Castle spread his hands for a moment and said, "So, then?"

  "I understand you're Ernst Vollman's successor," I said, "as… leader… of the local supernatural community."

  "Ah, yes, Vollman," Castle said. "A very interesting man. He will be missed. I understand you were both present when he died?"

  "Yes," I said. I had no intention of discussing with this guy the night that Ernst Vollman and his son Richard had both come to the end of their long lives. Vollman had died fighting, and the son, who was also known as Sligo, had died one of the ugliest deaths I'd ever seen.

  When I didn't say anything more, Castle shrugged and said, "In answer to your question, it's fair to say that I enjoy a certain amount of respect from what you call the local supernatural community. Leader?" Another shrug. "I'm more of an ombudsman, really, called upon sometimes to settle disputes between factions, or individuals. Now, how may I be of assistance to the police this evening?"

  "There are a couple of matters I'd like to discuss," I said. "One involves the fact that somebody is going around burning witches."

  Castle's pleasant expression, which I assume was the one he wore out of habit, became grim. "Yes, I am aware of these atrocities. Two women, who had done harm to no one, subjected to such an agonizing death. It's like something out of the Middle Ages."

  I wondered if Castle's knowledge of the Middle Ages came entirely from books, or if he'd been there personally. Sometimes these wizards are older than they look.

  "Two – so far," Karl said. "And we don't want the number of victims to get any larger."

  "A goal we share, Detective," Castle said. "Believe me."

  "If we knew why those particular women were chosen, it might help us figure out who's been doing the choosing," I said. "Are you aware of any common factor, other than both being practitioners?"

  "It's likely they knew each other," Castle said. "The community here in Scranton is not a large one. But they did not socialize together, nor were they related, either by blood or marriage."

  "Sounds like you've been doing some investigating of your own," Karl said.

  "As I told you, Detective, stopping these attacks is of great importance to us. I have no intention of sitting idly by as they continue. Not, of course," he made a pacifying gesture, "that I lack faith in the forces of law and order."

  "Of course not," I said, keeping most of the sarcasm out of my voice.

  Castle went on as if I hadn't spoken. "However, there are certain… sources of information available to me which you might not find readily accessible."

  "Other than the fact that the witches didn't know each other, what have these sources had to say?" I asked him.

  Castle studied his hands for a moment. I couldn't see the pentagram tattoo on his palm from where I sat, but I knew it was there.

  "So far, nothing of value. I find it most frustrating, especially since another of these terrible attacks could occur at any time."

  "Is it possible somebody's holding out on you?" Karl asked.

  "Oh, no, Detective. I doubt that very much. The word has gone out that any useful information about this matter will be amply rewarded. And the corollary, also."

  I frowned at him. "Corollary?"

  "Simply that if any member of the community keeps such valuable knowledge to himself, the consequences will be… severe."

  Something in Castle's face made me not want to ask what "severe" might entail.

  "You said there were two items you wished to discuss with me, Sergeant," Castle said. "May I know the other one?"

  "All right," I said. "Somebody's out there making, and selling, snuff films."

  Castle's eyebrows climbed toward what was left of his hairline, like caterpillars scaling a wall. "I thought such things were myths, invented by the religious right to justify censorship of all mass media."

  "That may have been true once," I said, "but not any longer. These are the real deal. Detective Renfer and I had to sit through one, and the FBI says there are at least three more in circulation."

  Castle looked from me to Karl and back again. He took his time about it. "I assume you are telling me about this because there's some connection to the supernatural world?"

  "You assume right," I said, and told him about the videos – as well as their Scranton connection.

  He listened with what I can only call morbid fascination, elbows on knees and fingers tented under his nose. When he'd finished he dropped his hands and sat back. "Ye gods," he said softly. "Just when I thought I understood the depths of savagery that humanity was capable of…" He shook his head, as if to drive out the images that I'd planted there.

  "The real savagery isn't being committed by humans," I said. Maybe I was feeling a little defensive. "The demon is the one who does the butcher's work."

  "Yes, I understand that," Castle said. "And I'm no fan of demons, believe me. Nasty things. But permit me a hypothetical example, Sergeant. Let's say that someone were cruel enough to toss a live infant into the tiger's cage at the zoo. Who would you hold responsible for the ensuing tragedy? Not the tiger who, after all, was merely acting like a tiger. You would, quite properly, blame the individual who put the two of them in proximity – right?"

  "OK, you've made your point," I said. "But the demon isn't being conjured and controlled by Sam the barber, or somebody. The one doing that is a wizard."

  "Quite right," Castle said. "In this matter, it would seem, there is plenty of blame to go around."

