Hard Spell

by Justin Gustainis

  After a while I put my fork down. "Okay, so maybe Sligo doesn't know we've got shit. He knows we're on the case, but thinks we're doing better than we are. Guess he doesn't know us too well."

  Karl swallowed a mouthful of French toast before saying, "I dunno, Stan. The Evil Wizard is slick enough to find out who's investigating the murders, and a good enough magician to get in and out of that parking lot without tripping an alarm – hell, he even knows which cars we drive. But he hasn't figured out that we're going nowhere with this case?"

  "Well, when you put it like that..."

  We ate in silence for the next few minutes. Then Karl said, "Look, could be I'm full of shit. Wouldn't be the first time. Maybe Sligo's just paranoid, and decided to take us out as a precaution."

  Brave man that he is, he signaled the waitress for more coffee.

  "Or maybe," he said, "somebody else besides Sligo wants us dead."

  The next night, we hung around the squad room just long enough to check messages and make sure that Rachel Proctor hadn't turned up yet – alive, or dead. After that, it was just like the old song: we were off to see the wizard.

  Jonas Trombley made magic, and maybe worse, out of a big old house in Clark Summit, a borough just east of Scranton. When we rolled up a little after 9:30, there was no light showing anywhere. That didn't mean anything; if the wizard was working tonight, it would most likely be in a room with no windows at all.

  I rang the doorbell a couple of times, with no result. So I put my thumb on it and kept it there. Even from the porch, I could hear the buzzing sound the thing was making inside. I was prepared to keep my thumb on that button for an hour, and I was betting that Trombley knew it, too. "So," I said over my shoulder to Karl, "You been watching that documentary series on HBO, True Blood?"

  A couple of minutes later, Karl was describing a book he'd been reading about some scientists who'd accidentally opened a doorway to Hell. I was about to asif it was fiction or nonfiction when the big wooden door finally cracked open.

  A man's voice said from inside, "Do you realize what I could do to you, without lifting a finger, for disturbing me like this?"

  "Nothing, I hope," I said. "If you did, that would be black magic, wouldn't it, Jonas? And that stuff's illegal. Now open the, uh, darn door, so we can get this over with."

  I heard the voice mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "asshole," but the door opened wider. There was enough light from the street for me to make out a human shape inside. Then it waved one hand, and at once the house was ablaze with light.

  Once we were inside, Jonas Trombley said, "Close the door."

  I was tempted to say, "Why don't you show off some more, and close it yourself?" But the visit had already started on a negative note. No point in growing that into a symphony.

  "In here," Trombley said, and motioned us into what turned out to be a living room furnished in what I think of as Thrift Shop Modern. Whatever money Jonas Trombley was making off the practice of magic, he wasn't spending it on an interior decorator.

  Once we were seated, he looked at Karl, then at me and said, "So?"

  I didn't answer right off, which is an old cop trick. Sometimes, if you don't tell them what you want right away, citizens will fill the silence with some interesting information. I took those few seconds to study Jonas Trombley, who I hadn't seen in three years.

  He didn't seem to have aged any, which could be the result of magic or just good genes. Blond, slim, and fit-looking, he looked to be in his late twenties, although I knew he was thirty-four. He wore a zippered velour shirt in what I guess is called royal blue above a pair of designer jeans that were no tighter then the skin on your average grape. The sandals he wore displayed what I was sure was a professional pedicure.

  I didn't know, or care, if Trombley liked girls, boys, or both – but whatever his preference was, I would have bet that he got more ass than a rooster, even without the magic.

  Once I realized that he wasn't going to blurt out anything useful, I said, "Made any Gorgon statuettes lately, Jonas?"

  He tilted his head a little and looked at me, not answering right off. Maybe Trombley wanted to give me a little of my own silent treatment, but most likely he was taking a few seconds to think. I'd always figured there was a lot going on behind those hazel eyes of his – maybe too much.

  A smile made a cameo appearance on his lean face before he said, "Those nasty little things require black magic, detective – which, as you pointed out a moment ago, is illegal."

  "Can we take that as a no?" Karl asked.

  Trombley turned to him and raised one eyebrow, a trick I've never been able to manage. "You may."

  "Well, somebody's been making them – two, to be exact," I said. "And I'm thinking that he – or she – probably did it for hire. Would you know anything about that?"

  More silence. I could almost hear the wheels turning in Trombley's brain as he weighed how much to tell me, and what it might be worth to him – as well as the cost, if I caught him holding out on me.

  "Do you know any ecdysiasts, Sergeant?" he asked. "Professionally, that is." He sat back in his chair. "I meant your profession, of course – not theirs."

  If he was planning to make me feel stupid for not knowing what an ecdysiast is, he was wasting his time. "Yeah, I've met a few strippers," I said. "Some human, some not."

  "Do of those, um, ladies ever turn tricks on the side?"

  "They don't tell me about it, if they do. Anyway, I'm not the Vice Squad."

