Hard Spell

by Justin Gustainis

  "Yeah, be a piece of cake," Karl said. "All you'd need is some decent light and about a minute of privacy."

  Lacey had her forearms crossed over the back of the front seat, her chin resting on them. "So some 'fearless vampire killer' decided to make his work look like it was done by Sligo – or whoever's been going around knocking off vamps – to throw us off the scent. That what you're saying?"

  It was quiet in the car for a few seconds.

  Lacey bit her lower lip for a second or two, then shook her head. "Doesn't make any sense, Stan," she said. "Mostly these Van Helsing types want publicity for their deed, if not their name. See themselves as big holy heroes. They wouldn't want a serial killer to get the credit."

  "Yeah, I know," I said. "It doesn't fit the pattern. If it's a vigilante, that is."

  "But what's left?" Lacey asked. "If it's not the wizard, or a fucking vampire slayer...?"

  I looked over at Karl and raised my eyebrows. He saw me, and nodded slowly.

  "Lacey, listen: far be it from me to tell the great Michael Twardzik, Lieutenant, Pennsylvania State Police Criminal Investigation Division, how to run one of his cases."

  "Apart from the fact that he'd tell you to fuck off as soon as you opened your mouth," Karl said.

  "There's that too," I said. "But he seems to like you, Lacey. Kind of."

  "He's got fantasies about getting in my pants," she said, "which should be filed under G for 'Good fucking luck.'"

  "Whatever the reason, he at least lets you talk to him," I said. "Which is more than Karl and I can say."

  "I know about you and the academy thing," Lacey said, "but what did Karl do to piss him off?"

  "Guilt by association," Karl said, with a grin.

  "Anyway," I said, "the next time you have the lieutenant's ear, you might whisper in it that he should take a good hard look at the kid's parents."

  Lacey just stared at me.

  I said, "If it were me, I'd want to know where both parents were at the kid's time of death, whenever the coroner says that was," I said. "I might also check trash cans and storm drains in a ten-block radius, looking for some bloody clothing that somebody might have tried to get rid of. And check the sink traps in the house for blood residue – you know the routine."

  "'Course I do," she said, "and I'm aware that in most murder investigations you look at family first. But why...?"

  "When we were in there, I counted six nails sticking out from the walls with nothing hanging from them, and those people are too neat just to leave nails there for no reason. That's where they hung the crucifixes, the paintings of the Sacred Heart, the little frescoes of the Virgin Mary, all that. If you looked, you'd most likely find all that stuff stashed in a bureau drawer. And I'll bet that all of it will be back on the wall tomorrow, or the next day."

  Lacey shook her head again, but not as if she was disagreeing with me. "I can imagine how hard it is to deal with someone in your family who's been changed," she said. "But to off your own kid in cold blood..."

  "You're Catholic, aren't you, Lacey?" I asked her.

  "I was raised that way, but I'm in recovery," she said with a tiny smile, which is all that old joke deserved.

  Karl turned and looked at her. "You're shittin' me," he said. "How can anybody do this kind of work and not believe in God?"

  "I didn't say I don't believe in God, Karl," Lacey said. "Although, if you ask me, all supes prove is the existence of the devil. I just walked away from all the Catholic bullshit. No offense, if that's your thing."

  "Even so," I said, "you know the Church's views about supes – vamps, weres, goblins, the whole crew."

  "Anathema," Karl said. "The pope says they're cursed by God, all of them."

  "Yeah, and that's one of the reasons I took a hike," Lacey said. "Give some old man a tall hat, and all of a sudden he speaks for God? I don't think so."

  "You may not be with the program any more, Lacey," I said, "but I'm betting the Dwyers were. From all indications, they were hard-core Irish, and, especially in this area, that means hard-core Catholic."

  "You think they drove a stake through their own kid because some fucking priest told them to?"

  "Possible, but it didn't have to happen that way. If they figured the Church would have wanted him dead, that might have been enough. It would be, for some people I grew up with. They probably told themselves they were saving his soul." I turned my head and looked at the night as it pressed against the car windows. "Who knows? Maybe they were."

  We were approaching the on-ramp for 81-North when I whacked the steering wheel with one hand and said, "Damn!"

  Karl was bent forward, fiddling with the radio. "What? What's wrong?"

  "Just remembered something else the Staties ought to be doing: check the computer in the kid's room."

  "For what – to see if he was downloading vamp porn?" I couldn't see Karl's smile in the dark, but I knew it was there.

  You can find porn catering to every taste on the Internet – most of it legal, some not. Where there's a niche market, somebody will come up with product to fill it: gay, straight, bi, gimp, albino, human, nonhuman. It's all there someplace, and I guess vampire porn's been around the Internet as long as all the other kinds. I once had to check some of it out for a case I was working. I hope never to have to look at it again.

