Hard Spell

by Justin Gustainis

  I looked at him. "Rachel Proctor's the suspect?" I wasn't sure yet what she was suspected of, but for something to get to a cop like Milner's experience, it had to be real bad. "Was there a witness?"

  "Nah, not that we know about. But it's her house, ain't it? And she's a fuckin' witch, ain't she?" He pointed toward the house as if he was aiming a gun. "What went down in there wasn't done by no fuckin' Girl Scouts."

  Arguing with Milner about what Rachel Proctor was capable of was going to be a waste of time. Anyway, in her current state, I wasn't sure what Rachel was capable of.

  "Guess we better check it out," I said. "Okay if we open the front door?"

  "Yeah, I guess," he said. "Just don't go inside and fuck up the crime scene."

  That's something every police trainee learns the first week at the academy, but I wasn't giving Milner the fight he was spoiling for. Let him take his feelings out on somebody else. His wife was in for a rough few hours, I figured. I hoped Milner wasn't a hitter.

  "Let's go," I said to Karl, and we followed a narrow, meandering sidewalk to the front door of Rachel Proctor's house.

  Three creaky wooden steps led up to the front door, which was painted white, with a light blue trim. Part of the doorframe near the knob was splintered and broken. Somebody had kicked the door in – either Officer Ludwig, or whoever came before him.

  Using the back of my hand, I pushed against the door. After a moment's resistance, it came free of the frame and swung wide.

  The thick, coppery scent of blood hit me in the face as soon as the door opened. Nothing else in the world smells like that. Once you've had it in your nose, it can stay a long time – maybe your whole life.

  All the lights were on in the living room, which made it easy to see what had got Milner acting like he'd had a personal glimpse into Hell. It was hard to imagine Hell as bring much worse.

  The walls were giant abstract murals done by an insane artist who had a thing for red. And you could add the ceiling to the exhibit. Display the whole thing in the Night Gallery.

  And it wasn't just blood, either. Sticking to the walls, the ceiling, the furniture were globs of flesh that I figured had once been bodily organs. I saw what looked like a kidney wrapped around the leg of the coffee table, and flattened against one wall was a fist-sized ball of flesh that might once have been a human heart.

  Next to me I heard Karl mutter, "Dear sweet merciful Jesus." I couldn't have put it better, myself.

  The room looked like a World War II bunker that somebody had thrown a grenade into, except for one thing: the furniture.

  Apart being covered in gore and guts, Rachel Proctor's living room furniture was intact and in place. All the window glass was still there, too. Whatever kind of explosion had caused the human damage, it had left the surroundings untouched.

  How was that possible? There's only one answer, and it's the same one that had occurred to Milner, and probably to the other cops out there, too: magic. The blackest of black magic.

  Which left Rachel off the list of suspects, as far as I was concerned. Rachel didn't practice black magic – I was sure of it.

  But indications were that Rachel wasn't exactly traveling alone these days. And, judging by the books and gear we'd found in his house, George Kulick had known a few things about black magic. Enough to do this? I was hoping for the chance to ask him about it, and soon.

  "Seen enough?" I asked Karl quietly.

  "More than enough," he answered, his voice hoarse.

  We walked back to where Milner was standing. "I assume that what we saw in there was... came from Ludwig," I said.

  Milner nodded. "It was like he just... exploded from inside. They took what was left of him to the morgue. There's enough to bury, I guess." He looked at me. "Ludwig was a good cop, put in a lot of years. He didn't deserve to go out like that." Milner said it like he was expecting an argument from me, but I didn't give him one.

  "What about his partner, what's-his-name, Casey?" Karl asked.

  "We found him in back, on the ground, screaming. Know why?"

  Karl shrugged. "Because he saw what had happened to his partner?"

  "No," Milner said, "Casey was screaming because he was covered with spiders – fucking tarantulas, dozens of them."

  "I know tarantulas are poisonous," I said, "and they look gross as hell. But their bite's not fatal to humans – probably not even a bunch of bites."

  "It wasn't the poison," Milner said. "One of the other guys knows Casey, they're cousins or something. He says Casey had something-phobia. Fear of spiders."

  "Arachnophobia," Karl said.

  "Yeah, that's it. The cousin said Casey had it bad. Guess somebody else knew that, too, and covered him with the one thing he couldn't stand. He was still screaming once they got those things off him and loaded him into the ambulance."

  "Tarantulas aren't native to this part of the world," I said, just to be saying something. "They come from the tropics."

  "Yeah, I know," Milner said. "Funny how a whole bunch of them found their way to Casey, huh? Almost like magic." The bitterness could curdle milk.

  "I know you like Rachel Proctor for it, but there's something–"

  "Like her for it? She a fucking witch, and witches use magic, and it was magic that fucked up two cops, decent guys with families. It don't take fucking Einstein to connect the dots."

