No Place Like Hell

by K. S. Ferguson

  At last, release. He collapsed onto the bed beside her, panting.

  Horns and hooves! They were done, and he'd learned nothing. He'd been bested by the weakness of the flesh. He was a fool. He had nothing left to bargain with, nothing to withhold, at least not for another half hour.

  Susie rolled onto her side and laid her head on his shoulder. The fingers of her hand twined in his chest hair, bringing a gentle pleasure. He wrapped an arm around her torso and traced curlicues on her arm with a forefinger. What else could he use to bargain with?

  "That place next door to Decker Industries went bust six months ago," she said. "Who are you really?"

  Kasker stopped drawing on her arm.

  Susie propped up on an elbow and looked at him. Her fingers continued their grooming.

  This wasn't at all how he'd planned the evening. He thought he understood human motivations. He'd screwed up.

  "If you knew I was lying, why did you come with me?"

  She flopped back and sighed. "All us fat girls have fantasies of being swept off our feet and making love with a valiant knight. But the hunks like you never give us a second look."

  She propped up again and grinned at him. "Tonight, my fantasy came true. Sorry I used you. Why do you want to know about Decker? It's all you've talked about. You should learn to be more subtle."

  Using people. He understood that. A glimmer of hope sparked. He resumed drawing on her arm.

  "Decker had something that didn't belong to him. Whoever murdered him took it. If I can find the killer, I can get it back."

  "You want to know about his business rivals and enemies. I already told the police, they're one and the same. To know Decker was to hate him. If you had something he wanted, he took it. He had the most amazing luck. Or rather, his rivals had such bad luck."

  Thanks to Seve. Decker's luck came at the price of his soul. Too bad he hadn't lived long enough to enjoy it.

  She put her head on his shoulder again. Her fingertips stopped their exploration of his chest hair and drew little rings around his nipples.

  Kasker pushed the tingling in his nipples away. She was talking at last. He needed to get what he came for and get home for a night's sleep.

  "Whoever killed Decker was someone he knew and trusted, not someone he thought of as an enemy. Where did he go? Who did he trust?"

  "The police took everything from his desk." Her fingers walked to his bellybutton, lingered, and continued south, grooming the hair as they went. "He always feared an IRS raid, so he didn't leave the important stuff where they could find it. Like his appointment diary."

  Kasker quivered. "But you know where it is."

  "He had a secret safe installed behind a bulletin board in the janitor's closet. It has the same combination as the decoy safe in his office: 11-05-40, his birthday."

  "How do you know?" His rising excitement warred with his rising flesh. Goats! Was it never satisfied?

  "Because I tried it." Her nails trailed across his thigh, and warmth rushed to his groin.

  "Why didn't you tell the police?"

  "Those jerks treated me like shit." She withdrew her hand, sat up, and sighed. "I guess you'll be leaving now that you have what you want."

  He needed sleep. But in the morning, he'd awake with a hard on and lose time seeking another female. If he stayed the night, he could quench the flesh again before he left. Much more efficient.

  The sight of her dangling breasts hardened him. He pulled her down and kissed her. When he released her, she drew back, eyes glowing with anticipation. He rolled her on her back and slid on top.

  "No rush."

  13

  The sun crested the horizon as I arrived in Susan Brown's low-rent neighborhood on the north side of Solaris. I'd managed only a few hours' sleep, and my eyes burned, but I hummed along with the radio.

  Neat little houses lined both sides of the street, each with dead brown grass in their front yards. Curtains were drawn over windows left open to allow in the cool night air. The cars in the driveways were older model compacts bought during the last recession.

  I slowed to locate Brown's place. I intended to park out front and sip my coffee until I saw movement. I didn't want to start on the wrong foot by waking her.

  Then I noticed the maroon Mustang. I'd memorized Sleeth's license number. The plate matched.

  I pulled in across the street three houses down and walked to the pony car. The temperature of the hood told me it had been there for hours. I returned to my Corvair and watched.