  I heard Karl stir impatiently in his chair. But I was willing to wait. There was a point that Trombley was trying to make, and I wanted to find out what it was.

  "But some strippers do 'hook' on the side – fair to say?" Trombley asked.

  "Yeah," I said with a shrug. "So?"

  "I have a couple of... acquaintances in that profession. Not prostitutes, you understand. These ladies only exhibit their bodies, not sell them. But they tell me that there is a certain kind of man who assumes that every stripper is also a 'working girl.' Some of them can be quite obnoxious in their quest for sexual favors."

  "Look, buddy, we don't have all night..." Karl began, but Trombley held up the hand again.

  "Of course, Detective, and I won't delay you unnecessarily. But I wanted to make the point that people, ignorant people, sometimes make assumptions about what various... professionals will and will not do for money."

  I thought I could see where this was going. "You're comparing yourself to a stripper?"

  He gave me the smile again. "Only figuratively, of course. Although it's a venerable profession. Almost as old as mine."

  "Somebody asked you to make a Gorgon statue," I said.

  "Indeed, yes. Two of them, in fact."

  "And the fact that we're having this conversation means you turned him down. Or was it her?"

  "I did decline, yes. And I was quite insulted by the assumption the man was making. I do not dabble in black magic, nor will I – for any amount of money."

  "Because you're such a law-abiding citizen," Karl said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

  The look Trombley gave Karl this time was definitely of the turn-you-into-a toad variety, but his voice was mild when he said, "That's right, Detective. But more to the point, I am not subject to self-delusion."

  "Meaning what?" I asked.

  "Meaning I do not assume that I could make a pact with any of the Dark Powers without eventually paying the ultimate price."

  "Your life, you mean," Karl said.

  "No, Detective. My soul. Unlike some foolish practitioners of the Art, I have never forgotten that when you make a deal with the devil, the notes come due in brimstone. Invariably."

  "All right, you didn't take the job," I said. "But somebody did."

  Trombley looked at me more closely. "Yes – I should have seen it sooner. You've had a brush with the Reaper recently. Clearly he came in second best." It was hard to tell whether his voice contained relief or regret.


  "Well," he went on, "I have no idea who among my fellow practitioners might have accepted that commission. I could give you a list of names, but you're as familiar with the local magic community as I am. Perhaps even more so."

  "What about the guy who tried to hire you?" Karl asked. "Did you get a name?"

  "He called himself Thomas L. Jones," Trombley said, deadpan. "Do you suppose that could have been an alias?"

  "How about a description?" I said.

  "White male, mid to late twenties," Trombley said with a shrug. "Well built, average height, brown hair cut conventionally, clean shaven, rather attractive brown eyes." He looked at me. "I realize that probably describes about five thousand of the local residents, but I may be able to narrow the field for you. Excuse arl t moment."

  He stood up smoothly and left the room for what I assumed was the kitchen, judging by the clinking of glass that soon followed. I had a feeling that the wizard wasn't planning to offer us refreshments. Just as well – I hate to be rude, but I wouldn't eat or drink something this guy gave me if it came with a nihil obstat from the pope himself.

  Karl and I were exchanging silent "What the fuck?" looks when Trombley came back into the room.

  "Here you go," he said, and gently tossed a glass in my direction. I picked it out of the air and saw that it was the kind of squat, wide glass people often serve booze in. I think it used to be called an Old Fashioned glass, after the drink. Maybe it still is.

  "When the gentleman called on me, I offered him some hospitality," Trombley said. "I didn't yet know what he wanted, and so treated him like any other potential client." He nodded at the glass in my hands. "After I learned what 'Mr Jones' had in mind, and asked him to leave, I thought I'd best put that glass aside without washing it. It should now have three sets of prints on it, Detective. Mine, which are on file with the application for my magic license, your own, and those of the elusive Mr Jones. Perhaps you'll be able to identify him from those."

  As we got to our feet, Karl asked him, "How come you waited until now to share this information with the police?"

  Trombley gave us a nonchalant shrug. "Until now, I had no reason to believe he had found someone to indulge his foolishness. As far as I knew, no crime had been committed."

  Karl looked at me, and I gave him a shrug of my own. If Trombley wanted to play innocent, there was no way we could prove otherwise. And he had provided us with the glass.

  As he saw us to the door, Trombley said, "Regardless of how the prints work out, don't bother to return the glass. I'm sure it will make a nice addition to one of your kitchens."

  Then we were on the porch, the door closing firmly behind us.

  Snotty bastard.

  We didn't even have to send the prints on Jonas Trombley's glass to the FBI. They rang the cherries in the Scranton PD's own fingerprint files.

  "Jamieson Longworth?" I looked at the mug shot on my computer screen, full face and profile. The image seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't say from where.

  I turned to Karl, sitting next to me. "Who the fuck is he?"

  "Let's find out," Karl said. "Keep going."

