No Place Like Hell

by K. S. Ferguson

The hippie huffed up. "I'm not afraid of anything. The guy's dead. Nothing to see."

  At the next lot over, lights came on in a house. If I wanted a chance to search the car, I needed to move. I snatched my keys from the ignition.

  "Get out of my seat," I said.

  By the light of the Corvair's headlamps, I trotted over to the Datsun. Little eddies of dust created a haze that caught in my throat. The darkness outside my puddle of light seemed surreal and unfriendly.

  I looked in the crunched driver-side window. A white male of approximately thirty slumped over the wheel. He hadn't taken the time to buckle up. The top of his head was a flattened bloody mess. I clenched my teeth on the urge to vomit and didn't bother checking for a pulse.

  The house door opened. A man in a bathrobe stepped onto the porch. He peered my direction but didn't come any farther.

  "Call an ambulance," I said, raising my voice so he could hear.

  He gave me a wave and went inside. He'd be back.

  I jammed my hand behind the shooter, searching for a wallet. I found one. A wave of heat washed over me from behind.

  I spun around. Nothing was there. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. It had to be a trick of the erratic breeze blowing heat from the motor over me.

  In the light from the Corvair, I glanced through the contents of the wallet. My hands shook so bad I almost dropped it. No ID.

  I stuffed the wallet back where I'd found it and circled the car. The passenger-side door wouldn't open, but the Datsun was tiny. I reached the glove box through the open window. I'd hoped to find the vehicle registration. No such luck.

  In the corner of my eye, a shadow slithered past on the opposite side of the car. I gasped and jumped back, staring hard at the driver and out through the slit of window where I'd seen… something.

  Nothing moved. I glanced back at the Corvair but couldn't see anything while looking into the headlamps.

  I hurried back to the Corvair and got in. The interior burned like a furnace despite the open windows and cool night.

  Sleeth slumped in the passenger seat. His arms wrapped his torso. He looked ready to upchuck on my floorboards.

  "I didn't find any identification," I said as I drove away. "What a bust."

  "Herman Marks," Sleeth said in a tight voice. At my look, he continued, "The guy in the car, Herman Marks."

  "You know him?" I asked, my voice rising with a mix of surprise and anger.

  He stuttered and cleared his throat. "Seen him around."

  It sounded like a big fat lie. "At Calderon's?"

  "No, no," Sleeth said too quickly while holding up his hands and shaking his head. "Just… around."

  We drove in silence while I replayed the events of the night. I started with Sleeth's questions about my living arrangements and moved on to how he'd dragged me out of the way a split second before the shooter fired. How he'd followed the shooter for blocks without seeing any trace of the sedan.

  "You knew he was in the house," I said. "How?"

  Sleeth floundered, hemming and hawing.

  "Spit it out man," I said.

  "I saw the curtains move."

  "Bull. I don't have curtains, I have shutters. Tell me the truth."

  Sleeth squirmed and rubbed a hand on his neck. "You won't believe me."

  "Try me."

  "I'm psychic. I 'saw' he was there."

  I thought about that for a long minute. Then I laughed.

  "You're right. I don't believe you."

  Sleeth's eyelids fluttered, and he slumped against my shoulder. My arm gave under the sudden weight, pulling the steering wheel with it. The car jumped for the right curb.

  With a shove and a shout, I pushed Sleeth away and corrected our course. He sucked in a breath and sat up, pale as a ghost, looking more sick than he had minutes earlier.

  "What the hell's wrong with you?" I asked.

  My attention shifted from Sleeth to the knot of police cars, their red lights flashing, parked in front of my house three blocks ahead. I took a quick left and pulled over to think.

  I couldn't go home, not while I had Sleeth in the car. And I had a lot to process, some of which I wouldn't want to share with former fellow officers. I pulled out and drove into the night.

  46

  Kasker moaned as alternating waves of chills and fever swept through his flesh. He'd succumbed to temptation and eaten the tainted soul even though it was forbidden. He'd never done that in thousands of years, and if he survived, he swore he'd never do it again.