  "I know, but–"

  "But nothing, Markowski. I heard you was tight with that cunt, but you know what? I don't care how many times she sucked your cock, or how good she was at it. There's a BOLO out on her, and if everybody on the force doesn't know she's a cop killer, they will before end of third watch today. I guarantee it. Now get the fuck out of my sight."

  We got.

  We were almost back to the car when my cell phone rang.

  "Markowski."

  "So this guy goes to a whorehouse, but he doesn't know that all the girls working there are vampires, right? He says to the madam–"

  "Lacey, I am really, really not in the mood for jokes right now."

  "Suit yourself, Stan. But I'm looking at something I think you might wanna see."

  "Which is...?"

  "Another dead vamp."

  "Shit."

  "Yeah, and it looks like the same M.O. – well, it is, but it isn't, if you know what I mean."

  "No, I don't," I said, "but it doesn't matter. Look, Lacey, I appreciate your calling, but there's shit I need to deal with here tonight. Can you just send me the reports and photos online later tonight, or tomorrow?"

  "I probably could, but it's not my case. I'm in Pittston, the most musical town in the Valley."

  "Say what?"

  "You ever drive down Main Street? Bar, space, bar, bar, space. You'd probably get the opening song from that musical Bats if you played it on the piano."

  "Lacey–"

  "Okay, okay, but that's where the vic turned up. A Statie I know gave me a call, because he knows about the dead vamp we turned up the other night."

  "A Statie?"

  "Well, Pittston doesn't exactly have a Homicide squad, you know? So they called in the Staties, and the PBI's taking over the investigation."

  "Shit."

  "If you put in a request through channels, you might get copies of all the case materials in, I dunno, a week or so. Maybe two."

  "Shit."

  "You keep saying that, Stan."

  "Well, what did you say when you found out you were going to have to drive to Pittston tonight?"

  "Me? I said motherfucker."

  "Give me your 20, and I'll see you there in a little while."

  She gave me an address along with some directions, then said, "Are you bringing that partner of yours along – the big guy?"

  "I was planning to, yeah."

  "Good. He's cute."

  As I guided the car onto 81-South, I said to Karl, "Four dead vamps. Normally, I'd file that under G for "a good start", but if Vollman's right, that means Sligo, or whoever's behind this, is
almost ready to do the Big Nasty."

  "Except we don't know what that is, either."

  "Or when he's gonna do it, or where, or even who this Sligo is. But other than that, I'd say we're pretty much on top of this thing."

  We'd gone about a mile down the highway when Karl said, "Stan. Listen."

  "What?"

  "If this is none of my fucking business, then just say so, but..."

  "But what? Just spit it out, Karl – I won't shoot you. Not while I'm driving, anyway."

  "Well... it's pretty obvious that you've got a real hard-on for vamps. Not for other supes, so much. I never heard you bitch about weres, or trolls, or even ghouls – and those fuckers creep me out. But you just hate vampires. And that's your business, I'm not tryin' to tell you what you oughta think. I was just wondering... how come?"

  I thought about making a joke about it and changing the subject. And I thought about telling Karl to mind his own fucking business. Then I thought about telling him the truth.

  Since he's my partner, who's saved my ass at least twice, I decided to go with door number three.

  I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay," I said. "It's like this."

  I've been on the force fornine years, and a detective for two, and I want that Detective First Grade shield so bad I can taste it. I can't explain why it means so much to me. Maybe it had something to do with my old man, who said I'd never amount to much, or the Irish nuns, who always treated me like just another dumb Polack – it doesn't matter why. I want that promotion, and the way to get it is to make collars and clear cases. So I'm putting in a lot of overtime, and I mean a lot.

  This brings me a fair amount of grief at home, with Rita complaining about how I'm not there much and when I am all I want to do is sleep, or vegetate in front of the TV, stuff like that. But she never complains when I bring home the paycheck, which is pretty fat because of all that overtime.

  Once I make First, I'm gonna dial it back a bit, start spending more time at home with my wife and kid. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

  So I come home late one Saturday night (weekends are busy times for cops) and my daughter Christine is out with friends, and my wife is in bed, and that's all normal except when I go up there I find Rita isn't breathing.

  I call 911, then do CPR until they get there, and the ambulance guys are pretty quick, but none of it makes any difference. They pronounce her about ten minutes after we get to the hospital.

  Once I can think again, there are two questions burning in my mind: "How?" and "Why?" I start by demanding a copy of the autopsy report and I finally get one – but it's not brought to me by a doctor, but by another guy from the job. His name's Terrana and he says he works in Supernatural Crimes. In my department we used to make jokes about Supernatural Crimes.

