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

by Justin Gustainis

  “In fact, it doesn’t, Mister Morris. The commandment reads, ‘Thou shalt not do murder.’ And keep in mind that I am also a soldier. Centuries ago, the founders of our Order were told by His Holiness the Pope that taking a life in the service of Christ, regrettable though it may be, is not murder.”

  “Some Christian ethicists might well argue that point,” Morris said.

  “Let them. That interests me not at all. What does interest me is that you and Miss Chastain understand the inevitable consequences of breaching our security.”

  “You make yourself very clear,” Libby said. “But something that isn’t clear, not yet, anyway, is the terms of the deal you’re offering us.”

  Reinhart studied his big, rough hands. “If you agree to help us find this... missing person, and your efforts prove successful, you may have our relic of Solomon’s Seal, to use as you wish. We would prefer to have it returned to us, but we recognize that may not be possible. Your chances of surviving an encounter with this afreet, even with the piece of Solomon’s Seal, are, frankly, unpromising.”

  Libby gave him a razor-thin smile. “Your confidence is inspiring.”

  “I am merely being realistic.”

  “What if I agree to help you, but the procedure doesn’t work?”

  “Then we will bid you and Mister Morris farewell, with our thanks for trying. Is that agreeable to you?”

  Libby glanced toward Morris, who nodded his agreement with what he knew she was about to say. “Yes,” she said, “it is.”

  Twenty-Six

  “INDIANA?” JAWAD TAMWAR’S voice, although surprised, remained respectful. “Must we travel such a distance, brother? There must be closer places where we can find another captive lion to butcher.”

  “There are,” Nasiri told him. “The state of Michigan contains several other zoos with lion exhibits. And that is the problem.”

  Mujab Rahim frowned in perplexity. “I am sorry, my brother, but I do not understand this riddle.”

  Nasiri forced his voice and manner to patience. Rahim might not be among the smartest of Allah’s creations, but his courage, obedience, and knife skills made him invaluable to the group.

  “If we choose a second zoo within Michigan,” Nasiri said, “the authorities may notice a pattern. If we were committing murders, let us say, they would be lost among the many killings that occur in this misbegotten country every day. But removing the hearts of captive lions...”

  “Unusual enough to stand out,” said Uthman, the wizard. He and Nasiri had already discussed this between themselves. “It is quite possible.”

  “I mean no disrespect, brother,” Tamwar said, “but what does it matter? If the stupid police notice that someone in Michigan is killing lions for their hearts, how could it be traced to us? And who among them would possibly understand the significance of what we are doing?”

  “As to the first question,” Nasiri said, “it is basic operational security. The knowledge that we who are killing lions – although I hope it is Allah’s will that this one will be the last – can be found in Michigan is more information than I wish the police to possess. As their idiotic detective stories say, it would be ‘a piece of the puzzle.’ And this piece I would deny them. At present, they know nothing of us. For the sake of our holy mission, I would keep it that way.”

  “And when you say that none of them would understand the significance of our actions,” Uthman said to Tamwar, “you are almost correct, my brother. Almost, but not quite. There are some individuals in the United States who may have enough knowledge to make the connection. Their FBI is said to have some agents with occult knowledge – not many, but a few. And even one is too many.”

  “There are also some people not directly connected with the authorities whose knowledge is a danger to us,” Nasiri said. “There is a magician in Chicago named Dresden, I understand.”

  “And the woman Blake in St. Louis,” Uthman said. “She also might recognize the signs.”

  “A woman,” Rahim said. He did not bother to keep the disdain from his voice.

  “She is dangerous, nonetheless,” Uthman said. “I have no doubt that we could destroy her if she became a nuisance, but it would pose a distraction. We do not need distractions at this stage of the operation.”

  “And that is why we will venture outside Michigan to find our afreet’s next meal,” Nasiri said. “That is my decision.”

  The others knew better than to raise further objections.

