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

by Justin Gustainis

  “He might, Quincey. He just might. But from what I’ve read, afreets don’t like the world of humans and try to avoid it. They have their own dwelling places – some say whole cities – deep underground. I’m betting that if he’s turned loose, the afreet will just want to go home.”

  “That’s a hell of a bet, Libby. With damn high stakes.”

  “I know – but it may prove to be the only game in town, if this afreet turns out to really exist.”

  “Here’s hoping you never have to play.”

  “You and me both, cowboy. You and me both.”

  Then they were at the gate of the Knights Templar complex, confronted by two guards – different men from last time, but similarly clothed and armed.

  Morris rolled his window down all the way. “Quincey Morris and Elizabeth Chastain, to see Father-General Reinhart. We’re expected.”

  “Yes, sir,” one of the guards said. “Would you turn your engine off, please?”

  The other guard moved to the side to give himself a clear field of fire through the windshield. Morris, who tended to be a little jumpy in the presence of automatic weapons handled by strangers, had a brief moment of paranoia. What if the good Father-General has decided that security trumps everything else, including human decency? What if he’s decided that Libby and I know too much about his operation?

  Then the other guard approached Morris’s window and said, “Can I see some ID from both of you, please?”

  After examining and returning their driver’s licenses, the guard removed the radio from his belt. Without bothering to walk out of hearing range, he said into it, “Mister Morris and Miss Chastain are here, to see the Father-General.”

  After listening for a few seconds, he said, “Roger that,” and put the radio away.

  “Transportation will be here very shortly to take you folks into the compound,” the guard said. “Just sit tight for a minute, okay?”

  And it wasn’t really much more than a minute before a Chevy Suburban pulled up to the gate from the other side. The guard saw it and said, “Would you folks exit the vehicle now, please? Leave the keys in it – we’ll park it for you someplace safe.”

  It occurred to Morris that Libby would have to endure the indignity of another search, and he was about to protest the necessity when the guard said, “Just follow me, if you would, please,” and led them through the just-opened gate to the rear door of the Suburban. He opened the door and motioned them inside.

  The one-way film was still in the windows, and as the driver politely told them he was about to raise the divider, Morris thought, So, we’re pals now – just not really close pals.

  A few minutes later, he and Libby were standing outside the same long, low building, waiting for an escort to come out to greet them. He did so with commendable dispatch, but Morris was mildly startled to see that it was not Father-Major Pearson. Well, everybody deserves a day off, once in a while.

  Morris had assumed they’d head right to the Father-General’s office again, but instead they were brought to the Officer’s Day Room, which was again empty of officers or anyone else. He thought that meant they’d have to cool their heels indefinitely, but he was wrong.

  He and Libby had barely sat down when they heard the sound of approaching footsteps from the corridor, and a moment later Father-General Reinhart was striding through the door, another man in black fatigues close behind him.

  They rose as Reinhart came over to shake hands. He appeared warmer toward them than during his last visit, but the man was still no contender for the Mister Congeniality trophy. Then again, in his job, a friendly disposition was probably a drawback.

  “Miss Chastain, Mister Morris, good to see you again.”

  “Hello, Father-General,” Morris said. Then, without really thinking about it he added, “I was a little surprised not to see Father-Major Pearson. I had the impression that he was your aide.”

  Reinhart sobered immediately. “Yes, you are correct. He was. I regret to say that Father-Major Pearson is no longer with us.”

  “He’s left the Order?” Libby asked. “Not that it’s any of our –”

  “No, Miss Chastain,” Reinhart said. “I mean that Father-Major Pearson has left this life and gone to the embrace of Our Savior. He did not survive the action at Harvey Point.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Libby said.

  “I appreciate your sympathy, Miss Chastain, but it is unnecessary. He is with God, now.”

  The calm certainty of that statement sent a small chill down Morris’s spine. But then, he supposed that was the essence of the Knights Templar – give your life fighting for God, and you win an express ticket to Paradise. Morris wondered if the Father-General ever considered that the exact same spirit motivated every jihadist who ever strapped on a suicide vest.

  “However,” Reinhart said, lightening a little, “the man whom we went there to rescue is very much alive – thanks, in part, to your efforts.”

  He turned to the man who had come in with him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “This is Father-Captain Andrew Dalton.”

  Dalton was of average height, with the typical muscular build of the Knights Templar. His face looked thin and haggard, as if the man had undergone some unpleasant experiences recently. Morris held no doubt that he had.

  But Father-Captain Dalton’s worn countenance bore a grin now as he was introduced to the visitors.

  “This is Mister Quincey Morris,” Reinhart said.

  Dalton grabbed Morris’s outstretched hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much.”

