Known Devil

by Matthew Hughes

  “Letting me handle the fucking golem. Now I don’t have to explain to Christine how you got yourself killed by an eight-foot pile of mud.”

  Lake Scranton. The house just had to be on Lake Scranton. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, really – there are lots of ritzy homes out that way, and I wouldn’t expect Patton Wilson to hole up in a shack.

  But some very bad shit had gone down a couple of years ago, in the pump house that controls the lake level – despite its name, Lake Scranton is a reservoir, not something made by nature. A number of people had died in the pump house that night, none of them pleasantly. Several others had come damn close to dying – including Christine, Karl, and me.

  But the Callaway estate was almost a mile from the pump house, and I decided that I’d better stop thinking about old tragedies and start focusing on how to avoid a new one.

  There was a lot of information about the place available online, including six photos showing the house, inside and out. The realty company had left the listing up, even though the word “SOLD” in red letters was prominently displayed on the page. I wondered why they’d even bothered.

  The house was something called a Heritage Log Home, but it wasn’t anything Daniel Boone would recognize. Instead, it looked like the kind of lodge you’d find at a ritzy ski resort. According to the Realtor, the house sat in the middle of a two-acre lot, about a quarter mile from the intersection of Lake Scranton Road and Watres Drive. Four beds, three baths, four-car garage around back, surrounded by woods on three sides. The Callaway family had sold it last year for $460,000 to something called “V. H. Property Development.” Four hundred sixty grand may not buy you much house, say, on Long Island. But in Scranton, it’ll get you a mini-mansion, like the one Karl and I were looking at.

  I googled “V. H. Property Development” and found exactly zip. Whatever properties they were developing apparently weren’t available on the public market. Then something occurred to me.

  “I bet I know what the ‘V. H.’ stands for,” I said to Karl.

  “What?”

  “Van Helsing.”

  Karl snorted. “You’re probably right. That sounds like something that would appeal to our buddy Patton.”

  We studied the property photos. “Check this out,” Karl said. He picked up a pencil and pointed at the monitor. “A two-level veranda that goes all around the house. Three-hundred-sixty-degree view. Put people on each of the four sides, and it’s gonna be pretty hard to sneak up on that place.”

  “Except at night, maybe.”

  “Sure,” Karl said. “Unless the guys on the deck have night-vision equipment. Or they’ve got motion sensors on the grounds, or maybe body heat detectors. Motherfucker bought the place eleven months ago – think he might’ve installed stuff like that?”

  “Who – paranoid millionaire Patton Wilson, who’s got more arrest warrants out on him than John Dillinger ever had?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “In a fucking heartbeat,” I said. Staring at the photos on the screen, I said, “Still, some reconnaissance might not be a bad idea. Get an idea of what we’re up against – if we can do it without getting caught.”

  “We can’t, probably,” Karl said. “But I can.”

  “You sure?”

  “It’s a vamp thing – you wouldn’t understand.”

  I sat in the police-issue Plymouth, parked in some brush just off Watres Drive with the windows cracked a couple of inches each, and listened to the night. There wasn’t a lot to hear, since all the insect life was already in hibernation, and whatever birds were still around this late in the season apparently went to bed early. What I was really listening for was Karl returning to the car.

  I should have known better. One second there was utter silence, and the next Karl was opening the passenger door and getting in. “Drive,” he said while fastening his seat belt. “No point in hanging around here any longer than absolutely necessary. I don’t think they have patrols out, but I could be wrong.”

  There’s nobody better than a vampire when it comes to sneaking around in the dark, a point Karl had made when explaining why he should recon the house alone.

  “I can see in the dark, and you can’t,” he’d said. “I can move a lot faster and quieter than you, and even turn into a bat, if I have to. And if they shoot at me with anything but silver, they’re shit out of luck.”

  “And what if they do use silver?” I’d asked him.

  “Then I’m the one who’s shit out of luck.”

