"Look Demasi, Internal Affairs is on the fence about what to do with you. You cooperate with me, and I'll put in a good word. Sure, they'll still give you a slap on the wrist and assign you to a desk for a few months. But then they'll put you back on patrol. In a couple of years, it'll be like nothing happened.
"Or, I can tell them that you're unwilling to cooperate in the Slasher investigation. That you learned nothing losing your partner, and you're still disobeying orders to stay away from the case." Mack leaned back in his chair and took another drag on his cigarette. "What's it going to be?"
Knuckles rapped on the door. Det. Arndt stuck his head in.
"We have another one, up at Highgate Park."
Another one? My stomach lurched. The Slasher was accelerating his timetable.
Lt. Mack looked like he wanted to throw something. He settled for grinding his cigarette into the ashtray. "I'll be right there."
Arndt closed the door. Mack stood, his face gray.
"We'll finish this conversation when I get back."
Mack hurried out. I sat in the uncomfortable chair, tapping my foot at the passing minutes. Highgate Park was on the outskirts of town. By the time Mack drove there, supervised the scene, and drove back, it would be mid-afternoon.
What should I do? Should I tell the lieutenant everything? He didn't know the half of the 'interfering' I'd done while I was on suspension. Did I want my career back? Regardless of what it did to my career, I decided I'd tell him all I'd learned.
I sat there fidgeting for an hour before the duty sergeant stuck his head in the door.
"Hey, Demasi, you know where Tad Newell is?"
I arched an eyebrow at him.
He had the good grace to blush. "Mayor Newell's on the horn. He says his kid missed some public appearance and a lunch date. He wants me to roll out the National Guard. I can't find Chief Greene, and Lt. Mack's still out at the latest Slasher scene. I heard you and Tad were an item. I thought you might have some ideas about where we could look."
My breathing stopped. I couldn't move a muscle. Had Bronski and Warner finally succeeded in kidnapping Tad? Why did they want him? He wasn't on Calderon's list.
"No," I said at last. "No idea where to find him."
The desk sergeant frowned and left.
Mack needed the information I had about the Slasher. But if Holmes had Tad, he could be butchering Tad while I waited. I had to stop Holmes, and following up on Calderon's list was the best bet.
I leaped from my chair and bolted for the door. Then I stopped and rushed back to Mack's desk. I found a tablet in a drawer, scribbled a note giving him the names of the remaining members of Calderon's cult, and telling him they would be the Slasher's next victims, probably within the next twenty-four hours.
I snuck out the back of the station and took a cab to the cemetery to pick up my car. I'd visited most of the ley line intersections looking for Peck and no longer needed the missing map. I'd start again and hope I found the right location before Holmes killed Tad.
56
Kasker waited in the shade of a tree and watched the cemetery caretakers fill the grave of the angel's rotting, abandoned flesh. The ward's car stood in the blazing sun a hundred yards down the lane.
Where had she gone? Why was her car still here? He'd swung by their hotel room first, figuring that the funeral would be long over. When he hadn't found her there, he'd tried this longshot.
The hot afternoon dragged on. The flesh wanted a cold beer and a joint, or at least a burger. His stomach rumbled its complaint.
He'd thought about stopping for food, but it had taken an hour to lure Holmes' stupid goons far enough into the woods that he could make a getaway without being shot. If he'd missed the ward here, goats only knew how he'd find her again.
At the cemetery entrance, a cab pulled in. Kasker straightened. The ward climbed from the back seat, paid the driver, and jogged up the drive despite the insufferable temperatures.
Kasker sauntered to her car. When she saw him, she stopped. Her face tightened, her fists bunched at her sides. She marched forward.
"Out of my way, Sleeth." She stretched a hand toward the driver's door.
Kasker leaned his butt against the door. "Where've you been?"
She planted fists on her hips. "I don't have time for your crap. And give me back the map you stole."
Kasker narrowed his eyes. She was more hostile than he'd anticipated. Being of the angels, she should respond contritely to a reminder of her promises. He lifted his chin and kept the smirk off his face.
