Evil Dark

by Justin Gustainis

  "He came well prepared," I said to Scanlon, and gave the saw back to him.

  "The only thing that puzzles me is this."

  He handed me a device that looked like what you'd get if you crossed an iPhone with an expensive calculator. It had two wires dangling from it with odd-looking plugs at the ends.

  I looked at it, and then it occurred to me that the little keypad looked like the one on Karl's lock. That's when I realized what I was holding.

  "I've never seen one of these," I told Scanlon, "but I've read about them. It's a gizmo that's supposed to crack the code on an electronic combination lock." I nodded toward Karl's bedroom. "Like that one."

  Scanlon took it back from me. "I thought that was strictly James Bond stuff."

  "Don't say that around Karl," I said, "unless you want a twenty-minute description of every similar gadget that ever showed up in one of those movies."

  Scanlon started putting the vampire-killing gear back in the bag. "Guess yesterday's James Bond fantasy is today's reality. This dude really was well prepared."

  "My guess is, he broke in for the first time a few days ago, and did a little reconnaissance."

  "You figure he saw the lock, and realized he'd need special equipment to beat it."

  I nodded. "Looks like if Sharkey, or whoever it was, hadn't stepped in, one of those fucking sticks would now be sticking out of Karl's chest."

  They scream, when you pound the stake in. They scream, and they writhe, sometimes they beg, and the blood spurts all over – just like if it were you or me.

  It looked like I'd have to buy Sharkey a beer sometime – or a blood, or whatever the hell he drinks.

  "I know you'll be sending this guy's prints out on the wire," I said to Scanlon. "But you might save some time and trouble if you send them to Chicago first. Ask them to check the prints against those of a guy they call Duffy the Vampire Slayer."

  Scanlon's face twitched, which I suppose was his version of a smile. He's not a big smiler, Scanlon. "Duffy the Vampire Slayer? No shit?"

  "No shit."

  I got home – again – a little after two in the afternoon. I was still riding the adrenaline wave that Harry West's call had given me, so I figured I'd better make some coffee and face the fact that I wasn't going to sleep again until my next shift was over.

  Once the coffee maker was burbling away, I went into the living room to see if anything interesting was on TV. I didn't think my brain could handle anything complicated, like reading a newspaper. I got interested in a show on AMC that I'd never seen before, about a candidate for president who's secretly possessed by a demon. The next thing I knew, Christine was gently shaking my arm and saying, "Wake up, Daddy. Time to get ready for work."

  I came awake with a start. "Shit!" I said. "Must've dozed off." I rubbed my face a couple of times and yawned. "Although, come to think of it, that's the best thing that could've happened." I checked my watch. Three and a half hours of sleep was better than none.

  I saw that the answering machine's red light was blinking. I'd been down so deep, I hadn't even heard the phone ring.

  "Hey, Stan – it's Karl. Thanks for the note you left me, man. At least I was prepared when I walked out of the bedroom and found the two homicide dicks waiting for me. Looks like I need a better lock on the front door, too, haina? Not to mention new plaster and paint in the living room. Listen, the homicide guys say they want to talk to me, although I figure I'll just keep tellin' 'em, 'Beats me, fellas, I was dead to the world when it all went down. Literally.' But that means I'm gonna be late coming on shift – tell McGuire, will you? See you soon – I hope. Bye."

  Christine had heard Karl's message, too. She looked at me and said, "What the hell was that about?"

  "I'll tell you about it over breakfast, honey. But right now I need a shower and a change of clothes."

  "Want me to make you some eggs while you're upstairs? Save you some time when you come down."

  "Hey, they'd be great, thanks. Messing with human food won't gross you out?"

  "No, I don't think so. Watching you eat eggs with ketchup – now that grosses me out."

  A little later, while eating the scrambled eggs she'd made – yeah, I had 'em with ketchup; sue me – I filled Christine in on the latest series of crises.

  She frowned into her cup, swirling around the small amount of Type A that remained in it. "So, do you figure this guy was after Karl because he's" – she made a face – "one of the bloodsucking undead, or because he's your partner?"

  "Could be either one, I suppose. But there's lots of vampires in Scranton, so the odds are against him being randomly targeted as just another step toward Helter Skelter."

  She nodded. "Good point."

  "Besides," I said, "that bunch of goblins came after me the other night, remember? That could be more Helter Skelter too, I guess – just another human murdered by supes. But the likelihood of both Karl and me being chosen by chance for that shit is pretty damn low."

  "I was thinking about that attack on you last night," she said, "when things got slow at work, and it doesn't make sense. I mean, how would a human go about assembling a goblin hit squad? You can't just stroll through Goblin Market calling, 'Hey, anybody wanna knife a cop tonight? I'll throw in all the meth you can snort'."

  "Yeah, I see what you mean. Any outsider who tried that would be lucky not to get knifed himself."