  I clicked a couple of times, and there it was: an arrest report. And it was recent.

  "Holy shit," Karl said softly. "He's one of the cultists. From the warehouse."

  "And now he wants payback?" I said. "I've busted people who ought to hate me a hell of a lot more than him, and none of them tried to get me turned into stone."

  "I'm surprised the guy's not still in County, awaiting trial," Karl said. "Assuming what's-his-name, Trombley, wasn't yanking our chains. Because of the hooker, those cultists were all charged with felony murder, haina? They should've been looking at some pretty high bail."

  "Let's find out," I said. I clicked my way to the case file and started scrolling.

  It didn't take long. "Yeah, old Judge Rakauskas set bail at half a million each, fifty-K cash equivalent," I said. "Either way, that's a lot of green for your average lowlife to come up with."

  "And only one of them did." Karl was looking at the screen.

  Jamieson Longworth.

  "Okay, that puts the bastard on the street," I said. "But it still doesn't explain why he–"

  "Wait," Karl said. "Scroll down some more."

  "To where?"

  "To the name of the guy who ended up as Purina Demon Chow."

  I'd heard that, on the advice of their attorneys, the surviving cultists had clammed up tighter than a banker's wallet. They weren't saying anything about anything, including the name of their buddy who Karl had thrown to the demon. They weren't even admitting that there was a demon. And any ID the guy had been carrying had been consumed, along with the rest of him.

  I sat there frowning at the monitor until Karl said, "Try the M.E. He might have something."

  It took a few seconds to find the medical examiner's report. In one of the appendices, it said that forensics had found enough DNA to make an identification of the deceased.

  Ronald Longworth, age twenty-one. Same address as the cultist who had made bail.

  Jamieson Longworth's brother.

  I started to say something, but then my computer made a ping and a little tab appeared on the bottom of the screen. It read, "New mail from Vollmanex@aol.com."

  I looked at Karl for a second, then clicked open my mailbox. Sometimes when it rains, it pours.

  Nobody would ever accuse Vollman of being verbose – not online, anyway.

  I have examined, with considerable difficulty, a copy of the Opus Mago. Only one spell in it calls for the sacrifice of Nosferatu. The one attempting to cast this spell must not succeed. He must be stopped, at any cost.

  The number of Nosferatu sacrifices required for the sacrifice is 5.

  "Five vamps," Karl said. "Which means two to go."

  "You can do subtraction," I said. "That's a good start. We'll have you up to the multiplication tables by next week."

  "Yeah, if any of us are still here next week. What do you figure the Big Bad is – the one Vollman says is gonna happen if the spell goes off as planned?"

  "The End of the World as We Know It, maybe? I think I've heard that one a few times before. And the World as We Know It is still here."

  "Yeah, but maybe that's because the good guys always stopped the bad guys who were gonna cause it," Karl said. "You ever think about that?"

  "Right now I'd rather think about how to find Jamieson Longworth, before his tame wizard manages to do us in. We can't save the world if we've been turned into lawn furniture."

  I turned back to the computer. "Last known address for both these guys is in Abington Heights."

  Karl snorted. "That explains where he got the money to make bail. Dude's got some coin, if he lives up there."

  "Maybe." I brought up the Reverse Directory and typed Longworth's address into it. "Then again, the money may belong to Mommy and Daddy. The property's in their name, anyway."

  "Well, I guess human sacrifice is one way to rebel against your parents," Karl said. "But it seems kinda extreme, even if they are real assholes."

  I stood up. "Let's go talk to them," I said, "and find out."

  On our way out to the car Karl said, "Maybe we oughta not mention to Mommy and Daddy that I'm the one who fed their other kid to a demon."

  "Yeah, that would make kind of a bad first impression, wouldn't it?"

  "Bastard deserved it, though."

  "Even so."

  &n Karl said. "Even so."

  We don't have mansions in Scranton. People with enough money for a mansion would rather live someplace else. But if there were going to be any mansions in town, you'd find them in Abington Heights. That's where the money lives, most of it. Some of the really rich have isolated estates up in the hills around Lake Scranton. But there was enough money in Abington Heights to offset a good-sized chunk of the national debt, if you could only get it away from them, and good luck with that.

  The Longworths had built themselves a threestory mock Tudor th
at sprawled across a plot of ground about the size of New Zealand. I wondered what issue of Architectural Digest they'd seen it in. "Build us one like this," I bet they'd told the contractor, "only bigger." The immense lawn was so immaculately kept that I couldn't imagine kids playing on it. I wondered where the Longworth brothers, growing up, had played ball, and tag, and generally run tear-assing around the way kids are supposed to.

  Maybe they hadn't. Maybe that was the problem, or part of it.

  The door was answered by a smiling chubbycheeked housekeeper who said her name was Mrs. Moyle. She was wearing a tasteful version of what my mom used to call a housedress, except this one had probably cost five times as much. At least they hadn't put her in a maid's uniform.