  In the lighted motel office across the parking lot, the ward arranged rooms for the night. She'd ordered him to wait in the car so he wouldn't be seen—after forcing him to hand over all his remaining cash. She had much to answer for.

  Another wave of nausea battered his gut. He opened the car door and barfed on the pavement. His true form swirled under the skin of the flesh, dizzy and barely controlled. The tainted soul lodged in his craw refused to budge.

  What if it was stuck there for eternity? The very thought brought another wave of spewing, even though nothing remained in his stomach. Perhaps if he abandoned the flesh… No, the ward already marched toward the car, keys in hand.

  "Let's go," she said.

  The ward retrieved a shopping bag of toiletries purchased at an all-night pharmacy, crossed the parking lot, and trotted up outdoor stairs to the second floor. Kasker dragged behind her.

  A short walk along a railed balcony brought them to unit twenty-one. She unlocked the door and entered.

  "Where's my room?" Kasker asked as he trailed her in. He needed to be rid of her—her and his flesh. His head spun.

  "You're looking at it," she said.

  "Oh." His gaze swept the cramped and shabby room with its two beds, chipped desk, and malodorous smell of cigarettes mixed with astringent cleaner. His nose wrinkled. "Where's your room?"

  "You're looking at it," she said.

  His eyes narrowed. "Where's my money?"

  She swept an arm around the room. "You're looking at it."

  "A hundred bucks for this?"

  "You gave me fifty-six, and renting a room without ID costs extra." She took the shopping bag into the bathroom.

  Kasker slumped on a bed. All he wanted was to go home to Hell. Go back to being a simple hunter. Let someone else more qualified save Heaven and Hell.

  Let someone else more qualified save Heaven and Hell.

  He stared at the bathroom door. The ward was the Chosen of Heaven. Why else would she have a guardian angel? And she was a powerful entity of the universe. The Oracle said as much. Surely with Heaven behind her and no opposition from Hell, she could bring Holmes to task—alone—couldn't she?

  What would his master say to such a suggestion? Would he be allowed to tell her who Holmes really was? Who he really was? She didn't believe his lie about being psychic.

  The ward returned from the bathroom, checked outside the window, and closed the blinds. She fastened the chain on the door. For extra measure, she braced the desk chair under the knob.

  He flopped back and closed his eyes. So much for sneaking back to the car long enough to release the flesh. Perhaps her cop training made her paranoid about break-ins. He'd wait until she fell asleep and then do whatever it took to expel the tainted soul.

  The ward's footsteps paced the carpet. He cracked an eye open to watch. Her back-and-forth motion made him seasick. He closed his eye.

  "Damn it, Sleeth! How can you just lay there?"

  He opened his eye again. "Food poisoning."

  "Sorry, I didn't realize…"

  She returned to pacing.

  A moment later she said, "No one knew we were working together except for the three people we interviewed today."

  "So?"

  "No one knew you'd be at my house. It means the trap was supposed to kill me, not you."

  Kasker opened both eyes. "Well huzza-huzza. Welcome to the club."

  She glared at him. "And maybe the trap that killed Dave wasn't
meant for you, either."

  He thought about that for a moment. It made his head hurt.

  The ward wouldn't let it go. "Maybe someone Dave arrested in the past went after him. Maybe I saw something in the warehouse I wasn't supposed to."

  "Maybe you're nuts," Kasker said.

  The ward stopped at the foot of his bed and glared at him.

  "You weren't the one framed for Decker and Haskell," he said. "You weren't the one lured to the warehouse by those two goons. If anyone wants to kill you, it's because you're forever sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong."

  Her glare turned to ice. She paced.

  "You're sure the shooter was Herman Marks? Did you get a good look at him?"

  Kasker moaned. "Absolutely sure."

  "We should follow up on him in the morning. What do you know about him?"

  "Nothing." Kasker rolled to his side and put a pillow over his head.

  The ward slapped his foot. "Pay attention. Would Calderon know him?"

  Kasker thought again about telling her everything. But what if she didn't believe him? She could wish him out of existence. That would be an even worse fate than swallowing a tainted soul.