  My first stakeout. A little thrill shot through me. I flipped open my notebook, licked the tip of my pencil, and wrote the date on the top of a fresh page. Too bad I hadn't brought my Instamatic camera to document my observations.

  The sun rose, the shade from the palm tree I'd parked under crept across the hood and up the windshield, and I sipped my coffee, now gone cold. I shifted in my seat and checked the time. The paperboy cycled past, tossing folded papers on porches.

  At the next house up, a little old Asian man tottered onto his porch and surveyed his domain. Unlike the other places, his yard sported a profusion of summer flowers around which birds and butterflies swirled. The riot of colors made a beautiful collage.

  He picked up his paper and tottered inside. Ten minutes later, he emerged juggling a teacup, the newspaper, and binoculars. He eased down into an old rocker and set the cup and the paper on a wicker table beside the chair. First he sipped tea, then he studied the wildlife in his front garden with the binoculars.

  Binoculars? For birds and butterflies twenty feet away? He must be blind. Having perused the garden, he unfolded the paper in his lap.

  The temperature climbed. I rolled down all the windows and squirmed more. I'd learned my first important stakeout lesson: Never drink a large cup of coffee when you don't know how long it will be until you find a bathroom.

  A glint caught my attention. The little old man had his binoculars pointed at me. He set them down, fished a pencil and paper from the pocket of his blue denim work shirt, and jotted something. The pad and pencil went on the table next to the cup.

  My heart climbed into my throat. What if Mack had the secretary's house under surveillance? She hadn't rated a file, but if that was Sleeth's car… And now I'd been seen watching the house.

  My jangled nerves were too much for my full bladder. I had to find a service station with restrooms before it burst. I started my car.

  The house door opened. Sleeth stepped onto the porch. Behind him, an overweight woman in a flimsy robe stopped in the doorway. He turned to say goodbye. She hooked a finger in the waistband of his jeans, pulled him close, and buttoned his fly.

  He laughed, pulled her closer with a hand behind her neck, and kissed her with so much tongue action I thought she'd choke. Watching them made my panties damp. I looked away.

  Sleeth got in his Mustang and pulled out in a hurry. I gave him a two-block head start and drove away, certain he hadn't spotted me. The little old Asian man waved goodbye.

  I didn't know the neighborhood. It took me fifteen minutes to find a restroom and another five to get the service station attendant to cough up the key. When I'd taken care of business, I filled up with gas. The attendant cleaned my windshield and checked my oil while I tapped on the steering wheel.

  I returned to Miss Brown's house. The curtains were still drawn. I knocked anyway. And knocked. No answer. Maybe she was in the bath.

  I waited in my car for fifteen minutes and tried again. Still no answer.

  As I walked back to my car, the little old man caught my eye. I strolled to his house and stopped on the sidewalk. He smiled and nodded. Encouraged by his greeting, I joined him on his porch.

  "Good morning," I said. "I couldn't help admiring your beautiful garden."

  He smiled and nodded. I wondered whether he understood English. Or maybe he was hard of hearing.

  I took a few steps closer. The pad on the table listed my license plate number right under Sleeth's. I swallowed h
ard.

  "I was hoping to catch my friend Miss Brown at home this morning, but she isn't answering."

  More smiling and nodding. He glanced down at the front page of the paper before he turned his attention to me.

  "Y'all a friend of Miss Susie's?" he asked with a thick Texas drawl. "Or is this official police business?"

  I stared. I wasn't in uniform or driving the patrol car. How did he know? Was he one of Mack's undercover agents?

  He held up the paper. There was the picture of me with the mayor and his son. He put it back in his lap.

  "If this is official, I'll need to see your badge so I can write down the number." He picked up his pad and pencil.

  "This is a social call. We went to school together," I replied.

  His sharp eyes looked me up and down. "A social call at sunrise? Didn't your mama teach you better manners?"

  "Okay, okay," I said. "It's not an official investigation, but her boss was murdered night before last. That guy she was with is a person of interest. What can you tell me about him?"