  "I'm less interested in moral discussions," I said, "than I am in nailing the fuckers who are doing this. At least one of the victims was a local boy."

  "Mister Hudzinski," Castle said.

  "That's him," Karl said.

  "We live in a highly mobile culture, as you know," Castle said. "It's entirely possible that Mister Hudzinski, although a citizen of our fair city, fell into his misfortune a long way from home."

  "If he did, we'll know it soon enough," I told him. "There are detectives digging into every detail of the guy's life, even as we speak. But for now, I'm going on the assumption that he was killed locally. And there's something else for you to think about."

  Castle raised his eyebrows politely, but said nothing.

  "If one of these videos was made locally, then they all were." I explained how the physical layout of the killing ground was the same in all four of the snuff films. "The camera angles are identical, too," I said. "The cameras are on tripods, and it doesn't look as if they're moved from one of these atrocities to the next."

  Castle thought about that. "Even if Hudzinski disappeared locally, that doesn't mean he was killed here. Most car trunks contain ample room for a body, either living or dead."

  And I bet you'd know, I thought.

  "That's stupid," Karl said, which earned him a glare from Castle. I don't know if the Supefather was pissed at being talked to that way by a cop, or by a cop who was also a fellow supe.

  "It makes no sense," Karl went on, "for them to transport a prisoner from Scranton to, say New York. There are lots of risks, haina? You could get pulled over for a busted tail light, or the guy could escape somehow. Hell, he might even die on you along the way. It's too complicated."

  "He's right," I said. "If they wanted to film their fucking torture sessions in New York, or even Altoona, it'd be a lot simpler just to grab a couple of guys in those local areas."

  Castle made a small gesture acknowledging defeat, which
I thought was gracious of him. "All right," he said, "for the sake of discussion, let's posit that all of this 'torture porn' is being made locally. What do you want from me?"

  "Names," I said. "That's what I want. If this stuff is being filmed around here, there's two possibilities. One is that the wizard doing the conjuring is from outside the area and came to town fairly recently. You know of anybody like that?"

  Castle shook his big head slowly. "No one comes to mind. He wouldn't be required to check in with me upon arrival, but any practitioner who expected to remain in this community would probably have the good manners – and the good sense – to pay a courtesy call."

  "The first of these videos was made while Vollman was still alive," Karl said. "Maybe the wizard checked in with him."

  "That could be," Castle said. "But there's no way to know for certain. Vollman and I weren't close, and he didn't leave any written records that I've come across."

  "The other possibility," I said, "is that the wizard is a local boy gone bad. How about it, Castle? Anybody in your community dabbling in black magic these days?"

  "From what you've described, this individual is doing more than just dabbling," Castle said. "But in any case the answer is no. If I were aware of any such activity, I would of course have reported it to the police." He said that with a straight face, and any irony in his voice might have been my imagination. Or maybe not.

  "Or you might've just handled it yourself," Karl said. "To avoid troubling the authorities, and all that."

  The look that Castle gave Karl said, Just be glad you have that badge to hide behind, pal, or I would have your balls for breakfast. I hoped Karl would never have to deal with Castle without his status as a cop to back him up.

  What Castle said was, "I suppose there is that possibility. But if I had, we would not be having this discussion, would we?"

  We left the rug shop with Castle's promise that he would shake the supe community's tree a bit to see if any black magicians fell out, and would let us know if they did.

  As we walked to the car, I said to Karl, "You gave the Supefather a fair amount of attitude back there."

  "The guy's an asshole. Just rubs me the wrong way."

  "You weren't like that with Vollman."

  "Yeah, well," Karl said, "that was fucking then and this is fucking now."

  Yeah, back then you weren't undead, and didn't have to prove your independence to anybody – including yourself.

  I decided not to share that observation with my partner.

  "I notice you didn't say anything about the werewolf in Nay Aug Park," Karl said.

  "I'm keeping that as my ace in the hole," I said. "Although what game we're playing here, I have no clue. Besides, if Castle really is the Man, like Vollman was, he'll know about it from his own sources soon enough."

  When we returned to the car, the red light on the police radio was blinking, which meant that we'd had a call while we were in the rug shop. I got in on the passenger side and picked the radio out of its holder.

  "Dispatch, this is Markowski. A call came in for us sometime in the last half hour."

  "Wait one, Markowski."

  A couple of seconds later, a female voice in my ear said, "This is Agent Thorwald."

  I'm pretty sure I blinked at that. "This is Markowski. How is it you're on the police radio net?"

  "Lieutenant McGuire let me borrow one of the units. I've been trying to raise you for the last twenty minutes," she said, not sounding happy about it.

