No Place Like Hell

by K. S. Ferguson

  "She's lying," the ward said as they neared the car. "She's getting ready to run."

  Surprise stopped Kasker in his tracks. Could the ward read minds?

  "She'd moved most of her drawings to her portfolio. She's going soon."

  Kasker sneered at her assumption. "How do you know they weren't already in the portfolio?"

  "Because there were thumbtack holes in the walls where they'd previously been hung."

  "Maybe she ran out of space."

  "Plenty of space with no holes," the ward said. She opened the car door and looked across the roof at him. "She also had a suitcase open on the bed."

  49

  Sleeth no longer hummed under his breath. Instead, his leg jiggled non-stop, and his brow creased in a frown. The tapping of his foot drove me crazy.

  He'd tried to convince me he wasn't feeling well and needed a nap at the hotel. I'd told him I'd be happy to drop him there, but I wasn't coming back for him—ever. He'd made a remarkable recovery. I hadn't figured out why he wanted to ditch me.

  I also couldn't figure out why Merkel wasn't on Calderon's list. Sleeth knew too much about the millionaire businessman for him not to be involved in this mess somehow. I put Merkel aside to focus on Calderon's cult list.

  All the murders occurred after dark. I decided to keep on with the interviews and loop back to stake out Deborah Peck in the evening. To that end, we pulled in down the block from the Solaris Youth Shelter. Late afternoon sun blinded us as we trooped to our destination. Heat rolled off the pavement in waves.

  The shelter occupied an old store-front in a flea-bitten neighborhood just east of downtown proper. Runaway and abused teens could shelter there, get a hot meal, and talk with adult volunteers who could help them sort out their messy lives.

  I pulled the door open and stepped into the dim coolness. Three scruffy youths played pool at a threadbare table to the left of the door. In a lounge space to the right, an attractive dark-skinned girl and a Latino boy watched an old movie on a big, square black-and-white console TV.

  "Can I help you?"

  A woman in her mid-fifties crossed the room to greet us. Curling salt-and-pepper hair created a soft halo around her broad face that was at odds with her stick-thin figure. She was clad in a dark brown skirt that reached below her knees and a plain white blouse. She wore sensible black shoes.

  "Sister Magda?" My words came out strangled. I'd last seen Sister Magda when I'd graduated St. Charles Catholic School. She'd taught math there.

  Her face clouded in concentration before recognition dawned. "Nicola. Nicola Demasi."

  She was the last person I expected to belong to a secret cult run by a mobster. She'd been one of the most honest and devout people I'd ever known. I'd never seen her in civvies and stared at her attire.

  "It's just Magda Krohn now," she said with a wistful smile. She placed a hand on my arm and lowered her voice. "I'm sorry for your loss. You and Dave were inseparable all through school. How's Cindy holding up?"

  Tears pricked my eyes. I blinked and sucked in a breath. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

  She led us through a door at the end of the room, down a claustrophobic hallway past stairs leading up, and into a tiny, cluttered office at the back of the building. She took the ancient wooden swivel chair behind the desk. I squeezed into a visitor chair. Sleeth stood in the doorway looking unhappy, although there was a second chair.

  Sister Magda looked expectantly at Sleeth. He crossed his arms. She turned to me.

  "Oh, sorry," I said, my face heating. "This is Kasker Sleeth. He's assisting with the Slasher investigation."

  Sister Magda arched an eyebrow at me. "He's a police officer?"

  Sleeth snorted and rolled his eyes. Sister Magda's lips drew into a hard line. I'd seen that look before and expected her to pull out a ruler to rap Sleeth's knuckles.

  "I don't know how I can help you," Sister Magda said to me. "I don't know anything about the horrible murders that have afflicted the city."

  "We believe the Slasher targets individuals who…" I clasped my hands in my lap and screwed up my courage, "have signed secret agreements with the mobster, Seve Calderon. Your name is on the list."

  Sister Magda's shoulders drooped, and her gaze shifted to the desk. "Yes, I sold my soul to Calderon."

  "Why?" I asked. "No one had more faith than you."