  I've seen plenty of autopsy reports, and I try to close my feelings off and treat this one like its about somebody who doesn't matter to me. That works until I get to the part where it says "exsanguination."

  I look at Terrana. "She bled out? That's bullshit – there wasn't a fucking drop of blood on her or on the bed. Not a drop."

  "I know," Terrana says to me. He's got one of those slow, measured voices that reminds me of funeral directors. "But there's more than one way somebody can bleed to death."

  I stare at him and I think about what unit he's with and the little light comes on in my head, finally. "Vampire? You saying a vampire killed Rita?"

  He just looks at me, which is all the answer I need.

  "Wait a second," I tell him. "There were no marks on her neck. I'd have seen 'em, count on that."

  "That biting on the neck stuff is kind of a cliché spread by the movies, Stan. Sure, it happens sometimes, especially when it's involuntary, such as in cases of surprise vampire attack. But there's lots of veins and arteries all over the body that a vampire can make use of."

  "Terrana, will you talk English and stop with the riddles? Please? You're saying a vampire killed her but that she wasn't attacked? What the hell does that mean?"

  "It means it may have been consensual," he says.

  I feel my hands form into fists, seemingly of their own accord. "You're telling me she let some fucking bloodsucker...?"

  "The M.E. did find fang marks, Stan. And you're right, her neck was clean. He found the the inside of her thigh, high up, near the... uh, there's a big artery that runs through there, the femoral artery."

  "So the blood-sucking bastard raped her with his fangs, the fucking–"

  "I'm sorry, Stan, but the M.E. doesn't think there was force involved. If you read the rest of the report, you'll see that there was no evidence of other trauma, and that there was more than one set of fang marks. Some of them were... old."

  I run my hand over my face, maybe trying to wipe away the expression that I knew was stamped there. Then I have a thought. "So he snuck in, night after night, like in Dracula. He kept attacking her in her sleep until she–"

  "Stan, that book was written before we knew very much about vampires. Stoker got a lot of it right, but there were quite a few things he got wrong."

  "Like what?"

  "Vampires can't sneak into a house like cat burglars, Stan. Nobody knows why, but they have to be invited in."

  A few days later, I apply for the transfer. It works its way through the system, and a week later I get approval. So I go through the special training, then start work as a detective in Supernatural Crimes. And in my time away from the job, I hunt the bloodsucker who had seduced and killed my wife.

  It takes me eight months. Eight long months of research, cultivating informants, reading old arrest reports, trading favors with other cops, intimidating and cajoling and bribing members of the local vamp community.

  Eight months. And then I find him.

  But it isn't that simple anymore, because by then, I've got a bigger problem to deal with. My need for revenge is now mixed with fear – fear for my daughter, Christine.

  Anton Kinski's got a job. Most vamps do, I'd learned. Since the undead had made themselves known, along with the rest of the supes, they were able to stop living in graveyards and the basements of abandoned houses. But rent and decent clothes cost money, so Anton has found work (night shift, of course) as a pleater at a small garment factory.

  He's a good worker, is Anton. Puts in his time, rarely misses a night (vamps don't call in sick) and pretty much keeps to himself. When he's not off seducing and murdering women, he's got a pretty boring life, or whatever it is that vamps have.

  Until the day he wakes up at sunset to find me leaning over him, the sharp point of my wooden stake resting lightly against his chest. My other hand is holding a mallet, and I make sure he sees that, too, along with the silver crucifix hanging on a chain around my neck.

  "You don't know how much I want to pound this stake clear through your body, Anton," I tell him, my voice thick and tight. "And if you so much as twitch, that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

  Nothing moves but his eyes, which search my face and see there the truth of what I'd just told him.

  His lips barely move when he finally speaks, and his voice is barely loud enough to hear. "Who – who are you?"

  "I'm the husband of Rita Markowski, the woman you killed last fall. Remember, Anton? There can't have been so many of them since then that you don't remember Rita."

  He closes his eyes for a few secs. Then he opens them and says, "I don't suppose it will matter if I tell you it was an accident – carelessness, really, on my part."

  "No difference, Anton. None at all."

  His head moves about an eighth of an inch in a nod. "So, why are we talking? You want to gloat a while before you stake me?"

  "No, Anton. It tears my guts out to say it, but I need you."

  He looks a question at me.

  "You didn't turn Rita – didn't make her... one of you."

  "Like I said – accident. Got... carried away."

  "But you know how to do it."

  "Sure, of c
ourse," Anton says. "I've done it before."

  "Is it true, what I've heard? You have to exchange blood with the victim before she dies? Is that how it's done?"

  "Yeah, pretty much." He swallows. "That it? You want... me to turn you?"

  He winces as the stake's point presses harder into his chest. "Don't push your fucking luck, Anton. I'd no more become one of you leeches than I'd volunteer to work in a concentration camp."