  "Sorry, we were engaged in a gunfight with a gang of desperate criminals."

  "Really?"

  "No, not really. What can I do for you, Agent Thorwald?"

  When she spoke again, her voice was matter-of-fact. She had controlled her temper, rather than ream my ass out for joking around with her. That earned her a point in my book. A small one.

  "You and your partner had best return to the squad area," she said. "ASAP."

  "Can I ask why?"

  "An agent from the Scranton field office brought over something that arrived there today, special delivery. It's another snuff film."

  I felt my guts contract. Some other poor bastard had died in unimaginable pain, for the amusement of a bunch of fucking sickos.

  "I agree that we should take a look at the video," I said. "But can't it wait until near the end of our shift? We've got a couple of other stops to make." I was in no hurry to sit through another episode of Grand Guignol with real blood, although I knew that I was just postponing the inevitable.

  "Up to you," she said, "but I'd recommend you come in now. This one's different from the others."

  "How so?" "There's a woman in it."

  The set-up was the same, except that it wasn't. They had the pentagram, all right, and the red protective circle surrounding it. What looked like the same blood-spattered wooden chairs sat within the circle, and nearby you could catch glimpses of the table with its instruments of agony all ready to go.

  One of the chairs contained another naked man, manacled and clearly terrified. He looked to be about thirty, with close-cropped black hair, a heavy five o'clock shadow of beard, and a tat on one shoulder that looked like a coiled cobra.

  The other chair, just like Thorwald had said, held a woman. Her face was turned away from the camera, but the sex was pretty clear from the styled blonde hair, the smooth-shaven leg visible in its shackle, and a side view of one of her breasts.

  I guess whoever was behind this operation had decided to give the pervs a real treat this time.

  The same voice off-camera was chanting the same words in Demon as before, with an identical result.

  The air within the circle shimmered, then produced smoke that went from white, to gray, to black. The demon appeared, and was driven into submission by pain. Then the male prisoner jerked as the demon invaded, and I gave a small nod as my expectations were confirmed. I'd assumed that the woman had been brought in to play the role of victim. That's a common feature of torture porn, or so I hear, and I was assuming this exercise in sadism was aimed at the same general audience – or at least the portion of it that had a thousand bucks to spare.

  It was at that moment that the woman first turned her face toward the camera, and an instant later I felt like I'd just been stabbed in the chest with an icicle. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't speak, but worst of all, I couldn't take my eyes off the video screen.

  Karl must have realized that something was seriously wrong, because he grabbed the remote, pointed it at the DVD player, and pushed Pause. Part of my brain wished he'd hit Stop instead, and that the show would never start again. Ever.

  "Stan? What is it, man? Your heart's going like a million beats a minute. You want the paramedics? Stan!"

  I closed my eyes, and when I opened them a few seconds later, I found out that I was capable of speech, after all. "Karl, oh dear Jesus God, Karl! This can't be real, I must be fucking dreaming and I wish I would wake up. It's impossible!"

  "What, Stan? What's wrong? Is it the woman? We already knew there was gonna be one this time – Thorwald said so. What's going on, man?"

  "Jesus, Karl, don't you fucking see?"

  "See what, Stan? Come on, work with me. What is it?"

  "You've met her, I know you have, that time in Pittston. Don't you fucking recognize her?"

  "The woman in the video? I've never seen her before, Stan. Who is she?"

  "What're you, fucking blind, you with your fucking vampire sight, you can see in the dark and you can't even fucking see that?" I said.

  "Stan–"

  "Karl, it's Lacey Brennan."

  Karl grabbed my arm. Even through my shirt and sports coat I could feel how cold – and strong – his grip was.

  "Stan, take a deep breath. Stan, listen to me – it's not Lacey. It isn't her, Stan. I'm sure of it."

  "What makes you the fucking expert? You only met her once, you said so yourself."

  "No, Stan, that's what you said. I know she was at that crime scene in Pittston las
t summer, but I saw her twice before then, and I remember what she looks like. There's a resemblance, yeah. I can see how you'd get faked out by it. But it's not her, Stan."

  "How can you be so–"

  "And I think I can prove it."

  I stared at him. "And how the fuck are you gonna do that?"

  "Stan, does Lacey have a long scar that runs down her right calf?"

  "I don't — how am I supposed to know that? How the fuck do you know that?"

  "That crime scene in Pittston was in the top floor of a duplex, remember? I was behind Lacey going up the stairs, and we had to go slow because the stairs were shaky. There was nothing better in my field of vision at the moment, so I looked at her legs. She had a skirt on, remember? A little short for official business, but on her it looked good."