Morris and Chastain Investigations: Play With Fire & Midnight at the Oasis

by Justin Gustainis

  This time, Adelson hesitated for a second before responding. “No, there wouldn’t.”

  “Would you like to do that? Let us take those books away before you get into trouble?”

  A longer pause this time. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Let’s go down to the vault now and get them. Would that be all right with you?”

  “Well, I don’t know if–”

  “You really want to give us those books, so you can sleep better at night. Isn’t that true?”

  This time, Adelson waited so long before replying that Morris was contemplating telling Libby that the game was up, and they should get the hell of there.

  “Yes, you’re right,” Adelson said slowly. “I suppose I would feel better, if I did that.”

  “Why don’t we go right now, then?”

  “Okay.”

  Adelson stood, as did Morris and Chastain. When Libby turned his way, Morris gave her a look that said, I’m getting pretty nervous about this.

  Libby replied with a shrug and a facial expression that told him, as clearly as if she had spoken, We might as well go all in.

  Morris thought about the implications of “all in.” It means you either win big – or you lose everything.

  Thirty

  WALKING SLOWLY, AS if in a dream – or just coming out of one – Adelson led them from his office to an unmarked door in the store proper, Morris and Libby in tow. It seemed no new customers had come in since Morris and Libby had been shown to Adelson’s office – with the exception of a large, hairy man near the back of the store who appeared to be absorbed in a large book with gilt binding.

  From his post near the opposite wall, Mr. Schwartz observed the procession and asked, “Is everything all right, Mister Adelson?”

  Adelson turned and looked at the man as if he had never seen him before. After a hesitation that went on far too long, in Morris’s opinion, he said, “Everything’s fine.”

  Unlocking the door, Adelson said, “We, uh, keep a lot of our stock down there, along with our most valuable books. Visitors are only allowed by invitation.”

  “Then how lucky we are that you invited us,” Libby said.

  “Yes,” Adelson said absently. “Yes, quite.”

  He flicked on a switch and began to descend a set of uncarpeted wooden steps. Libby followed him. Morris, who was last in line, pulled the door closed behind him. It had a key-operated deadbolt, so he couldn’t relock it, even if he’d wanted to.

  It was instantly clear that most of the interior decoration budget had been lavished on the showroom upstairs. Morris reached the bottom of the steps to find a concrete floor, a series of bare light bulbs, and two rows of large bookcases that spanned the length of the large room. The bookcases had seen better days, although the volumes they held all appeared to be free of dust.

  Upstairs, the big man who had come in after Morris and Chastain replaced the book he had been pretending to look at. He walked rapidly over to Mr. Schwartz’s desk, his shoes making no noise on the hardwood floor.

  In the animal kingdom, a creature that combines size with stealth is to be greatly feared, for those are the components of doom.

  The old man, absorbed in an issue of The Bookman, only became aware of the other’s presence when his shadow fell across the page. Mr. Schwartz, whose hearing was acute for one his age, started in surprise. Looking up, he actually cringed a little.

  The big man looked down and rumbled, “Restroom?”

  “B-behind you,” Mr. Schwartz said, pointing with a hand that was even more unsteady than usual. “Second door on the left.”

  That lavatory was supposed to be reserved for the staff, its use extended to the occasional wealthy client only with Mr. Adelson’s permission. But Mr. Schwartz would have no more said “No” to that man than he would have stuck his hand down a whirling garbage disposal. He hoped the stranger would do his business in there and then leave. Someone like him didn’t belong in Adelson’s. He simply wasn’t their kind of person.

  Downstairs, Adelson led Morris and Libby down a long row between bookcases. At its end was a vault that had been built into the wall. It looked as if it might be large enough inside for a man Morris’s height to stand upright, but just barely. The vault must have been installed before the invention of keypad lock controls – it still had a combination wheel that had to be turned to the correct sequence of numbers for the lock to disengage.

