No Place Like Hell

by K. S. Ferguson

  I set the paper aside, tapped a finger on the table, and frowned across at my new, unhelpful partner. It didn't elicit a more helpful answer.

  "Merkel as a victim makes sense. He was a man of power, of money, like Decker," I muttered.

  "Too bad the dude croaked on the way to emergency, not in a rune circle." His voice dripped with sarcasm and anger.

  "Where'd you hear that?" I asked, forcing myself to remain calm.

  Sleeth must have sensed my tension. His attitude became guarded. "His obit, I think."

  I'd read the obituary published by the paper. It hadn't mentioned a trip to emergency or even the cause of death.

  "He never went near a hospital. His body was found in the parking lot behind his office."

  "Bullshit," Sleeth replied with certainty. Then he clamped his jaw shut and turned his gaze out the window.

  He knew something about Merkel's death, and he wasn't telling me. Getting answers from Sleeth was like navigating a maze blindfolded—too many dead ends.

  "The death was suspicious," I said, just to see his reaction.

  That got his attention. I swear I could hear the clack of wheels turning inside his head. "Why?"

  "His jacket and heart meds were missing from the scene."

  Sleeth snorted. "Probably stolen by some junkie."

  "The building cleaning lady said she saw a white van in the parking lot shortly before she discovered the body."

  The waitress arrived and set our plates in front of us. She asked Sleeth if he needed anything else. He didn't seem to see or hear her despite her flirty smile and flouncy moves.

  "The Oracle said Holmes needed five by Friday," he mumbled more to himself than me. "If Merkel died before they were at the construction site…"

  "You think they snatched Merkel, and when he keeled over, they grabbed Haskell instead?" I asked. "Merkel was another one of Calderon's business associates?"

  Sleeth ignored me and dug into his burger. I'd dealt with drunks, spouse beaters, drug addicts, and raving lunatics. None of them irritated me more than the hippie. I wanted to reach across the table and shove the burger down his throat.

  "It's too late tonight. Tomorrow we'll talk to Haskell's family and see what we can learn about him," I said.

  "Someone will die tonight." Sleeth took an enormous bite of his burger, which he talked around. "You said you know where the next ritual will take place."

  "Every incident happens at a ley line intersection. There's about thirty intersections in the Solaris area."

  "Which one will he use?" He crammed a wad of fries in with the remains of a burger bite.

  My stomach did a slow roll, and I addressed my answer to the tabletop so I didn't have to see his gaping maw.

  "How should I know?"

  Sleeth's voice dripped derision. "You said you knew, not that you had a long list of possibilities."

  "He doesn't kill every night." I used my toast to mop up egg yolk. "Or at least he hasn't so far."

  "The Oracle said he needed five by Friday—"

  "And you believed that gibberish about points on a star and Heaven and Hell?"

  The hippie dropped his burger and braced both hands flat on the table while he swayed. Color drained from his face. I wondered if he had some kind of seizure disorder or suffered from narcolepsy.

  "Hey, are you okay?" I touched his right hand.

  He leaned back and sucked in a deep breath.

  "We need a shortcut," I said. "A way to get in front of the murders instead of traipsing around a day late."

  Sleeth straightened and resumed stuffing his face. I stared into the darkness out the window and racked my brains.

  "I want to talk to Calderon," I said after several minutes.

  Sleeth froze in mid-bite. His chest didn't rise. His eyes didn't blink. The burger eventually made a slow descent to the basket.

  "Why?"

  "We're getting nowhere chasing dead men. If you're right and the victims know and trust Holmes, then someone may have been approached already and can give us a description or even tell us how to find him. Calderon is the connection behind Decker's murder and your frame-up. Maybe he's tied to Haskell, too. Since you don't know anything about Calderon's business dealings, I'll have to ask Calderon. He may know who Holmes will go after next."

  After a long moment, he said, "Calderon won't talk to you. I'll ask."

  "Look, Sleeth, you can introduce me or I'll go on my own, but I'm talking to Calderon first thing tomorrow."