  She straightened her spine and looked me in the eye. "Giving up my habit doesn't mean I lost my faith. I tried to convince the diocese that we needed a youth shelter. They said having a safe place to go would only encourage more children to run away. I couldn't change their minds.

  "So a year ago, I did a deal with the devil. Calderon got what he wanted. I got a free twenty-year lease on this building."

  Sleeth sneered at the surroundings. "You got ripped off."

  Sister Magda gave him a cold stare. "What's done is done."

  "But you'd back out of the contract if you could," Sleeth said.

  "As God is my witness, a bargain is a bargain."

  Sleeth shifted uneasily and glanced toward the ceiling. Sister Magda had scored.

  "We believe the Slasher targets people who have regrets and want to be released from their promises," I said. "Has anyone contacted you?"

  Sister Magda's hand went to her throat. "There was a letter a month or so ago. Don't ask who sent it. I don't know. There wasn't any signature or return address. The sender claimed I could get out of my contract with no negative consequences. If I was interested, I was to tape a blank white sheet of paper in the lower left corner of the front window. They'd get back to me."

  "But they didn't," said Sleeth. "Bet that broke your heart."

  Color suffused Sister Magda's cheeks. Her lips moved like she counted soundlessly.

  "Sit down," I said, turning on the hippie, "and keep your mouth shut."

  Sleeth's eyes narrowed, but he obeyed my command. Sister Magda gave me a stern look.

  "Sorry, Sister," I said automatically and ducked my head. "Did they try contacting you a second time?"

  "No, I never heard from them again."

  "You have no idea who it might have been?"

  She shook her head. "I wish I could be more help."

  50

  The ward tossed Kasker a disapproving glance… another disapproving glance. The sun had dropped below the horizon, pole lights pushed back the shadows in the parking lot, and the sounds of splashing and laughing carried from the pool in Peck's apartment complex.

  On the pretext of a trip to the john, he'd snuck out of the IHOP during dinner and called for a vehicle to pick him up here at ten. He had Erick Richards' address. He could be there and back in under an hour. If Peck bolted while he was gone, the ward would follow. He'd catch up later.

  Kasker shifted in his seat and drummed his fingers on the arm rest. The scent of Shertleff's damnation called to him like the smell of baking bread drew a starving soul. But the taxi he'd ordered hadn't arrived yet.

  The ward had parked close to the main entrance of the complex. Kasker had to twist his head to see the street where the taxi would arrive. When he looked for the fifth time in five minutes, the ward turned to look as well.

  "What's the problem, Sleeth?" she asked.

  A surge of panic washed through Kasker. Then he had the answer to his problems ditching the ward.

  "We're sitting ducks. One of us should watch for Peck while the other watches our backs."

  On the street, a yellow cab pulled to the curb and tooted its horn. A thrill coursed through Kasker's blood. He squashed the urge to erupt in his true skin.

  "Bad idea," the ward said. "We might need to move in a hurry. We stay together."

  The cab honked again. If he didn't respond quickly, it would pull away without him.

  Kasker threw open his door. "I gotta piss. Back in a sec."

  "Where do you think—" The slamming door cut off the ward's question.

  Kasker paced to the landscaping at the edge of the complex and
pushed through a hedge to the next property, which consisted of another ugly block of apartments. Out of the ward's sight, he ran for the street.

  The cab was already leaving. Kasker charged into the street, his arm waving. The driver stopped before hitting him, but it was a near thing.

  He gave the cabbie Richards' address and vaulted into the back seat. A glance out the back window showed a vacant street. He smirked and promised a ten-dollar tip if the cabbie hurried.

  Kasker's tongue caught a string of drool at the corner of his mouth. His true skin, hot and black, swirled beneath the flesh. He tapped a foot on the floorboards.

  The Who's I Can See For Miles whispered from the driver's radio.

  Kasker scooted forward. "Turn it up."

  The driver, who looked to be a college student picking up party money, cranked the volume.

  Kasker thumped his fists against the seat in time to the music. He barely contained the urge to howl. The driver's reflection in the rearview mirror showed a big grin, his head bobbing along. Kasker considered paying the promised ten, then dismissed the idea.