  Instead of bending to the task of getting the immense door open, Adelson turned and looked at them, a deep frown on his face. “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he said slowly. “Those four volumes could be worth a lot of money someday.”

  Libby spoke to him as if to a not-very-bright child. “But, David, money will do you no good if you’re in prison. Receiving stolen property is a serious crime, and if the police find out about that, they’ll probably start looking into all your business dealings, going back for years. Who knows what they might find, David.”

  “Oh, well, yes. I try not to think about that,” Adelson said. But he still did not turn back to the vault. Libby rested her hand on the back of Adelson’s neck and put her mouth close to his ear. In a voice so low that Morris could barely hear it, she said, “Think of it, David. Prison. No more good food or fine wine. No more beautiful rare books. No more women. And there are some big, mean men in there who would probably want to use you like a woman, David. Do you understand?”

  “Dear God,” Adelson said, blinking rapidly. Then he nodded. “Yes, you should take those books out of here, right away.”

  “Of course we will,” Libby said. “All you have to do is let us in.”

  Adelson turned and put three fingers around the large metal dial set into the vault’s door. He began slowly to turn it.

  MR. SCHWARTZ HAD become so engrossed in an article about bookbinding during the American Revolution that he actually forgot for a few minutes about the man who was using the staff bathroom. Then he heard the door open, looked up, and beheld something out of a nightmare.

  The immense creature, which, under its thick fur, bore a resemblance to the man Mr. Schwartz had seen enter the lavatory, crossed the distance between them in three bounds. Mr. Schwartz was able to get to his feet – he managed that much. But his plan to scream for help was never realized. It is, after all, difficult to scream when a set of claws, that a grizzly might envy, have just torn your throat out. Mr. Schwartz collapsed to the floor, and a few seconds later, found the mercy of death.

  A few minutes later, the thing that had killed him moved to the basement door, which he had seen Morris and Chastain go through a few minutes earlier. Nothing in his instructions covered the white-haired man who had gone with them, but he would die, too, of course. The rule was: never leave eyewitnesses. Besides, the creature was hungry. Very hungry.

  Turning the doorknob with those claws was a challenge, but after several attempts the door was open, swinging silently on oiled hinges. The creature began to make its quiet way down the stairs.

  Adelson was having trouble getting the vault open. The spell that Libby had used to make him compliant had affected either his concentration, his manual dexterity, or both. He had made three attempts so far and was fumbling his way through number four when Libby Chastain said, “Let me help you, David. Why don’t you step back and tell me the combination. I’ll get the door open for us.”

  “But the combination’s a secret.”

  “I know it is, David – but you were going to let us in, anyway, right? And I promise, after today, I will never, ever go near this vault again.”

  Adelson stared at her and said, reluctantly, “All right, just this once.”

  “Thank you, David. Now let’s trade places.”

  Adelson took a step back, allowing Libby to kneel before the vault’s locking mechanism. “Go ahead,” she said.

  “Right, to thirty-four.”

  “Got it.”

  “Left, to nineteen.”

  “Okay.”

  Righ
t, to forty.”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “Left, to three.”

  “Yep.”

  “And then right, to twenty-one.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes,” Adelson said, “now just turn the – what the fuck is that?”

  Thirty-One

  QUINCEY MORRIS WHIRLED, gaped, and found he had just enough air in his lungs to say softly, “Motherfucker!”

  The biggest werewolf he had ever seen was already halfway down the long aisle, its claws scratching on the concrete. The creature’s shoulders were so wide that they were actually brushing against the bookcases on either side. That had slowed it down a bit – otherwise Morris would be dead already.

  Being part man, part wolf, a werewolf combines the best (or worst, depending on your point of view) qualities of each: the man’s intelligence and ability to walk upright, and the wolf’s acute senses and furry cunning, combined with teeth, claws and musculature that are native to neither.

  Morris was fumbling in his pocket for the switchblade. Against this thing, it might be as useful as a slingshot against a battleship, but the blade was coated with silver, deadly to werewolves. It was also the only weapon that Morris had.