  Let Seve tell her. If she didn't believe, she could wish the demon away instead of Kasker. He congratulated himself for the idea.

  "You can ask Calderon yourself in the morning," he said. "I'll take you to him. Now can we get some sleep?"

  The ward returned to the bathroom, where a lot of splashing and gargling occurred. She came into the bedroom, took the other bed, and turned out the lights.

  It didn't help. Despite the closed blinds, the lights from the parking lot made the room as bright as if a full moon shined from the ceiling. Kasker waited for the sounds of rhythmic breathing that signified sleep. All he heard was the ward tossing and turning.

  Out of patience, Kasker slunk from the bed to the bathroom, locked the door, and collapsed on the floor, what there was of it. The place was designed for dwarfs.

  He released the flesh and squeezed his true form into the bathtub, a fixture that wasn't nearly large enough. Tail jammed against one end, head between front paws, he heaved with all his might. The tainted soul didn't budge. He heaved again. And again.

  Hours later, Kasker returned to his flesh, the soul finally expelled. The flesh was chilled and racked with tremors despite the broiling temperatures caused by his true form confined in the tiny space. He tottered to his feet and staggered to bed.

  Seemingly only moments later, the ward switched on the lights and announced it was time to go. Kasker groaned and buried his face in the pillow. The ward slapped him on the legs. Twice.

  Kasker's empty stomach tied itself in a hard knot. He insisted they stop for food before seeing Seve. The ward reluctantly agreed and drove to an IHOP nearby while the sun slowly crested the horizon.

  Kasker strode to the restaurant door, the smell of food tantalizingly close. The ward stopped at the newspaper box.

  "There's been another one," she said, lifting the paper from the box.

  Kasker hurried back and snatched the paper from her hands. He scanned the story.

  "Goats! Eight blocks from here."

  The ward grabbed the paper back. "We should have patrolled the ley line intersections last night. We might have Holmes by now."

  "Let's go." He turned for the car.

  "Why?" she asked. "The police will have the scene cordoned off, and if they see you there, they'll detain you."

  "Psychic, remember?"

  The ward rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. How could I forget?"

  Dizziness touched Kasker. He braced his feet. "Just get me as close as you can."

  She glanced at the restaurant with longing, sighed, and dug her keys from her pocket.

  They drove the eight blocks to Lovejoy's Roller Rink. As the ward had suggested, yellow tape ringed the building, a police cruiser occupied the front lot, and uniformed pigs guarded the doors. Spectators and reporters gathered in clots outside the tape.

  "Circle around back again," he said, extending his senses as best he could without leaving the flesh.

  The faintest tickle of soul essence wafted to him. He sucked it in, but it wasn't enough to identify. He either needed to get much closer, which wasn't possible, or he needed to shed the flesh momentarily. How could he get rid of the ward?

  "Park there," Kasker said, pointing to the parking lot of Wong's Chinese restaurant.

  He pushed temptation at her. "Don't you want to go mingle with the reporters? Ask them what they've heard?"

  The ward rubbed her temple and squinted into the morning sunlight. "Not especially. It's the police who will have the details."

  Kasker resisted the urge to snap at her. "Perhaps one of the reporters has an anonymous source inside the department."

  "Like they'd tell me if they did. Why don't you go talk to them?"

  He looked over the group. "The pigs might recognize me. Besides, most of the reporters are men. Being female, you'll have a better chance. Use your charms."

  The ward's face turned bright red. She gave him a cold stare but got out of the car. He smirked. She slammed the door.

  When she was twenty feet from the car, he leaned the seat back and loosed the flesh just a little.

  The world of souls jumped into sharp relief. Bright torches of light mingled at the tape. A few more stood near the outer walls of the skating rink.

  In the loading area behind the back door, one faint and fading soul hovered. Kasker strained to reach it while maintaining his camouflage of flesh. Inch by inch, his true self emerged.

  At last, a wisp of soul trailed to his nose. Erick Richards.