  A low rumble carried across the table. Maybe he was growling at me. Or maybe his stomach was fighting back against his steady diet of burgers and fries.

  "His bodyguards won't let you in."

  "They have to let a police officer in."

  Sleeth raised his eyebrows. "Thought you weren't one anymore."

  It was my turn to grit my teeth. I might have fooled the idiot at the brothel without showing my badge, but Calderon's guards weren't so gullible. I was stuck.

  Sleeth knew it and smirked.

  "I'll pick you up—early." I flagged the girl to bring our check.

  "Where?" Sleeth asked. "I can't go to my pad. The pigs will be watching."

  "Get a hotel."

  The waitress brought the check and flashed her pearly whites at Sleeth. He undressed her with his eyes and gave her his most sultry smile. She jotted something on the check and put it beside his empty basket.

  "I'll stay at your place," he said.

  "Like hell you will," I said.

  "I doubt your place is anything like Hell," he replied, a wistfulness in his tone. "The pigs would never look for me amongst their own."

  He had a point. Still, I could only imagine what the neighbors would say if they saw me come home late with a man. Maybe I could sneak him in unseen after dark.

  "Fine. You can use the guest room."

  He turned the sultry smile to me. I resolved to lock my bedroom door. He tossed a couple bills on the ticket and shoved it across to me.

  I noted that he'd shorted his half by a buck, and the waitress had added her phone number at the bottom of the bill. I didn't point it out to Sleeth. I added more bills and a stingy tip.

  "You have any beer?" he asked. "Or weed?"

  "House rules." I rose from the table. "No booze, no dope if you want to stay with me."

  "Lighten up, Officer Demasi," he said while he trailed me to the door. "Live a little. Tune in, turn on, drop out."

  "Call me 'Officer Demasi' again and I'll drop you at police headquarters."

  44

  The ward pulled up before a squat, dark house in a working-class area just after ten. Kasker wondered why she'd taken the long way. They could have arrived half an hour ago.

  No lights were on—anywhere. All the dull suburbanites were tucked up safe in their beds. He'd hoped the ward lived in a sprawling apartment complex, one with an active party life he could crash after she'd gone to sleep. The flesh craved a joint and a woman.

  This neighborhood was as boring as a cemetery. All the good little souls would never break the rules. Never pursue their true desires. Never sate Kasker's growing lust for a damned soul.

  Except in the ward's home, where a tainted soul moved from the front picture window to the middle of the house. It hasn't crossed the line into 'destined for Hell' territory—yet—and so wasn't quite fair game—yet.

  Perhaps he could change that. A little temptation here, a little nudge there. His master would be pleased if he delivered such a gift. It might mitigate some anger over Kasker's slow restoration of Holmes' soul to Hell.

  Why would the ward associate with a tainted soul?

  "Your boyfriend gonna be okay with me dropping in?"

  The ward turned a hostile look on him. "None of your business, but I don't have a boyfriend."

  "Just asking. Don't have a cow." Kasker tilted his head. "Roommate?"

  "Not even a dog."

  Good. No whining, snapping cur to give away his true being.

  A
pig buddy from work then? Plenty of dirty cops in the world. They joined the force thinking they'd be impervious to the temptations of power, only to have their good intentions sucked out of them. Kasker chuckled at the thought.

  He and the ward got out. She gave a nervous scan of the neighborhood and hustled around the car. Her tension made his caution rise.

  No lights on in the ward's house. Strange that a visitor would hang around in the dark. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep while waiting for the ward's arrival.

  Officer—no, Citizen Demasi—grabbed his arm and towed him beneath a scraggly tree to the front door. She must be in a hurry to greet her guest.

  After a brief fumble, she stuck her key in the lock, twisted, and pushed the door open.

  The soul inside had gone still. The smell of overpowering fear slapped Kasker in the face. In that moment, he knew they'd walked into a trap.

  He grabbed the ward's arm and dragged her down and back. The sharp crack of a gun split the night. An angry bee buzzed over his head. A second bullet followed the first.

  "Police! Drop your weapon and give yourself up," the ward shouted into the darkness.