  "He'd have to use a middleman, wouldn't he, our Mister X? Or middle-goblin. Someone to do the recruiting for him."

  I put my fork down as my brain finally started working again. "He'd have to put the word out, somehow. And whenever any kind of word goes out to the supe community, there's a guy who's sure to hear it."

  "You mean Mister Castle?"

  "No, he might be a little too high up for something like that to reach him. I was thinking of someone lower in the food chain."

  "How low?" she asked.

  "Low enough to consider human flesh a delicacy."

  "Oh, ewwww."

  I grinned at her. "Nice talk, for one of the bloodsucking undead."

  She gave me a shrug and a grin. "Hey, everybody's gotta have standards."

  "Tell Christine if she ever gets tired answering emergency calls, there might be a slot for her on the police force," McGuire said. "How did the goblins get organized – you should've thought about that before now – and so should I."

  "Better late than not at all," I said. "I told you I wanted to drop by the U tonight. Father Duvall's got an office hour from eight to nine."

  "Yeah, I'll be interested to hear what he has to say about these True Cross nutjobs – if that's what they are."

  "Well, since Karl's gonna be tangled up with Homicide for a while, I thought before I visit Father Duvall I'd stop in at Renfield's."

  "For what?" McGuire asked.

  "I'm hoping to see a ghoul about a goblin."

  Renfield's is Scranton's biggest bar catering to a supernatural clientele. They let humans in, of course, just as a supe can get a drink, of whatever he wants, at any other bar in town. Discrimination's illegal – the courts have been very clear on that point.

  But it's not surprising that supes prefer the company of their own, even if the different species aren't always on the best of terms with each other. Vampires and werewolves, for instance, don't always get along too well – but anybody who starts trouble in Renfield's is banned for life. And for some of these folks, that can be a very, very long time.

  I noticed that the volume of conversation ebbed for a few seconds when I walked in. It always does, even though I'm on pretty good terms with most of the supe community. In my job you have to be, regardless of your personal feelings. The talk had returned to its normal level by the time I reached the bar.

  I ordered a ginger ale from Elvira, the bartender, then turned around to lean on the bar, facing the room. I scanned the tables and was relieved to see that Barney Ghougle was here, having a drink with his brother. Algernon keeps getting into trouble with the law
– he's got a little indecent exposure problem – so Barney and I have done a certain amount of business over the years. Nobody knows the current dirt like a ghoul, and Barney is the gossip king of Wyoming Valley.

  It's better that I not go walking around amongst the tables in Renfield's. Having a cop on the prowl makes some people – and a few others – nervous. So I waited until I caught Barney's eye, then made a slight nod. A few moments later he got up from his chair and made his way toward me.

  Barney Ghougle looks like somebody you'd see in a painting by the great American portrait artist, Charles Addams, although Barney always reminds me of the late actor Peter Lorre – short, a little stout, with hair plastered over his head with too much gel. Barney owns a funeral home, and even in Renfield's he wears the professional outfit – black suit, dark gray tie, white shirt. I guess in that place he never knows when he'll encounter a future customer – or a former one.

  As he reached me I said, "Hello, Barney – buy you a drink?"

  "Certainly, Sergeant," he said, with grave formality. "A bourbon and water would be most enjoyable."

  Yeah, he really talks like that. Occupational hazard, I suppose.

  When his drink arrived, Barney took a sip and said, "Now, then – what pressing matter has brought you to this fine establishment tonight?"

  "Goblins."

  "Oh, yes?" Barney wrinkled his nose. "Unpleasant creatures." Like I said, there's not always a lot of love lost between different varieties of supes.

  "You'll get no argument from me," I said. "In fact, a bunch of them were extremely unpleasant around me the other night. With knives, no less."

  "Yes, I heard of that dreadful incident." Of course he had. "I was also relieved to learn that you came through the ordeal unscathed."

  "Unscathed, maybe, but distinctly pissed off. I don't want something like that happening again."

  Barney permitted himself a tiny smile. "My understanding is that those six impertinent goblins will not trouble you – or anyone else – ever again. My congratulations, by the way, on your prowess in combat." He raised his glass to me, then took another sip. "I did not receive any of their custom, alas – goblins bury their own."

  If Barney thought I'd taken down all six greenies by myself, then let him. My reputation as a badass can always use a little polishing.

  "Whoever sent those six could always send more," I said. "That's why I'm very interested in finding out who exactly did send them."

  Barney gave me raised eyebrows. "You believe they were hired to kill you, and not simply paying off a grudge? There is bad blood between you and the goblin community that goes back some years, I understand."

  I gave him a look. "Barney, when's the last time you met a goblin who could remember what he had for breakfast yesterday, let alone something that happened eighteen months ago?"

  The little ghoul nodded slowly. "That is a reasonable point you raise."

  "More important, can you imagine six goblins, acting alone, who could stay organized long enough to build a campfire, let alone plan and carry out a hit?"