  Then an arm was pushing him aside desperately while Libby Chastain cried, “Move!”

  Morris scuttled aside as Libby extended the first two fingers of her right hand in the direction of the werewolf, and pointed high over its head. Then, fingers spread wide, she lowered her hand until it was pointing at the floor, chanting, over and over, “Atqarab b’loa!”

  Morris had heard her use that one before, and knew the words were ancient Aramaic for “Do not pass!”

  The werewolf was only twenty feet away when it slammed into an invisible wall, bouncing off with a howl of pain and frustration to land on its back.

  “Barrier spell?” Morris asked.

  “Yes, but it’s only in the space between these bookcases, and it won’t hold for long,” she said tightly. “Give me my bag!”

  Morris scuttled back to the vault, where Libby had left her big leather purse. As he grabbed it, he saw that Adelson was standing with his back pressed against the wall, eyes huge and mouth hanging open. He was making a sound that sounded like “Wha-wha-wha?”

  Morris didn’t take time to explain. Even with Libby’s spell in place, none of them had a lot of time.

  “Come on!” he called to Adelson, then turned away.

  He could have tossed the bag to Libby, but the way their luck had been running lately, she’d probably catch it upsidedown, spilling the contents all over the place. So Morris took an extra few seconds to reach Libby, who was still facing the invisible barrier she had created, pointing the same two straightened fingers to maintain the spell.

  Coming up behind her, Morris snapped “Here!” Without turning away from the shield, Libby reached behind her and he slapped the bag into her hand. She immediately dropped to one knee, spilled the bag’s contents on the floor, and began sorting through them with her free hand. Morris had the switchblade out now, the silvered blade glinting in the harsh light from the ceiling bulbs.

  The werewolf had been stunned by its impact with the invisible shield, but it didn’t stay that way for long. It came to its feet smoothly, growling in rage and frustration. Then Morris realized, with a sinking feeling, that they had a smart werewolf on their hands. Instead of clawing at the barrier in futility, the creature did something more appropriate for an ape than a species of lycanthropus sapiens – it began to climb the bookshelves, and within a few seconds was out of sight.

  “Can he get around us?” he asked Libby.

  Without looking up from her systematic rummaging, Libby said, “Damn straight. The barrier’s high, but narrow. I can make something that’ll surround us, but I can’t do it quickly.”

  Morris turned until his back was just touching Libby’s. With one of them facing in each direction, they couldn’t be taken unaware. It was suddenly quiet in the basement – except for the continuing sound of “Wha-wha” coming from near the vault. Morris had forgotten about Adelson. He hadn’t followed Morris, but had remained where he was. Adelson’s brain must be befuddled by the remnants of Libby’s spell, combined with the sight of something that his forebrain told him couldn’t possibly exist. But his reptile brain, a far more primitive structure, had seen, and believed, and was terrified.

  Morris knew he should run out there and drag the man back to relative safety, but he was torn between reluctance to leave Libby’s back unprotected and the sure knowledge that Adelson was an innocent bystander in this struggle. Whatever a werewolf was doing down here in the bookstore’s basement, it almost certainly hadn’t come after Adelson. And Morris also knew that an innocent bystander is always one short step away from becoming collateral damage.

  “Adelson!” Morris called softly, in a pathetic attempt at a stage whisper. “Come over here! You’ll be safe with us!”

  That last was an outright lie, but what was Morris going to tell him – the truth that joining him and Libby might increase Adelson’s safety marginally, at most? As a motivator, the truth left something to be desired, as it often does.

  Morris’s internal struggle was abruptly cut short when it started raining books. The bookcases down here were so crammed full that someone had been stacking books on the top of the cases, and it was a number of those that were being dumped on them from above. Whether the werewolf intended this as a distraction, or a mere venting of its fury, Morris didn’t know. He was looking up, one arm raised to protect his face from further literary incoming, when a three-pound First American Edition of War and Peace came sailing out of nowhere and fell on Libby Chastain’s head.