  Kasker admired her quick thinking and courage—even if she trembled against him like a sapling in an earthquake. The man inside sprinted for the back door.

  Kasker dumped the ward on the porch and charged in. A lamp beside the door toppled as he brushed past. His shin caught the corner of a chair or sofa, the light in the room too poor to reveal the object.

  The back door banged. He hopped three steps nursing his bruised leg and rushed into the kitchen where he caught his hip on a counter. Goats! The place was designed for midgets.

  The ward grabbed him by the arm. "Let him go! He's got a gun."

  "He's a lead to Holmes."

  Kasker shook her hand away and slammed through the back door. Lights had come on in the house to his left. Souls stirred. A child wailed.

  The shooter was already across the yard and leaping the fence. Kasker bared his teeth and ran after the assassin. The blisters on his feet screamed their protest.

  Behind him, the screen door thumped closed. No footsteps followed him. The ward might be a superior hunter, but it seemed she had no stomach for danger. Kasker laughed and vaulted the fence.

  Kasker's prey rounded the corner of the neighbor's house and paused. Setting another trap. He wouldn't be fooled by such an ancient and simple trick.

  Kasker cut sharp right around the opposite side of the building. On the way, he tripped over a wheelbarrow and sprawled on the grass, cursing. The barrow clanged onto paving stones.

  The soul of the shooter stepped back from his strategic location at the house corner, alerted to Kasker's flanking movement.

  Growling, Kasker regained his feet. He hugged the shrubbery, blending with the shadows. He burned to be free of the flesh, free of binding mortality, so he could pursue his prey in his true form. He rounded the corner.

  The shooter backed toward the street, gun raised. He fired high and wide. And fired again. A woman cried out in alarm.

  Kasker dodged and grinned. The human was a coward and a bully, the type who shot others in the back. By his actions, he'd denied himself entrance to Heaven, but as yet, he hadn't assured his place in Hell. When he died, his soul would perish into the universe.

  Kasker cursed the waste. He hungered for soul. Saliva broke in his mouth and washed over his lips. He was the hunter. He bayed his excitement and ran forward in a zigzag line.

  The shooter went rigid. Then he turned and bolted.

  More windows brightened. Porch lights switched on. Doors opened. Men stepped out.

  The shooter dug in a pants pocket with one hand. With the other, he pointed the gun over his shoulder and fired until the gun clicked empty. He tossed the weapon away and ran harder.

  Kasker didn't waste breath on a laugh. He closed ground. The puny shooter was no match for Kasker's superior physique. In another five seconds, his fate would be sealed.

  The man reached a junker car parked on the street. He scrambled in and started the engine before closing the door. With a chirping of tires, he pulled away, the driver's door first swinging wide before slamming shut.

  The grin fell from Kasker face. He raced down the middle of the street, pushing the flesh to its limits. His only focus was the swirling light and dark of the tainted soul as it fled.

  45

  Sleeth was either the bravest man alive or certifiably insane. My money was on mad as a hatter. I had to find the shooter before Sleeth got himself killed.

  My family-oriented neighborhood wasn't the kind of enclave where hit men settled. The shooter must have a car stashed nearby. When he reached it, he'd get away. Chasing him on foot was plain stupid.

  I started my Corvair, threw it into gear, and floored it. I circled to the opposite side of the block.

  Neighbors stood in small knots on lawns discussing the night's events. I didn't see a body on the pavement and breathed a sigh of relief. But I also didn't see Sleeth. Someone pointed west. I hurried on in the indicated direction.

  Three blocks farther, Sleeth ran down the middle of the street like the hounds of Hell pursued him. No one ran in front of him. Was he chasing the shooter or running away?

  I closed up, but he was oblivious to me. He didn't look around until I tooted my horn. Then he stopped so abruptly that I collided with him.

  Sleeth rolled across my hood, landed on his feet beside my door, and jerked it open.

  "Move over." He didn't wait for me to comply but crowded in. The car rolled forward when my foot was forced off the brake. I pulled myself into the passenger seat, ready to read him the riot act.