  “Where must we go, then, brother?” Tamwar asked. “Has that been determined yet?”

  “It has,” Nasiri told him. “In Center Point, Indiana there is a place calling itself the ‘Exotic Feline Rescue Center.’ It seems perfect for us.”

  “They take in big cats from other zoos that have closed, circuses that go out of business, that sort of thing,” Uthman said. “According to their website, they have a dozen male lions, and almost twice as many females. It is an embarrassment of riches, my brothers. And no high walls to climb.”

  “When do we leave?” Rahim asked glumly.

  “Soon,” Nasiri said. “There are some details to be worked out, but – soon.” He glanced toward Uthman. “We must not let our afreet go hungry much longer.”

  Twenty-Seven

  “THE MAN I want you to find is a member of our Order,” Reinhart said. “Father-Captain Andrew Dalton.”

  “How did he end up among the missing?” Libby asked. “Do you know?”

  “Indeed I do,” Reinhart said grimly. “Father-Captain Dalton was almost certainly abducted.”

  Morris looked at him. “You mean he’s being held for ransom?”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Reinhart said. “If someone was demanding ransom, we would pay it. We would do so grudgingly, of course, and with the expectation that one day we would have a settling of accounts with the kidnappers. But no ransom has been demanded.”

  “Do you know why he was taken, then?” Libby asked.

  “We not only know why, Miss Chastain – we also know by whom.”

  Libby blinked a couple of times. “I assume you’re going to explain all of this, using small words that even Quincey and I can understand.”

  Reinhart gave her a smile lacking in either charm or humor. “Of course,” he said. “For starters, you should understand that Father-Captain Dalton is a Sensitive. Do you know what that means?”

  Libby nodded slowly. “As I understand it, a Sensitive can sense human emotions, even if there’s no outward sign of them. Some people say they can read minds, but I’ve never encountered that particular talent, and I’m not sure it’s even possible. I have met a few Sensitives, though.”

  “That’s essentially correct,” Reinhart said. “Thanks to his ability, Father-Captain Dalton is expert in detecting deception – better than any machine ever invented by man. He is also adept at identifying demonic influence – a talent that was known in the old days as ‘witch smelling,’ I believe. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Libby said. “As I said earlier, the Infernal has nothing to do with me, or the kind of magic I practice.”

  “Yes, quite,” Reinhart said.

  “Is that why your man was taken?” Morris asked him. “Somebody needs some witch-smelling done, or thinks he does?”

  “No, I’m quite certain that Father-Captain Dalton’s ability as a sort of human lie detector is the reason he was abducted.”

  “Abducted how?” Morris asked. “I’m pretty sure that somebody, or even several somebodies, didn’t just walk in here and grab the good Father. Not with the kind of security you fellas have – not to mention the armament.”

  “No, that’s not how it happened,” Reinhart said. “Perhaps I should back up a bit. A couple of months ago, we – the Knights Templar – were approached through an intermediary by a member of a rogue CIA unit called the Clandestine Operations Group.”

  “Wait,” Morris said. “The terms ‘rogue’ and ‘CIA’ don’t really belong together. I mean, something
is either part of the CIA, or it isn’t.”

  Reinhart gave him the humorless smile again. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But this group’s activities are so secret, the CIA doesn’t even acknowledge them officially. Most of the CIA doesn’t even know they exist.”

  “I don’t get it,” Libby said. “I’m no expert on intelligence operations, but the CIA is already ultra-secret in practically everything it does. Are you saying there’s a unit that’s ultra-ultra-secret?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Miss Chastain. Nice turn of phrase.”

  “But” – Libby made a helpless gesture – “what’s the point? Why would one group need to be more secret than everybody else?”