  Kasker retreated to his flesh and grinned. A quiver of anticipation raced over his skin. Come nightfall, he would find the body of Erick Richards and devour the damned soul that now occupied it.

  47

  "Bastard," she said. The woman beside me glared at a middle-aged man farther along the fluttering yellow tape while he directed a disinterested photographer where to point a camera. "Thieving bastard."

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "Reynolds stole my story, that's what."

  She looked about my age. Her fine blonde hair was cut short in the style that Twiggy made famous. Her eyes were ringed with black eyeliner, and thick mascara clumped on her lashes. Royal blue eyeshadow clashed with her green eyes. She wore a striking red sleeveless shift dress that ended at mid-thigh. The square neckline set off her thin neck and protruding collarbone.

  She turned her attention from the man to me, and her thin eyebrows pulled down. "Don't I know you?"

  "Who's Reynolds?" I countered, although I'd seen his byline on a hundred crime stories published in the Solaris newspaper.

  "He's the jerk my editor assigned as soon as he realized this was another Slasher case, even though I was the one who spent the night cozied up to the police scanner. Can't have a junior reporter on the city's hottest story, especially when the victim is one of our own."

  "You knew the victim personally?" I couldn't believe my luck. But if she recognized me, the game would be up.

  "Matthew Shertleff, former Arts and Entertainment writer for the Solaris Daily News. Of course, he quit after he became an infamous novelist last year." She squinted at me and tilted her head. "You sure look familiar."

  "You must be devastated after losing a close colleague," I said. "Did you still keep in touch?"

  "Ha! After his smutty novel sold a million copies practically overnight, he turned into a hermit. Wouldn't answer his phone or his door. Had his groceries delivered." She shook her head. "He'd spent years trying to hock his literary masterpiece, but he couldn't sell it to save his soul. So he writes trash, and he's an instant sensation."

  Recognition lit her eyes. "Hey, aren't you that officer that saved Mayor Newell's son? The one whose partner died?"

  I glanced down at my watch. "Wow, look at the time. Gotta go."

  I strode away from the tape. The reporter'
s flats slapped the asphalt behind me.

  "Wait a minute! I want to interview you!"

  I bolted for the car. The sound of her footsteps dwindled. Breathless, I started the Corvair and peeled away from the curb.

  Sleeth barely noticed my haste. He hummed under his breath and drummed his fingers against his thighs in time to a tune I didn't recognize. Any moment, I expected him to cut loose with an air guitar performance.

  Back at the restaurant, Sleeth made an energetic recovery from his food poisoning and gorged on sausage and eggs. I felt tired and grumpy and stuck with tea and toast. He showed no interest in the details I'd learned about Shertleff.

  I'd spent most of the night unable to sleep, listening to him moaning and cacking in the bathroom. My eyes were gritty, my head ached. Paying for Sleeth's breakfast didn't help my mood.

  Worst of all, I'd soon have to reveal to the hippie that Calderon's place was under surveillance.

  After breakfast, I drove to the Mission. Despite its name, there was nothing Spanish about its architecture. It occupied a converted warehouse. One end housed a chapel, the large center section provided space for dining tables where the homeless ate an evening meal, and the other end contained a kitchen and storage rooms.

  "Wait here," I said.

  I slipped from the car before Sleeth could ask any questions and approached the rear kitchen doors.

  The place hummed already. Under Mrs. Hemstreet's supervision, a small army of volunteers prepared food for the evening meal. I ducked unseen into the storage room. It was jammed with canned goods, donated clothing, blankets, and props for the morality and seasonal holiday plays the Mission provided as entertainment.

  I scrounged for the items we'd need to sneak into the Luna Azul unrecognized. I piled my loot in an old wheelchair, scurried through the kitchen with my head down, and rolled the chair down the sidewalk to my car.

  Sleeth turned a puzzled look on me. He didn't get out to help while I wrestled the chair into the trunk. We headed back to the hotel.

  "What's all that junk for?" he asked.

  "So we won't be recognized when we go to Calderon's."

  A look came over him. It must have been the first time he considered how I knew he worked with Calderon.