  I slowly turned onto Watres Drive, then took a right, heading us back to the city. I drove without lights for the first half-mile or so, to avoid drawing attention to the car. It wasn’t as dangerous as it sounds – my eyes were already adjusted to the darkness, and the almost-full moon gave enough light to see where I was going.

  Still, I gave the road my full attention until it seemed safe to flick on the headlights. I blinked against the glare a couple of times, then asked Karl, “So, how’d it go?”

  “Good news and bad news,” he said. “The good news is that they didn’t shoot me.”

  “I’d already figured out that part, kemosabe,” I said. “Not that I’m not relieved.”

  “Yeah, well, the bad news is that they’re in good shape to shoot the livin’ hell out of anything else. I counted six sentries – four stationary and two rovers, all with automatic weapons.”

  “Sweet Christ.”

  “Two of the stationary guys are on the verandas with night scopes. Oh, and they all wear these little radios with headsets, so they can talk to each other. It looks like the same rig SWAT uses.”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic,” I said.

  “If we’re gonna go in there and get out alive, we’re gonna need some help. I’d recommend a couple platoons of Navy SEALs.”

  “When we get back to the squad, we better have a talk with McGuire.”

  “About what?”

  “Getting some help.”

  McGuire sat behind his desk, looking like his ulcer might be kicking up again. Funny how he often had that expression when talking to Karl and me.

  We’d been talking for about fifteen minutes when he said, “Let me be sure I have this right. You want me to ask the Chief to authorize a full-out raid on this place – this heavily guarded place – near Lake Scranton because you think Patton Wilson is in there.”

  I nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “And your only source for this information is the consigliere of the Calabrese family, what’s-his-name, Loquasto.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “And Loquasto provided you with this valuable intelligence because…?”

  I hated to lie to McGuire. He’s a good boss, and he’s supported Karl and me at times when others were calling for our heads. But there was a limit to what he’d put up with, and I was pretty sure that one of his detectives engaging in conspiracy to commit murder was outside that limit.

  “It’s in his best interest,” I said. “He believes, just like we do, that Wilson is behind the Delatassos’ attempt to take over the Calabrese territory. If Wilson’s out of the picture, Loquasto figures that Ronnie Delatasso will take his ball and go home. Eventually.”

  “It makes sense, boss, when you think about it,” Karl said.

  McGuire looked at Karl, then back at me. “So why don’t the Calabreses just go after Wilson themselves?”

  “It would take a pitched battle for them to overcome all the firepower that Wilson’s got protecting him,” I said. “Loquasto didn’t come right out and admit it, but I’m pretty sure Calabrese hasn’t got the troops to do the job. He’s been hurt pretty bad in the war with the Delatassos.”

  “So he wants us to do his dirty work for him.” Judging by his face, McGuire’s ulcer had taken a turn for the worse.

  “It’s a win-win, haina?” Karl said. “We want Wilson bad as Calabrese does – maybe more. And if we can take him out of play before the election–”

  “Which is eight days away,”
McGuire said.

  “Which is eight fuckin’ days away,” Karl said, nodding, “it could make all the difference in the world.”

  “Or none at all,” McGuire said sourly.

  “We won’t know for sure unless we can pull it off,” I said. “But one thing’s for sure, boss – if we don’t do something, and quick, Wilson’s gonna own this town, starting nine days from now. I don’t wanna see that – do you?”

  “You know I don’t.” McGuire ran a hand slowly through his thinning hair. “But there’s a problem – make that two problems.”

  Karl and I looked at each other, but didn’t say anything.

  “For what it’s worth, I believe you,” McGuire said. “I think Wilson’s hiding in that big house on Lake Scranton. Shit, who else around here could afford that kind of security – and who else would need it?”

  “Then what’s–” Karl began, but McGuire waved him silent.

  “But asking the Chief to send twenty, thirty cops out there, including SWAT, based solely on the unsubstantiated word of a known criminal… I just don’t think it’s gonna happen.”