  They reached the judge's neighborhood in record time. It was one social class closer to downtown than Merkel's place. He'd be back to Peck's apartment sooner than he thought. Kasker ordered the driver onto a side street and told him to wait.

  The kid wasn't born yesterday. He demanded payment of the fare first.

  Kasker shelled out the fare, but not the extra ten. He'd stiff the kid after they returned to Peck's apartment.

  He didn't need to read the house numbers to find Richards' place; Shertleff's damned soul blazed like a spotlight on the second floor of a faux-Tudor house in the middle of the block. He jogged closer.

  The house to the right still had lights on, and like Richards' house, little in the way of cover. The house to the left stood empty, a for-sale sign staked in the shriveled front lawn.

  The branches of an old, withered willow cast deep shadows over the yard. Kasker glanced around to be sure no one watched before he hurried under it. He dropped to the ground, mindless of the cat pee stench that permeated the area.

  Once safely hidden behind the tree, Kasker stepped free of his flesh and licked his heavy chops. He bounded over a low hedge into the back yard of the deserted house and over the wooden fence to Richards' yard.

  A cat screeched and ran. Kasker ignored it. Down the block, first one, and then a chorus of canine voices rose in alarm. He threw back his head and bayed.

  The neighboring dogs fell silent. A light switched on upstairs. Kasker bayed again and charged for the house.

  51

  Sleeth was up to something. I just couldn't figure out what. As I'd followed the taxi, I thought he might be headed to Emmett Merkel's place. But the taxi pulled over while we were still half a mile away from the millionaire's mansion.

  I wondered if Calderon had passed him a note in the bundle of cash. Or maybe Sleeth had called the mobster when he slipped away from the table at dinner. Did he expect to find Holmes here?

  I parked behind the cab. The driver glanced back at me. I walked to his door.

  "Hey," I said, nodding to the driver. "Your fare changed his mind. He won't need you any longer."

  The driver, a white male a year or two younger than me, drew his face into a disappointed pout.

  "He promised me a sawbuck if I waited."

  I sighed and dug in my pocket. My ready cash was dropping faster than rain in a tropical storm. I'd collect from Sleeth when I found him.

  The cabby snatched the bill from my hand and gunned into the night.

  I walked back to the corner. Nothing stirred on the street ahead. Where had Sleeth gone? I tread on silent feet toward the next corner.

  A cat yowled, dogs barked, and then a frightening howl sent shivers coursing through me. Whatever made that noise, it had to be big—and possibly feral. The neighborhood pack went dead quiet.

  The savage lament had come from the darkness on my right. I peered into the gloom as I edged forward, every muscle taut. Nothing moved.

  Something lumpy lay under a willow in the front yard of a house advertised for sale. I stepped onto the grass and parted the drooping, desiccated tree branches. A body stretched on the ground behind the trunk.

  In the dark, I fumbled my hands over the head and felt Sleeth's ponytail. He didn't stir at my touch. I thought I found a thready pulse in his neck, but I couldn't be sure. I needed more light.

  I grabbed Sleeth's wrists and dragged him toward the front of the yard where the streetlight did a poor job of illuminating his inert form. His skin was pale, flaccid, and cool. His chest rose in a shallow breath once every ten seconds. I didn't see any wounds.

  Despite the terrible racket I'd heard, the surrounding houses remained dark. In this neighborhood, I doubted anyone would answer the door this late. I wished I hadn't dismissed the cab. The driver could have radioed a request for an ambulance.

  The hair on the back of my neck came to attention. In the deepest shadows under the tree, a pair of glowing red eyes watched me. A darker black patch that might have been an enormous dog if they got that big shifted left. For something that size, I'd be little more than a morsel.

  I rocketed to my feet and reached for my gun, remembering too late that I was no longer a pistol-packing patrol officer. My breath hitched. I swear I heard a chuffing breath, like someone stifling a laugh.

  Twenty feet to my left, something small blurred past. I whipped around and identified a cat high-tailing it across the street. A dog barked in the direction it was headed, and it jigged right thirty degrees but didn't slow. More dogs joined the chorus.