"We made a deal. We'd work together to get Holmes. You broke it."
"You cut out, and Peck died. Deal's over. Now get out of my way."
He scowled. Her behavior wasn't very Heavenly. "You didn't have to follow me."
Her face stiffened. "Last chance. Move."
Kasker crossed his arms and opened his mouth to argue. Her knuckles planted in his solar plexus. Air rushed from his lungs. He tipped forward, surprised by a wave of pain.
Her hip jammed into his groin, her hands laced behind his neck, and he was airborne over her shoulder. He smacked down, his spine connecting with the asphalt. More pain shot through his bones. He yipped.
The ward's key rasped in the lock. The car door opened and slammed.
Kasker gasped in a breath and rolled to his stomach. Anger flared in his true skin. He fought the urge to shed the flesh.
The ward wrenched on the ignition. The Corvair coughed and started.
In a moment, she'd be gone. He needed her. He lifted a hand.
"I know where the white van is," he shouted. It came out as a rasp, barely louder than the engine.
She didn't hear him. She stepped on the gas. The car lurched forward—twenty, thirty, fifty feet—off-kilter. She stopped with a jerk, got out, and circled to the passenger side to inspect the front tire.
Kasker smirked openly before wiping the expression from his face. He picked himself up, brushed off his jeans, and strutted to her car, determined to mask his aching back.
He'd let the air out of her tire so they would take his Mustang. That way, he'd be in control. He congratulated himself on his fortuitous planning.
"Bummer," he said. "Hope you've got a spare."
She glared at him. "Tell me about the van."
So she had heard him. But she'd left anyway. Why?
"It was at the park, where Holmes made another kill."
Her face registered shock. "He was there? And you let him get away?"
Indignation flared. "Of course I didn't let him get away. He wasn't there, but his minions were. It was a trap."
He snapped his jaws shut. He hadn't meant to tell her that part.
She stared hard through narrowed eyes. "You caught them at the scene of the murder, but you didn't call the police. You didn't follow them. You ran away."
"They were armed," he said, puffing out his chest. He could have followed them, but that would risk running into another trap.
She didn't look impressed.
"By the time I got near a phone, they were long gone. And what would your pig friends think when I called in another murder?"
"You've got nothing." The ward stormed to the rear of the Corvair and opened the engine compartment.
Kasker scrambled after her. "I've got the name from the side of the van."
She stopped loosening the bolt holding the spare and turned to face him. Tension draped like an aura around her. She seemed suddenly eager to listen to him. He took a step back.
"Where have you been?" he asked in a suspicious voice. "The funeral ended hours ago."
"The mayor's son, Tad Newell, is missing," she said. "I think Warner and Bronski kidnapped him for Holmes, although I don't know why Holmes wants him. He has nothing to do with Calderon."
Kasker's heart sped up, and a smile curved his lips. He knew exactly what Holmes intended to do with Tad Newell.
"I'll tell you about the van, but only if you promise not to call the pigs. Cald
eron wants this kept in the family."
The ward bit her lip while she considered, and then she nodded.
"We'll take my car," he said and strode away.
###
Kasker pulled the Mustang over a block from the Temple of Enlightenment. After detecting the trap at the park, he wasn't taking any chances. He'd need to get the ward out of the Mustang long enough to slip the flesh before he'd go closer.
The ward shaded her eyes and squinted into the sun setting behind the building. There wasn't much to see. In a previous life, the storefront had been an expansive record shop. But the neighborhood around the shop had become increasingly industrialized and decrepit, driving customers to more friendly locations.
The windows were painted over with scenes meant to depict Nirvana. Acolytes in green robes worshipped deities or strolled through fields of wild flowers. Kasker couldn't tell if lights were on inside. The large parking lot in front of the building yawned empty and litter-strewn.
"Let's go," the ward said. She slipped from the car.
With reluctance, Kasker opened his door and stepped out. He perused the street. No inset shop doors. No parked cars to shield him from the ward's sight. He trailed after her as she paced quickly toward their target.