  "Quiet," he said before I could breathe a word.

  Sweat rolled down his face and his chest heaved. His eyes were half closed in concentration. It must have been the reflection of the dash lights. His pupils glowed red.

  He didn't bother to adjust the seat even though his legs were jammed against the steering wheel. He screeched away.

  We tore through the quiet residential neighborhood like we were running for the finish of the Indy 500. I fumbled my seatbelt on and braced a hand on the side door. I didn't see a car ahead of us.

  "What's he driving?"

  Sleeth spun the wheel, and we careened around a corner. Still no taillights before us.

  "Where—"

  "Shh." His brows pulled down hard, and he leaned forward.

  Five more blocks, during which we topped ninety. I didn't know the car could go that fast. Animal eyes sparkled, and a cat darted across in front of us.

  "Watch out!"

  Sleeth growled in reply. I had the arm rest in a death grip and vowed never to let him behind the wheel again, assuming I survived.

  We blew through a stop sign and fish-tailed around another corner. I'd seen nothing of the killer's car. How could Sleeth still be following it?

  A police cruiser, light flashing but running silent, ripped through an intersection a block ahead. I guessed they were the backup for the first unit responding to shots fired at my place. Their presence didn't slow the lunatic driving my car.

  Sleeth weaved along an arterial, whipping into oncoming traffic to pass vehicles slowing him. I held my breath and gritted my teeth. A head-on at our speed would kill us both.

  "There." Sleeth pointed, a triumphant grin on his face.

  An older two-tone Datsun sedan sporting serious dents and gray primer patches rolled along a block ahead. Sleeth didn't let up on the accelerator.

  "Back off. He'll see us," I said.

  "I'll force him off the road," Sleeth replied.

  "Not in my car you won't." I reached for the ignition key.

  Sleeth caught my wrist. As we struggled, he swerved from one side of the road to the other. We missed sideswiping a parked car by less than an inch. My heart jumped up to block my throat.

  The suspect noticed our erratic behavior. He romped on it. Sleeth did the same.

  I withdrew my hand from Sleeth
's grasp and braced it against the dash. Every muscle in my body locked up tight. This whole chase was insane, but I was powerless to stop it.

  We'd reached the outskirts of Solaris and raced into an area of new home development. Stretches of bare lots were studded with houses at various phases of construction, only one in four of them complete and inhabited. Streetlights burned, but most of the sidewalks were missing or outlined in wooden forms.

  Our suspect twisted and turned through rolling hills and meandering streets. He didn't seem familiar with the area. Too late, he realized he'd turned into a cul-de-sac.

  Sleeth bared his teeth and pounded the wheel with a hand. "I got him."

  When the shooter hit the end of the asphalt, he kept going. His Datsun bounced across the rough yard of an unfinished house and over a rise. A billowing cloud of dust hung in the air to mark his trail. Sleeth followed.

  "Slow down," I said. "You don't know what's out here. If you bust an axle, he could get away."

  The hippie tossed me an unhappy glance but complied. The car jumped and bucked. My teeth clacked together with each landing. I could barely breathe in the dust-laden air.

  A thunderous crash carried over the engine and tire noise. Sleeth went for the brakes. We skidded off the dirt and onto pavement.

  When the dust settled, the headlamps illuminated an eerie scene of contrasting light and shadows. Skid marks on the pavement indicated the driver's unsuccessful attempt to stop before he plowed across a street and into a telephone pole.

  The sheared-off pole lay on top of the collapsed passenger compartment. Steam hissed from the radiator. Nothing moved inside the car.

  "Come on," I said. I unlatched my seat belt and cracked open my door.

  "You go. I'll wait here."

  "Because you'd rather he shoot me?" I asked, putting as much sarcasm as I could into my tone.

  "He tossed the gun before he got in the car."

  I stared at Sleeth. This was the man unmoved by Decker's gruesome body, the man determined to run into a hail of bullets to follow a clue, and now he wouldn't get out of the car.

  "Then what are you afraid of?"