  If the information about the murder surprised him, he didn't show it. Of course not. He read the paper.

  "Not much. He's never been here before."

  That tidbit was unexpected. They'd looked damned friendly when they kissed. Had they been going to his place instead? Was he worried that his apartment might be under surveillance?

  "Anything else you can tell me about her?"

  "She grew up in that house. Her folks died in a car accident two years ago, and she inherited it. She keeps to herself."

  Time was marching by. If I was going to question Miss Brown and get back for my lunch with Tad, I had to get moving.

  "Guess I'll give her doorbell another try."

  "You won't get an answer," he said, reaching for his cup. "She went out not long after you and that young man left."

  14

  Kasker navigated the deserted Sunday morning streets on his way to Decker Industries. He blinked dry eyes. He hadn't gotten much rest. Susie's appetite for sex exceeded that of his flesh, something of a novelty.

  Too bad her house didn't have air conditioning. He could stop trawling for willing females at parties and use her exclusively if only her place were closer to his apartment and more comfortable.

  How did humans cope with all the nattering distraction? Food, drink, drugs, sex. To deny the flesh was to be miserable. Perhaps that was why so many humans sold their souls to Seve and his brethren.

  His true form had but one desire—to hunt the damned. The diary would provide the clue he needed to Holmes' location. He'd devour Holmes' soul and return to Hell where he belonged, free at last from the torturous realm of humans.

  Susie's car still blocked the driveway of the Decker Industries parking lot. As before, Kasker left the Mustang around the corner and walked back. He glanced at the flat tire as he passed. She could find some other sucker to change it.

  The key he'd lifted from her purse opened the rear door. He slipped into the stuffy interior and strode to the elevator. On the sixth floor, he stepped out and prowled for the janitor's closet. It was tucked in next to the restrooms just a few steps from the elevator. It was locked.

  Goats! Susie hadn't said anything about a key for the closet. He walked all the sixth-floor offices looking for something to help him break in. Most of them weren't used.

  He found Susie's desk, another picture of her scruffy dog and a pamphlet for some hippie commune on the desktop. The drawer held five bottles of nail polish in various shades of pink and a long, sharp letter opener shaped like a jeweled dagger.

  The phony dagger proved ineffective on the door. The blade snapped off when he tried to pry the latch back. He kicked the steel-clad door, more from anger than a test of its strength.

  His Moses moccasins were no match for the metal. He hopped away bruised and cursing. Decker had done an excellent job protecting his private stash.

  Flummoxed, he walked each floor on his way down. These offices, too, were vacant. None provided the necessary weapon for his next assault.

  He went to his car and returned with the tire iron. Prying with it got him no farther than prying with the dagger. He took aim and bashed at the doorknob. Each contact sent an unpleasant jolt up his arms. After five or six blows, the knob surrendered and crashed to the floor.

  By fiddling with the internal workings, he drew back the latch and pushed open the door. He stepped in and wished he hadn't. The place stank of noxious cleaning compounds.

  He flipped on the light. The narrow slice of back wall visible between the metal shelving was covered by a bulletin board plastered with health and safety notices. He crossed the dinky space, gripped the edge, and tugged. The board didn't budge.

  Kasker didn't bother hunting for a latch. He jammed the tire iron under a bottom corner and pried. The lower half of the board snapped off and dropped on his toes.

  After more cursing and hopping, he levered off the remaining half to expose the safe. He twirled the knob, entered the combination, yanked the handle. The door swung back.

  The safe was empty.

  Kasker flung the tire iron to the floor. It bounced against a shelf, toppling a bottle, which fell and broke. More noxious fumes swirled.

  Coughing and squinting through watering eyes, he ran to the elevator. The stinging odor followed him. He gave up on the elevator and plunged through the stairwell door, running down all six flights.

  When he came out in the parking lot, he realized he'd left the tire iron behind. He wanted to use it on the windshield of Susie's car. The bitch had lied.

  He had no doubt that the diary used to be in the safe. The question was whether Decker removed it before he died, or whether Susie had taken it. If Susie had it, why had she told him it was in the safe?