At the corner, Kasker stopped. The hair bristled at the back of his neck. Rivulets of sweat trickled over his temples and ran from his armpits. His hands knotted into fists. Under his breath, he cursed the insensitive flesh.
The ward, now four steps ahead, turned back. "You coming?"
Half a block to his left, an alley yawned. The breath he'd been holding whooshed from his lungs.
"In a minute," he said, and marched toward the alley.
The ward's footsteps pattered on the pavement behind him. Ten feet short of the alley, she appeared at his shoulder. He grimaced.
"I'm not letting you out of my sight," she said.
He squinted at her. Curse the ward! He walked to a dumpster parked near the mouth of the alley and unfastened his fly, one slow button at a time.
He gave the ward a lecherous grin. "Let me know if you see anything you like."
Scarlet bloomed on the ward's face. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. She scuttled back past the corner of the building.
Kasker darted behind the stinking dumpster and dropped to the ground. He loosed the flesh and stepped away from it, focusing his senses on the temple across the street.
The bright prick of the ward's soul shone just beyond the alley mouth. It was Friday night. Few other points of life flickered in the surrounding buildings. None glowed in the Temple of Enlightenment, nor did he detect any magical essence.
Kasker withdrew to his flesh and stood. He glared at the empty building that the ward was determined to visit. His empty stomach rumbled.
Searching the temple was a waste of time, as was chasing after the mayor's son. If they went to Seve, Kasker could get the contracts for the remaining damned souls. Once he tasted their blood, he could track them to their rendezvous with Holmes. He chided himself for not thinking of the contracts sooner.
Holmes killed after nightfall, when dark magic was strongest. The sun hadn't set yet. He and the ward could stop for burgers and still have plenty of time to locate the damned. All he had to do was convince her to give up this foolish pursuit of Newell.
Kasker buttoned his fly and stalked back to the ward.
57
Sleeth and I weren't speaking. He'd insisted no one was at the Temple of Enlightenment. I'd demanded we get inside to look for Tad or clues to his whereabouts. Sleeth broke out a window, climbed through, and unlocked the door.
We'd found nothing. I'd wanted to call the police. Sleeth reminded me of my promise not to and stopped for burgers. His callous attitude towards Tad's safety left me cold.
Sleeth claimed that Calderon would supply people to help stake out the remaining members of the mobster's cult. Since finding Holmes seemed like the only way to find Tad, I agreed.
We'd donned our costumes, and I wheeled Sleeth over the sidewalk to the front door of the Luna Azul. The doorman let us in. For a Friday night, the place wasn't that busy. I maneuvered the wheelchair between tables and guests until we reached the kitchen door.
Calderon met us there, flanked by two of his hulking bodyguards. His flat black eyes regarded Sleeth, and then he walked through the kitchen to his office. Sleeth abandoned the chair and followed.
"Now what?" the mobster demanded when I'd shut the office door.
"We need your help," I replied before the hippie could open his mouth. "Holmes has three potential victims. We think he'll go for one of them tonight. We can't cover them all."
Calderon stared, first at me, and then at Sleeth. "So, sabueso, you admit you're incompetent? You ask me to do your job for you?"
Sleeth squared his shoulders and sneered at the mobster. "I don't need your help. Give me the contracts."
The mobster's face set hard. "It's not their time. If they're harvested now, there will be Heaven to pay."
A sly smile spread Sleeth's lips. "That's not a solution I considered, but it would prevent Holmes from breaking more of your precious pacts."
Calderon set his fists on the desk and leaned forward. "No. Now get out."
I wanted to slug Sleeth, but I held my temper in check.
"Okay, Sleeth, you had your chance to do it your way." I gestured at the mobster. "If your buddy doesn't want to get involved, we'll do it my way. I'm calling the police."
I'd taken a single step toward the door when a distant voice shouted "Police! Hands up!" A gun barked. A cacophony of voices shrieked. China shattered. Heavy objects thumped. More shots rang out.
"It's a raid," Calderon said through gritted teeth. "You idiot. The police weren't fooled by your disguise. They've come for you."