  “Because they violate U.S. law on a regular basis,” Reinhart said. “The CIA is forbidden to engage in assassinations, but these people do. The agency is, by charter, not allowed to operate within the United States – but this group does. No government agency is allowed to take U.S. citizens into custody and hold them indefinitely, without either charge or trial. But – guess what? And no organ of the U.S. government, either civilian or military, is permitted to engage in torture for interrogation purposes – not since the last Bush administration, anyway.”

  “Torture?” Morris said. “Are we talking about waterboarding here?”

  “For these people, waterboarding is just a warm-up,” Reinhart said. “Drugs, sleep deprivation, hooding – not to mention plain old agony. Fire, electricity, joint dislocation, rape – the whole Gestapo repertoire is theirs, and more.”

  “My Goddess,” Libby said softly.

  “If this group is supposed to be so ultra-secret,” Morris said, “how come you know so much about them?”

  “We have contacts among many of the world’s intelligence, military, and law enforcement organizations,” Reinhart said. “None of whom would ever acknowledge our existence, of course. We receive a good deal of information from them.”

  “So you think that this bunch of super-spooks has kidnapped your man?” Morris asked.

  “I am certain of it. As I said, they made contact with us. They had heard about Father-Captain Dalton, and wished to ‘borrow’ him for an unspecified period of time.”

  “What for?” Libby asked him.

  “They didn’t say, but I expect they have come to the realization that all torturers do, eventually – the information they’re getting is unreliable. Most people will say whatever they think the interrogator wants to hear, just to make the pain stop. Sometimes they speak the truth, sometimes they tell half-truths, and often they just lie.”

  “And they just wanted you to give Father Dalton to them,” Libby said.

  “Oh, they offered their usual incentive – money.”

  Morris did not think he had ever heard the word said with so much contempt before.

  “The Order has no shortage of funds,” Reinhart went on. “But even if we were destitute – to do business with those kinds of people? Unthinkable.”

  “So, you turned them down,” Morris said. “Then what?”

  “Then nothing – for about six weeks. At which time Father-Captain Dalton received word that his mother had suffered a massive stroke, and was dying. He asked permission to go to her, and was given leave. All routine.”

  “Did he travel with a security detail?” Libby asked.

  “No, he went alone. The members of our Order do not normally travel with bodyguards when on personal business. Their anonymity is their protection.”

  “But not this time,” Morris said.

  “Quite so,” Reinhart said, sounding tired. “Not this time. Father-Captain Dalton was headed for Nashville, Tennessee, where his mother lived – and died. He never made it. Nor has he been seen, or heard from, since.”

  “Makes you wonder if his mother’s stroke was due to natural causes, after all,” Morris said.

  “It does now, yes. But as the old Yiddish saying goes, ‘It’s easy to be smart, after.’”

  “So you want me to use one of Father Dalton’s personal items, a map, and a pendulum, to locate where he’s being held by these CIA creeps,” Libby said. “Then what?”

  “Then we’ll go and get him,” Reinhart said.

  “In a military operation,” Libby said.

  “Of course. I think it’s extremely unlikely that if I showed up at their front door, hat in hand, and asked for Father-Captain Dalton back, that I would receive anything but a bullet for my trouble.”

  “You’re probably right about that,” Morris said.

  “I’m well aware that what I’m asking poses potential conflicts of interest for you two. Before we proceed further, I need to know whether you’ll be able to resolve them.”

  “What conflicts of interest are you referring to?” Libby asked.

  “One has to do with the nature of white magic, Miss Chastain. My understanding is that, as a practitioner, you are not permitted to use magic to hurt anyone. Not to belabor the obvious, but if we carry out a raid on wherever the Clandestine Operations people are holding Father-Captain Dalton, a number of people are likely to be hurt, probably fatally.”

  “Yes,” Libby said. “I had assumed as much.”

  “Does that pose a problem for you?’

  “No, it doesn’t. If I had to consider the possible long-term consequences of my magic, I’d never be able to cast anything. I can’t lay a curse on anyone, okay? I can’t call down lightning on somebody’s head, no matter how much I might want to. But as for what you’re asking – I don’t see any impediment. Heck, from what you’ve told me, I’d be acting on the side of the angels, anyway.”