  With my heart pounding in my ears, I spun back to the willows. The eyes were gone. At my feet, Sleeth stirred and sat up.

  "What's the matter, Officer Demasi? Seeing things?" Sleeth asked, an edge of amusement in his tone.

  He got to his feet and brushed grass from his jeans. His attitude and lazy smile made me want to pound him back to the ground.

  "What the hell are you doing here? And don't call me that."

  "Catching some air, looking for some action," he said.

  He stepped closer. Heat rolled off him, and the lazy smile turned into an eye-crinkling grin. He looked me up and down in a way that made me uncomfortable.

  "You want to get it on?"

  "We're on a stakeout and you run off to get high? If Peck dies tonight, it will be on your head." I stepped around him and marched toward my car.

  "No great loss," Sleeth said, trailing a step behind me. "She's damned whether she goes now or later."

  I whirled on him, and his chest bumped me before he stopped. "You are the most disgusting excuse for a human being I've ever met."

  Sleeth's brows raised in surprise. "Thanks."

  I threw up my hands. "We're done."

  I spun around and stormed back to my car. Once inside, I locked the doors. Sleeth sauntered up and waved goodbye, a sly grin curving his lips.

  I drove away fast and headed to Peck's apartment, glad to be rid of Sleeth. When I'd cooled down a few minutes later, I thought about what a mistake I'd made. Sleeth might have been in that neighborhood to meet his drug supplier, but I doubted it. Now that I'd cut him loose, I'd never know.

  By the time I got back to Peck's complex, the lights were off in her apartment. I risked doing a walk-by. Her door stood ajar. I pushed it gently open and stepped in.

  The apartment was dark and still. Faint sounds from her neighbor's TV whispered through the wall. I reached out a hand to find the work table in the center of the living room. Once I'd anchored my position, I felt my way around until I faced the single bedroom.

  I cast off from the table and fumbled forward. My hand found the door frame. The door was open. I stopped to listen, every muscle taut. No snoring, no quiet breathing. I flipped on the overhead light.

  Except for the absence of the suitcase, the room looked much as it had earlier. The bedroom light illuminated the living room enough to show the portfolio
of Deborah Peck's designs missing from the work table. She'd flown while I'd chased Sleeth.

  I cursed Sleeth with every four-letter word I knew while I walked back to my car. Inside, I drummed my fingers on the wheel. Our best lead to Dave's killer was blowing in the wind. All the swearing in the world wouldn't fix that.

  I flipped open the glove box and pulled out the ley line map. Lt. Mack said there were thirty-three intersections. I didn't think Holmes would reuse a location. That left thirty scattered over the city. I plotted a course to the closest, started the car, and drove out of the lot.

  Four hours later, at my twenty-second stop, I found Deborah Peck. Like the others, she was alone, spread-eagled in a rune spiral, and very, very dead.

  52

  Kasker sprawled in the back of the cab and rubbed his aching feet. After the ward abandoned him, he'd been forced to walk thirty blocks to find a pay phone. Fortunately, the phone was located beside a late-night convenience store that sold beer.

  Unfortunately, the driver who responded to his summons wouldn't allow open containers in the back of the vehicle. He also wouldn't accept Kasker's generous bribe to break the rule. Kasker made the driver wait while he downed two bottles. He left the remainder of the six-pack on the sidewalk.

  Now the beer sloshed in his belly and fog swirled in his brain. He giggled aloud. The Latino driver eyed him in the rearview mirror.

  Kasker congratulated himself on ditching the ward—and for his new, brilliant plan. He wondered why he hadn't thought of it earlier.

  All he needed to do was trail behind Holmes devouring the damned souls after they'd moved to their new bodies. As long as he got to the murder scenes before the displaced souls were swallowed by the universe, he'd have no problem identifying the new flesh worn by the damned.

  His mouth watered at the thought of the feast that awaited him. Of course, eventually he'd have to devour Holmes or incur the wrath of his master. Still, he'd enjoy the extra damned souls on a timetable earlier than the one Fate intended.