  “It’s still worth a try, dammit,” I said. “If he says no, we’re no worse off than we are now.”

  McGuire’s expression had turned bitter. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But, like I said, there’s another problem.”

  McGuire moved around a couple of objects on his desk that didn’t need moving, and that’s when I felt icy fingers touch my spine. The boss doesn’t usually hesitate to say what’s on his mind – about anything.

  “I’ve been hearing things, the last couple of weeks,” he said. “Nothing definitive – it’s what you’d have to call circumstantial evidence, but it still bothers me. Some people that the Chief’s been seen having lunch with, a few things he’s said at meetings, the fact that he’s talking about retiring next year – to Bermuda.”

  “Holy fucking shit,” said. “You think the Chief of Police is in Wilson’s pocket.”

  “Can’t prove a damn thing,” McGuire said. “But, yeah, I do. So you see the problem. I ask the Chief to authorize a big raid out on Lake Scranton, and he’s gonna turn me down flat – which he might well have done anyway. But more than that…” He let his voice trail off.

  “He’ll tell Wilson we know where he is,” I said.

  “Fucking Wilson’d turn that place out there into Fort Knox,” Karl said. “You’d need an armored division to take it.”

  “Either that, or he’ll just disappear again,” I said. “And if he does, what do you figure the chances are we’d find the bastard again, before election day?”

  McGuire snorted. “Snowball in Hell – if the odds are even that good.”

  “Which means we’re fucked,” Karl said.

  “No,” I told him. “It means we’re royally fucked.”

  We got sent out on a call that turned out to be a false alarm. A woman living on Kaiser Avenue reported a werewolf prowling around her house. Karl and I didn’t turn up any werewolves, but we did find a guy from the neighborhood – he could’ve used a haircut and a beard trim, but he was still human – who liked to peek through windows. We sent the jerk home with a warning that Karl reinforced with a little bit of vampire Influence.

  It was about time for our break then, so we headed for Jerry’s Diner, which was nearby. The mood I was in, I almost hoped somebody would try to stick the place up while we were there.

  I was stirring sugar into my coffee when a thought occurred to me. “Karl, that Influence you laid on the peeping tom a little while ago….”

  He put down his mug of Type O and looked at me. “Yeah?”

  “Could you use it on Wilson’s guards? Maybe get them all to drop their guns and take a nice nap?”

  “All of them?” He shook his head slowly. “No way, Stan. If there’s a technique for controlling a bunch of guys all at once, I never heard of it. I’d have to do them one at a time, and I don’t think it would take long before the others tumbled to what I was up to. They’d open up on me – and since those fuckers work for Wilson, I wouldn’t be surprised if they are packing silver bullets.”

  “Shit,” I said. “Well, it was worth a try. I was hoping you could put them under your spell long enough for us to–”

  “Wait – what did you say?” Karl was looking at me with an odd expression on his face.

  “Just this crazy idea that you’d be able to–”

  “I know what you meant,” he said, and stood up abruptly. “I’ll be right back.”

  I watched as he went to the rack near the front door where Jerry keeps all the free print material that’s available for customers to take. I thought I remembered several books of realty listings, as well as the Pennysaver Press, a local rag that’s full of cheap classified ads from people with stuff to sell. The Chamber of Commerce puts some of its publications there, too.

  But when Karl returned to our table, he was carrying a copy of The Weekender, which bills itself as “The Wyoming Valley’s #1 Arts and Entertainment Free Weekly.” It’s also the only such paper in the area, so the distinction of being number one doesn’t mean too much.

  Karl sat down again and began rapidly flipping the pages. He didn’t bother to explain what the hell he was doing.

  “If you’re looking for the ‘gentlemen’s club’ ads, I believe they’re towards the back,” I told him.

  “Figured you’d know that,” he said, without looking up. “But I’m pretty sure they also keep track of what bands’re playing at the local bars… Yeah, here we go.”