  Thirty-Two

  LIBBY DROPPED LIKE a puppet with its strings cut. The three vials she’d been holding rolled out of her limp hands and spilled across the floor.

  Morris spared her a quick glance, then turned his face back up to where the enemy was. He was worried about Libby, but he had been in this business too long to start acting like a dumb hero. He could go to Libby and kneel over her unconscious form, calling her name and keening, just like on TV. Then the werewolf could jump on his unprotected back and tear his stupid head off, before devouring the two of them. But it looked like Libby’s magic was lost to him for the time being – he was going to have to deal with this thing on his own.

  But perhaps not entirely. Glancing down at his foot, Morris saw that one of the vials Libby had been holding had rolled in his direction, and its cap remained intact. Another quick look showed him that the container held a clear liquid, and Morris was pretty sure of what it was. Denatured alcohol is used in a number of white magic spells, and he knew that Libby carried some as part of what she sometimes called her “traveling hocus-pocus kit.”

  The shower of books from above had stopped. Morris scanned the top of the bookshelves for any sign of the werewolf, listened hard for any sign of its growls or breathing. Satisfied that he was probably going to be jumped in the next three seconds, he performed a deep-knee bend that allowed him to scoop up the vial quickly and return to a standing position.

  Morris held the bottle where the light could fall on Libby’s hand-written label: “Denatured Alcohol.” He’d been right.

  He gave a small nod. Morris was no magician, but alcohol has properties that even the layman can make use of, sometimes. He loosened the vial’s cap, so that it would come off with a flick of his thumb. Now all he needed was an opportunity.

  Fire was out of the question. Morris, wasn’t a smoker, and didn’t carry a lighter. He was pretty sure that Libby had a box of handmade wooden matches somewhere in her bag, but trying to hold a match, the vial, and the switchblade, with all three ready for instant use, required one more hand than he possessed. Besides, the vial held four fluid ounces, at most – he wasn’t going to incinerate any werewolves with that. But the alcohol still gave him a small edge that he hadn’t had a minute ago.

  A few more books fell from above, t
hen something much bigger either jumped or fell from up there, to land with a grunt about twelve feet from where Morris was standing.

  Up close, the werewolf was no less terrifying than when Morris caught his first glimpse of it. He’d encountered a few werewolves before, and even killed one, once. But this specimen was huge. The size a werewolf assumes upon transformation is directly related to how big it is in human form, and Morris remembered that the man he’d seen upstairs had been built like a linebacker. He saw the creature look to where Libby lay on the floor behind Morris, still unmoving, and its lips pulled back from those immense fangs in what Morris assumed was the werewolf version of a smile.

  Morris backed up slowly until he felt the heels of his shoes touch Libby’s recumbent form. He didn’t figure a few more feet of distance was going to make any difference when the thing came for him, but he was hoping that the werewolf, in human form, watched a lot of TV melodrama. In the fantasy land that is television, when the hero and his girlfriend face the big, bad monster the guy always puts himself between the girl and his adversary, in a “You’ll have to go through me first” attitude. Sometimes, the idiot even says it out loud.

  In real life, limiting your freedom of movement like that is a quick way to become Purina Monster Chow, with the girl to follow for dessert. But Morris hoped the werewolf would figure he was copying some TV hero, and was going to stand fast when the creature charged. In fact, Morris planned to hop backwards at the last instant, clearing Libby’s body with the jump and landing behind her. He wasn’t giving Libby to the werewolf – but if the creature found itself clawing empty air where Morris had just been standing, he might just have a chance to do something, with either the alcohol or the knife, or both.

  Morris was no fool. Even with his little stratagem, he still put his and Libby’s chances of survival at about one in ten. But a second ago he’d seen no chance at all, so you could say that things were improving for him. A little.