Sleeth loomed over the desk. "The solstice is tomorrow noon. If I don't stop Holmes by then, he'll destroy Heaven and Hell. Get me out."
Calderon bared his teeth. He yanked the desk drawer open. I expected him to draw a pistol and plug Sleeth where he stood. Instead, he tossed the hippie a ring of keys and bent to move a carpet beside the desk.
"Go through the barred door," the mobster said. He pulled open a hatch in the floor. "It exits in the vacant shop across the alley."
Sleeth jumped through the open hatch, landing with a thud. I used the ladder. I wouldn't run far on a broken ankle. By the time I reached the bottom, Sleeth had a light on. The mobster dropped the hatch. I'd expected him to follow us.
Sleeth rushed to an iron door in the wall and unlocked it. Then he ran back to a huge old safe and snatched an armload of moldering scrolls from the bottom shelf. He brushed past me into the dark passage.
This was nuts. I'd done nothing wrong and had no reason to run. On the other hand, I'd be forever tainted if I were found here, not to mention the hours I'd lose giving a statement. Heavy footsteps clomped overhead, and a door slammed. I gritted my teeth and ran after Sleeth.
As promised, the passage ended at another ladder that led up to a vacant shop across the alley from the Luna Azul. Through the walls, the sound of the gun battle continued. I thought about the innocent customers caught in the middle of it and felt sick.
Sleeth darted out the front and ran like the wind to the Mustang. I thanked my lucky stars I'd worn plain, sturdy shoes and caught him before he pulled out. I had the feeling Sleeth wouldn't wait for me.
We tore away headed west. Sirens split the night as backup units and ambulances responded.
"Slow down," I said. "You look like you're fleeing the scene."
Sleeth glanced my way with a grimace but eased back on the gas. When we'd driven a dozen blocks, he pulled into an A & W parking lot. I couldn't believe he was making another burger stop.
He reached between the seats, retrieved the crumbling scrolls, and unrolled one. He didn't bother reading. He checked the signature at the bottom and tossed it into the back.
I wondered what the scrolls were and fished out the one
he'd tossed into the back. By the time I'd pulled it into my lap, he'd tossed another one and opened a third.
The paper was rough, dry, and gave off an ancient, musty smell. I recognized Calderon's awful scrawl from the list he'd given us. I turned it toward the window and began to read.
By the time I reached the signature, my hair stood on end. Sister Magda had said she'd sold her soul to Calderon. I thought she'd meant it as a metaphor. But the paper I held in my hands was a contract for Matthew Shertleff, the Tuesday night Slasher victim, to hand over his soul in exchange for a guarantee that he'd become a best-selling author.
Sleeth held a contract in front of him. His long pink tongue flicked out and touched the rust-red signature. My stomach rolled. His eyes drooped closed, and a look of bliss transformed his face, as though he'd inhaled the vapors of a fine wine. When he opened his eyes, they glinted red.
A dark, primal fear raced up my back, the kind that made my ancestors throw another log on the fire and huddle closer. Every inch of my skin crawled. I would have gotten out right there, but paralysis set in.
"What the hell's going on?" I whispered.
Sleeth looked at me and smiled. It was the kind of smile a panther gives its prey just before it leaps. I stopped breathing.
"I'm the hellhound," he said, his voice laced with pride, superiority, and drunkenness. The red in his eyes flashed like hot coals, and a dark shadow passed over his face. He rattled the parchment at me. "I collect the souls of the damned when they die."
I didn't believe him. He and Calderon were kooks. They were deranged, playing at crazy games where people signed away their souls.
"Calderon thinks he's Satan?" I asked. My voice trembled. I was trapped in a car with a lunatic.
"No, just a garden variety demon sent to entice humans to sign on the dotted line." His eyes narrowed and the smile vanished. "He's very good at it because he cheats."
"And Holmes?"
Sleeth shifted, uncomfortable with the topic. "America's first serial killer. Or at least he's the first serial killer the pigs caught. He murdered dozens of women, children, and even male business associates who thought they could trust him."
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