  "No," I said, "I'd be more interested in finding out whether any Google searches had been done for those symbols we found carved on our first vic. If it was Mom or Dad, or both, who carved them in the kid, they had to find them first."

  "Yeah, that could be useful," Karl said, "although there's no way to tell who was doing the search, if there is one. Hell, the kid could have done it."

  "Not if it took place during daytime, he didn't. Anyway, it's kind of a reach for the kid to be researching symbols that later end up carved on his own corpse, isn't it? I'm pretty sure he didn't carve himself."

  "You got a point there." Karl found a radio station he liked and sat back. "But what you did back there with Twardzik was pure fucking genius, Stan."

  "Thanks. Too bad they don't give out Nobel Prizes for conniving."

  All I'd done was suggest to Lacey that she tell the lieutenant that I was convinced James Dwyer was the latest victim of the serial vamp slayer, and in my opinion the investigation should focus on that aspect of the case and exclude all others.

  Which guaranteed that Twardzik, while following the vamp slayer angle, would also spend plenty of man-hours treating the case like just another homicide. If there was any evidence of the parents' involvement, he'd find it. And then figure out a way to let me know about it, bless his little head. Both of them.

  We were about a mile out from Scranton when Karl said, "Getting late."

  I glanced at the dashboard clock. "Yeah, double shift is almost over. The chief won't pay for triple overtime, even if I had any energy left to do it. Which I don't."

  "Yeah, I guess what-his-name, Jamieson Longworth's 'pad' will have to wait until tomorrow night." Karl scratched his chin. "Unless he has his pet wizard drop a boulder on us while we're asleep."

  "If he was able to do that, he'd have done it by now."

  "You hope."

  "Yeah. I hope. But if you think about it, he probably hasn't–"

  The police radio crackled into life. "Car 23, car 23, this is Dispatch. Do you copy? Over."

  Whoever's riding shotgun handles the radio, so Karl reached out, snapped off WARM 590 AM, and picked up the mike.

  "This is 23," he said. "Copy just fine. Over."

  "That isn't Sergeant Markowski, is it? I'd know his voice. Over."

  "No, this is Renfer, but Markowski can hear you. He's driving. What's up? Over."

  "I've got a phone call just come in for Sergeant Markowski. The lady says it's urgent. Do you want me to patch it through to your vehicle? Over."

  Turning my head a little, I could see Karl looking at me. "Ask if she's got a name," I said, "or knows what it's about."

  "Did th
e caller ID herself?" Karl asked. "Over."

  "Affirmative. Says her name is Joanne Gilbert."

  "Doesn't ring a bell," I told Karl. "Have her leave a number, and I'll–"

  The radio dispatcher spoke again. "Caller says she's Rachel Proctor's sister."

  I checked the mirror, then put my foot on the brake and began easing us over to the shoulder of the road and a complete stop as I said to Karl, "Tell them to put her through."

  "Hello? Hello?"

  "This is Detective Sergeant Markowski speaking."

  "Oh. Uh, hi. My name is Joanne Gilbert. Rachel Proctor, who I guess works with you, is my sister."

  Her voice did resemble Rachel's. Joanne Gilbert sounded like someone who was trying very hard to stay calm.

  "Gilbert would be your married name, then," I said.

  "That's right. I live in Warwick, Rhode Island, but I've got a... message... for you from Rachel."

  "Is she there with you now?" My fingers were suddenly tight around the microphone. "Because I really need to–"

  "No, sir. I haven't seen Rachel in a couple of years. We were going to get together at a big family thing last Christmas, but then one of my kids got sick... you know how it is."

  "Yeah, I guess I do. So, how did Rachel get in touch – email, phone call, what?"

  Silence. I let it go on for a little bit, then said, "Mrs. Gilbert? You still there?"

  "Yes, I'm here. It's just that this is a little... what happened was, Rachel got in touch by making me write the message down with my own hand."

  This time the silence was on my end. Joanne Gilbert didn't let it last long. "Detective, if you work with Rachel, I guess you must know something about witchcraft."

  "More than I ever wanted to," I muttered.

  "Excuse me? What?"

  "Sorry, Mrs. Gilbert. I got distracted for a second. Yes, I'm pretty familiar with witchcraft."

  "Then you know that the basic Talent is genetic. You're either born with it, or you're not."

  "Yeah, I'm aware of that."

  "But the Talent itself is practically useless," she said, "unless you get training in how to use it."

  "Right."

  "Rachel made the decision to develop her Talent. I didn't. I wanted a normal life. But we've both got it. The Talent, I mean."

  "And all this has something to so with the message you got from Rachel." I was in no mood to listen to lengthy explanations about stuff I already knew.

  "It has everything to do with it, Detective. Look, when we were kids, Rachel and I used to play around with our ability. Nothing serious, just for our own amusement. One of the things we could do, anytime we wanted, was what they call automatic writing. We didn't even know it had a name."

  "One person writes what the other one is writing, even though they can't see each other."