  He began scanning the page he’d stopped at. Then his eyes stopped moving. “Good – we’re in luck. They’re still in the area. Got a gig in Wilkes-Barre, starting tomorrow night.”

  “You’re gonna let me in on this great discovery sooner or later, right?”

  “Sooner,” he said, closing the paper and dropping it on the table in front of me. “Our big problem is all these heavily armed dudes guarding Wilson. We can’t fight ’em, so we’ve gotta find the way to get the fuckers out of there.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “OK, how’s this – what would you say if I told you I know where we can find us a Siren?”

  The Banshees were beginning a two-night engagement at the Palace, a club in South Wilkes-Barre that looked like no palace I’d ever heard of. We’d called ahead, and the manager had told us that the band was expected to finish its last set around 2am.

  I hadn’t been in Wilkes-Barre in a while, and returning now made me feel kind of depressed. Lacey Brennan lived here – or she used to, before taking an extended vacation to visit her sister. I wondered where Lacey was at that moment, what she was doing, and how she was feeling. I also wondered if she was ever coming back.

  Then I told myself to suck it up and focus on the job at hand. The stakes were too high for me to fuck up now because I was feeling moony over a woman. Even if the woman was Lacey.

  The Palace’s dressing room for performers was located in a basement that looked like it hadn’t been swept out since Bush was President – the first one. It was ten after two when I knocked on the door, which was answered by the lead singer, who I remembered went by the name of some insect – Daddy Longlegs, that was it.

  He looked at me and said, “What?” His voice sounded hoarse.

  “We’d like a few minutes of your time,” I said. Politeness pays, especially when you want a favor from some people who probably don’t like you very much.

  He stared a couple of seconds longer. “Hey – I know you.”

  “Yeah, you do.” I held up my ID folder and let him see my badge. It was meaningless here, since Karl and I were out of our jurisdiction – but I was hoping a bunch of musicians wouldn’t know about stuff like that. “Mind if we come in?”

  “Yeah, OK. Sure.”

  He stepped back and let us into a twenty-by-twenty windowless room with concrete floors, harsh fluorescent lighting, and heating pipes running across the ceiling. There were
some beat-up gray lockers, a couple of long benches, and another door through which I could hear water running.

  The other two guys in the band looked up from the task of putting their instruments away. They didn’t seem happy to see us, but nobody went for a weapon. That was about the best I figured we could expect.

  I looked at Daddy Longlegs. “Where’s your bass player – the girl?”

  “She’s in the shower.”

  “You mind getting her for me?”

  He took a couple of steps toward the open door and called, “Hey, Scar! Come on out – we got visitors.”

  The sound of running water stopped. A minute or so later, the young woman – whose real name, I knew, was Meredith Schwartz – came out, using a towel to wipe down her buzz-cut blonde hair. Apart from the towel, she was naked, but the guys in the band showed about as much interest as if she’d been wearing a suit of armor.

  She looked at Daddy Longlegs. “Hey – who called five-oh?”

  “Nobody,” he told her. “Guy said he wants to talk to us.”

  She turned to me. “What about?”

  “Why don’t you put something on first?” I said. I was trying to keep my gaze focused on her face, but one quick glance below told me that she had several more tats – besides the human heart on her arm that I’d seen before – and no pubic hair.

  “How come?” She gave me an evil grin. “This ain’t in public or nothin’.”

  According to the research Karl and I had done on the band the night before, Meredith Schwartz was an honors graduate of Mount Holyoke College, but she sure didn’t act or talk like a typical Seven Sisters grad – at least, I hoped she didn’t.

  “We appreciate that you got the right to dress however you want in private,” Karl said. “But we were hoping to have a conversation, and you’re kind of… distracting.” Then he gave her a big smile.

  “Hey, you’re a vamp!” she said with delight. “I didn’t know there were any vamp cops.”

  “There’s at least one,” Karl said. “So, you mind getting dressed, or what?”

  I couldn’t tell if he put any Influence behind the request, but Meredith shrugged and said, “Sure.”