  "When you put it like that, I cannot help but agree. Someone would appear to have used the goblins as stalking horses against you."

  "Finally, the light dawns," I said. "So what I want to know is, what human's been hanging out with the goblins lately."

  Barney frowned into his glass. "Oh, dear."

  "Don't give me 'Oh, dear', Barney. This is me, remember? The guy who keeps getting your brother out of jail?"

  "I am well aware of your efforts, Sergeant. And I hope I have not proved ungrateful in the past. I am thus most distressed that I cannot be of assistance to you on this occasion."

  "Can't – or won't?"

  "I most certainly would, were it within my capabilities. But I have no lines of communication into the goblin community. They are very secretive, and do not mingle much outside their own numbers. Except for their cousins, of course."

  "Their what? Cousins?"

  "I refer to the ogres, naturally."

  "Ogres?" I almost spilled my drink. "The giants and the greenies – are you fucking kidding me?"

  "I grant you there is little physical resemblance. But they are both creatures of the fey, and feel a certain kinship with each other. It is rather like the Russians and Serbs, in human society. Different countries, different languages and cultures. Yet in 1914, the Russians came to the defense of Serbia, thus igniting the First World War."

  "Goblins and ogres. Jesus, why didn't I know that?"

  Barney shrugged those well-tailored shoulders. "It is not a fact that either side advertises. Ogres are, in their own way, rather secretive, too."

  "Son of a bitch."

  "I am thus most regretful of my inability to offer you assistance on this occasion. But perhaps if you know a friendly ogre…"

  I put my glass down so suddenly that I sloshed ginger ale over my hand. "Mother fuck," I said. "I think I just might."

  Now I needed to see an ogre about a goblin, but it was almost time for Father Duvall's office hour, and that was an opportunity I didn't want to miss.

  Just inside the main entrance to St Thomas Hall was a building directory, which informed me that Peter Duvall, SJ, had his office in room 309. Turned out I didn't have to worry about room numbers as I reached the right hallway. Only one room had light streaming from an open door, and I was glad to see that Father Duvall, unlike some profs I've heard about, actually kept his office hours.

  I stepped into the doorway and rapped my knuckles against the open door. When the man in black with the clerical collar looked up, I said, "Father Duvall? I'm Stan Markowski, from the Scranton Police Department's Occult Crimes Unit." I showed him my ID. "Dave Garrett said you might be able to help me with a case I'm working on."

  Father Duvall had manners. He stood up and walked around his desk, hand outstretched. Once I got a good look at him, I knew what thought often ran through the minds of his female students. It was the same feeling I'd had in high school, whenever I looked at beautiful Sister Mary Alan.

  What a waste.

  Father Duvall reminded me of nobody so much as JeanPaul Belmondo, who was the essence of French cool in the 1960s. He had the same disarrayed black hair, hooded eyes, and thick, sensuous lips. Duvall even had the same kind of dimple on his chin.

  What a waste.

  "Good to meet you, Sergeant," he said, shaking hands with a smile. "I don't know what you're working on, but if Dave thinks I might be able to help you, then I'll give it my best shot."

  He invited me to sit in one of the wooden visitor's chairs that faced his desk. I told him that I was interested in the Church of the True Cross, but I didn't go into why. I just said that the Church had come up in an investigation of mine, and that I wanted to learn more about it.

  "The Church of the True Cross," he said softly, sitting back in a big leather chair that looked a lot more comfortable than mine. "You know, back in the Middle Ages, when Mother Church was the toughest kid on the block, heresy was punishable by death. We live in a more enlightened age, I'm very glad to say, but while most heretics these days are merely annoying, those who constitute the Church of the True Cross are, I suspect, truly dangerous."

  "Dangerous in what way?" I asked.

  "In the same way that Islamic fundamentalist terrorists are dangerous. Both share a sense of utter self-righteousness combined with an often violent contempt toward those who are different, either in beliefs or in nature."

  I put a hand to my forehead for a moment. "I'm just a simple cop, Father, who hasn't had much sleep in the last three days. Can you put that into words of one syllable for me?"

  Duvall tilted his head and looked at me. "'Simple cop'? I'm not so sure about that, but I'll try to stop talking as if this is a theology seminar. Fair enough?"

  When I nodded, he leaned forward, placing both hands on his desk. "What I meant by that last bit was that the Church of the True Cross will hate you if you either think differently than they do, or if you ar
e different from them."

  "Different, you mean, the way supes are."

  "Yes, exactly."

  "But hasn't the Pope declared all supes to be anathema, too?"

  "Yeah," he said, and sighed again. "But that's not going to last, especially if the next pontiff isn't a Neanderthal like the current one."

  "Nice way to talk about the Big Boss," I said. "Not that I'm disagreeing."

  "The Big Boss is the Lord, my friend," Duvall said. "He's the CEO and Chairman of the Board. His Holiness is more like the corporation's president. Presidents come and go – only the Big Boss, as you call him, is eternal."