  Sex, of course. When he didn't find it here, he'd go back to her. She'd use it as payment for another fantasy evening with her knight errant. He'd hunted souls for thousands of years. The females were always the more devious.

  The day had warmed to an unpleasant temperature. The flesh nagged for food, and he'd need forty minutes behind the wheel to return to Susie's. A pox on the woman.

  The drive to Susie's was hot, boring, and a waste of time. Susie wasn't home. He waited down the block for a useless hour. The neighbors began to stare—especially the little old man with the binoculars.

  Seve expected him. He needed to feed the flesh. He'd come back later, and then he'd settle the score with Susie. He'd get the diary. Right after they screwed.

  15

  I swallowed my trepidation, tucked my hat under my arm, and pushed through the door of Travo's.

  Who would have guessed that Italian brothers would decorate their upscale restaurant Indian style? Sun shone in west-facing windows and glittered off tableware and white linen tablecloths. Little crystal vases held pink carnations and a sprig of fern leaf.

  Bold pastel pink and green strips zigzagged the tan walls. A mural by the door showed an Indian brave mounted on a rearing pinto pony, a teepee in the background. His nocked arrow aimed at my heart.

  The place buzzed with conversation from two dozen tables filled with women in town to shop. They wore breezy cotton dresses and carried designer purses. I wore my dark blue uniform and carried a gun. I began to question my choice in apparel.

  The place was jammed. How had Tad gotten a reservation so quickly? I supposed if you're the mayor's son, you could call in favors.

  Cool air sent a shiver down me. Or maybe it was the sight of Tad sitting in a booth near the back. He hadn't seen me. I could run away, plead an emergency call from work, or say I'd been kidnapped by aliens in a flying saucer.

  Dave was right. Hanging with the mayor's son was a bad idea. It wouldn't endear the upper echelons to me. They'd think I was trying to leverage our acquaintance into a promotion. We'd have lunch today, and then I'd call it quits.

  I gritted my teeth and wove between tables until I reached him. For a guy who'd bounced down the asphalt
just the day before yesterday, he scrambled up with surprising speed.

  "Officer Demasi, I'm glad you made it," he said as he helped me into the booth. He took his seat and stared so hard I thought I'd smeared my lipstick.

  "Mr. Newell, it's good to see you up and around."

  He gave a throaty chortle. "Listen to us. We sound like complete strangers. It's Tad. 'Mr. Newell' is my dad."

  "We are," I blurted. It felt a lot warmer by the kitchens. "Strangers, I mean."

  Belatedly I added, "Nicky. Friends call me Nicky."

  The waitress arrived with menus. I scanned for something that wouldn't slop on my uniform or get stuck in my teeth. Tad ordered a beer and asked if I'd join him. A tall cold one sounded wonderful.

  "Not while I'm in uniform," I said, regretting again my choice in dress.

  "You wear it well," Tad said. "It's about time the Solaris PD realized what an important contribution women can make."

  "I'm delighted to hear you think so," I said, surprised by his progressive attitude. "Now if only the 'old boys network' would come around."

  Dave's words of caution danced through my head, and I bit my tongue. I didn't need Tad tattling to his dad how the lowly patrol officer whined about the brass.

  "You have all the qualities of an excellent officer. You're smart. You keep your head in an emergency." He reached across the table to touch my hand. "If you didn't, I wouldn't be here now. I can't thank you enough."

  The little metal cream pitcher reflected the red in my face. "Any officer would have done the same."

  "Of course I wasn't awake to appreciate it, but I'm glad it was your lips locked on mine." He winked at me.

  I focused on the menu. His flip-flops from serious discussion to smarmy quips left me confused and without a retort.

  He read his menu. "I recommend the tomato bisque with the bread sticks."

  The waitress returned to our table, and he ordered the soup for both of us. I placed the napkin on my lap and adjusted the cutlery.

  "This Slasher case sounds nasty," he said. "The police chief has been updating my dad hourly."