  "Exactly. I gather it's a form of clairvoyance."

  "So, this is how you got Rachel's message, through automatic writing?"

  "I was sound asleep. What is it now, almost three? This was like twenty minutes ago. Rachel showed up in my dream, which isn't all that unusual. But all I could see was her face, and she was looking right at me. Wake up, Jo-Jo, she said, very seriously. Wake up and get a pen and paper. She kept saying it over and over, and finally I did wake up."

  "I guess 'Jo-Jo' is some kind of pet name?" I asked.

  "It's what our family called me when we were kids. So, I got out of bed, put my glasses on, and stumbled downstairs. There were some pens in the kitchen, and a pad of notepaper. I got them, and sat down at the kitchen table. As soon as the tip of the pen touched the paper, my hand started moving – writing – of its own accord."

  "Do you and Rachel communicate this way often?"

  "Not since I was twelve, or thereabouts."

  "So, what did you write down?"

  "I'll read it word-for-word." I could hear paper rustling, then she said: "Urgent you call Det. Stan Markowski, Scranton P D 717-655-0913. Tell him: Stan, I didn't hurt those poor cops. Kulick did. I was his instrument. He's very strong. I can only regain control like this for brief periods. You must stop him. We're hiding...

  "And that's all of it," Joanne Gilbert told me. "As soon as I wrote hiding, the ink line was yanked away, right off the edge of the paper. I waited a little while, to see if she was going to come back, but she didn't. So I figured I'd better get moving and do what she asked me to. Rachel doesn't use words like urgent very often."

  "Mrs. Gilbert–"

  "I guess you might ahis was lill call me Joanne."

  "Okay, fine. Joanne, would you please repeat the message again, slowly?"

  "Sure." She read it again. It didn't sound any better the second time around.

  In the pale green light from the dashboard, Karl and I looked at each other.

  "Joanne, if you hear from Rachel again, anything at all, I want you to call me at my private number. It's very, very important." I gave her my cell phone number. "If I don't answer, please leave a message in the voicemail box, and I'll call you back as soon as I possibly can."

  "All right, I'll do that," she said. Then, after a moment, "Detective?"

  "May as well call me Stan."

  "Stan, she's in trouble, isn't she? Bad trouble?"

  I tried to keep the sigh out of my voice, but I don't think I succeeded, completely. "Yes she is, I'm sorry to say. It's pretty bad."

  "Can you get her out of it?"

  "I have to," I said. "I'm the one who got her into it."

  • • • •

  After four hours of restless sleep, I went back to work. Telling McGuire about my phone call from Rachel's sister was at the top of my to-do list, but when I walked into the squad room I could see that he had visitors.

  Two men in gray suits stood in front of McGuire's desk, talking to him. One was middle-aged, and average size; the other one was younger, and bigger. I could tell their suits were expensive – better quality than most cops wear, even the federales.

  Minding my own business is usually something that I'm pretty good at, but the hairs on the back of my neck were bristling, for a reason I couldn't pinpoint. It could have been the expression on McGuire's face, which made him look like a man who's just had to swallow a medium-sized turd. Or maybe it was the way the two strangers held themselves – still and yet tense, like piano wire stretched tight. And piano wire is what they use in a garrote.

  I wandered over to the back of the big room, thinking I'd stick my head into the reception area and ask Louise the Tease if she knew what was up. But before I could reach her desk, McGuire looked up, saw me, and motioned me over.

  I stepped inside McGuire's office and closed the door behind me. The two guys in gray had turned to look at me, and that's when I saw that each of them wore a clerical collar.

  Priests wear black suits, which meant these guys were Protestants. But my work brings me into regular contact with the local clergy, and I knew every one in the area by sight, no matter what denomination.

  What did a couple of out-of-town ministers want with McGuire – or, for that matter, with me?

  It didn't take long to find out.

  "This is Detective Sergeant Markowski," McGuire said. His voice was flat, as if he had squeezed all feeling out of it. "He's the lead detective on the case."

  To me he said, in the same detached tone, "This is Reverend Ferris," with a head gesture toward the older guy, "and his associate, Reverend Crane."

  I figured I ought to shake hands – what else was I going to do? I was extending my hand toward the younger guy, Crane, as McGuire continued, "The reverends, here, are witchfinders."

  I froze for a second. Witchfinders. Fortunately, Crane's hand was already on its way to mine, and I clasped and pumped it a couple of times by reflex. Then came the older guy. I was moving okay by then, but Ferris held the handshake longer than you'd expect, staring at me intently.

  After he let go, the st continued for a moment longer before he said, "You have the odor of witchcraft about you, Se
rgeant."

  Before I could say anything, Ferris gave me a little smile and went on, "But that is to be expected of any guardian of the public order who must deal with these abominations on a regular basis. Certainly it is nowhere near as strong as we find in a true practitioner of the black arts."