  Reinhart looked at her with narrowed eyes. “So, you’re accepting my account of recent events, and those involved in them, at face value? I appreciate your trust, Miss Chastain, but some might call it naiveté.”

  Libby smiled at him. “I may not be a Sensitive like your Father Dalton,” she said, “but I’m pretty good at deception detection myself. I know you haven’t been lying to me.”

  “You said there was more than one conflict of interest,” Morris said.

  “The other one should be pretty obvious,” Reinhart said. “If Miss Chastain is successful, we plan to attack people who are employed by the U.S. government. You would be, indirectly, taking up arms against the United States. Does that bother you?”

  Morris thought for a moment. “It’s been a long time since I saw the government of my country as a single, united entity. Far too often, the left hand and the right hand don’t talk to each other. As far as I’m concerned, the people you’ve described don’t represent the United States, either in spirit or in law. I don’t consider myself a traitor for helping you.”

  “On that, Quincey’s speaking for both of us,” Libby said.

  “Then I suppose we might as well get started,” Reinhart said.

  Twenty-Eight

  LIBBY LEANED OVER the map of the United States spread out on Reinhart’s desk. “Since you think there’s a good chance that Father Dalton is being held in this country, we’ll start here. If I don’t get anything, we’ll check Canada and Mexico. And if those come up empty, I’ll move on to any other country you think he might be in – as long as you have a map of it.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Reinhart told her. “You can find a map of just about anyplace on the Internet these days.”

  Libby was holding about eight inches of fine silver chain, from the end of which hung a four-ounce piece of quartz. The stone had been carved into a triangle, and covered with several arcane symbols by Libby herself. Whenever possible, a witch makes her own tools.

  She had spent almost half an hour casting the spell that would make the quartz into something more useful than a small piece of rock. Libby had cast a spell on the chain, as well.

  “Okay, here goes,” she said. The three other people in the room – Morris, Reinhart, and Father-Major Pearson – all came over to the table, but stood on the side opposite Libby, as if to give her room.

  Libby he
ld the chain in her right hand. In her left she clutched a rosary which, Reinhart had assured her, had been handled by the missing Father-Captain Dalton many times – and probably by no one else. Holding the tip of the pendulum about six inches from the map, Libby began to swing it in a slow, gentle arc, moving north to south and back again. She started with the west coast and slowly moved east. But it was not until she had reached the eastern seaboard that she gave a small start and said, “Oh.”

  “Something?” Morris asked her.

  “Maybe.”

  Libby kept the pendulum swinging over the east coast now. Taking small steps to the left and right, she varied the angle at which the stone passed over the map. After a few minutes, she straightened up.

  “I’m getting a definite hit over the area around North and South Carolina,” she said. “Time to move on to maps of those states, and see what we get.”

  Rinehart had a Rand McNally Large Scale Road Atlas of the United States, and he opened it to the page for South Carolina. He laid the book on the table, weighting down the corners with a stapler, tape dispenser, paperweight and book.

  Libby repeated the procedure, slowly traversing the map of South Carolina on a north-south axis, and then going west-east.

  “Nothing,” she said finally. “Let’s try North Carolina.”

  Reinhart found the correct page and replaced the atlas on the table in front of Libby. She started again, moving left to right. When the pendulum was over the eastern part of the state, she said, softly, “That’s more like it. Now, let’s narrow this down.” Without looking up she said, a little louder, “Quincey?”

  Morris was ready with a ruler and a fine-point pen. Libby kept the pendulum moving and said, “Mark it.”

  Careful not to get in the way of the swinging stone, Morris placed the ruler on the map and carefully lined it up with the axis Libby’s pendulum was following. He followed the ruler’s edge with the pen, leaving a thin black line traversing the state.