  “And Miss Elizabeth Chastain, who goes by ‘Libby.’ It was her ability that allowed us to locate you with such precision.”

  Libby held out her hand, too, but Dalton ignored it and put his arms around her in a tight hug. “Thank you so much,” he said. “I wish you –”

  Father-Captain Dalton suddenly stopped speaking, and a moment later pushed himself away from Libby, as if she had caught fire. He took another step back, staring at her. His maudlin expression had been replaced with one of shock, horror – and hatred.

  “Anathema,” he breathed, and then, more loudly, “Anathema!”

  Libby’s face was a study in confusion, but Morris remembered what Reinhart had said about Father-Captain Dalton’s talents as a Sensitive. He could read people’s emotions, tell when they were lying – and he was also a witch-smeller.

  Dalton turned to Reinhart, who was looking pretty confused himself. “Father-General, this woman is cursed by God! She consorts with demons! She positively reeks of the Infernal!”

  Reinhart’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain, Father-Captain? This woman has rendered us a singular service.”

  “Then she has done it for her own dark purposes! She is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” He pointed an accusing finger like a gun at Libby’s face. “And this wolf stinks of Hellfire!”

  Reinhart turned to Libby, his face grim. “Well, Miss Chastain?” he said somberly. “What is your response to these accusations?”

  “They are not accusations, Father-General!” Dalton appeared nearly hysterical now. “They are facts!”

  “Hush, now.” Reinhart laid a calming hand on Dalton’s arm. “Let her speak.”

  Libby’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times. Finally, she managed to push words out. “F-Father-General, in my work, of course I have come across all manner of supernatural creatures. My job is to protect humanity from them, not – not to consort with them!”

  “So, you admit to having had contact with the Devil?”

  “No, of course not! But I have had some experience with the demonic, yes. You – you asked Quincey when we first met about what happened last summer at the Republican convention. Well, demons were involved! Senator Stark, who was the leading candidate, was demonically possessed! Quincey and I arranged for an exorcism!”

  “Senator Stark?” Reinhart’s voice was incredulous. “Isn’t he the one who was shot three times by h
is own aide, and nearly died? Did you have something to do with that, too?”

  “No, I wasn’t there for that part. But the exorcism didn’t work, I know that much!”

  “So, you’re telling us that a member of the United States Senate is possessed by a demon? I grant that it would explain a great deal about what goes on in Washington these days.”

  “No, no, it’s gone now, it left when Stark almost died. It’s – it’s complicated.”

  “I have no doubt that it is,” Reinhart said.

  “She’s lying!” Dalton cried. “You’ve had contact with the demonic, Father-General. So have I. We don’t carry demon smell on us the way this woman does. She has been wallowing in it!”

  “All right, Father-Captain Dalton. Your insight is valuable, as always. But I think you should go to your room now. I’ll speak with you later.”

  “But Father-General –”

  Reinhart motioned to one of the two guards standing at the door. “Father-Sergeant, be so good as to escort Father-Captain Dalton to his room, and see that he gets some rest. Stay with him until you’re relieved.”

  “Yes, sir. The guard led the unprotesting Dalton out of the room. He was crying softly now.

  Once they were gone, Morris said quietly, “He’s been under a lot of strain, poor guy.” He was hoping that Reinhart would put Dalton’s accusations down as the ravings of a man who had been broken by torture. But he was not optimistic.

  “Mister Morris,” Reinhart said quietly, “do you support Miss Chastain’s account of the last Republican convention? Was Senator Stark possessed by a demon?”

  “Yes, sir, but there’s a lot more to it than that,” Morris said. “As she says – it’s complicated.”

  “Yes, to be sure.” Reinhart turned to Libby. “I don’t know what game you two are playing. Father-Captain Dalton has had a rough time lately, yes. But he is the most consistently reliable Sensitive I have ever seen.”

  “Father-General,” Libby said, “I can –”

  Reinhart held up a hand. “Enough. You have performed a valuable service for us, even though it has proved your undoing. That, and that alone has earned you both the right to leave here with your lives. But do not come near this place, or the Order, again – you will not be so lucky a second time.”

  Morris could tell that Libby was at the edge of tears, but she held them back as she said to Reinhart, “What about that piece of Solomon’s Seal? We had a deal, remember?”

  Reinhart looked at her speculatively. “Is that what it was all about? Did you have some plan for the Seal of Solomon? It had nothing to do with that afreet you were going on about?”

  Libby tried again. “No, I –”

  Reinhart held up his hand again. “I said enough. The real reason for your actions doesn’t matter. The Knights Templar don’t make deals with the Devil, Miss Chastain – or with his representatives. Now get out of here, before I change my mind.”

  He turned to the remaining guard. “Get them to their car. And make sure they leave the compound immediately. If they attempt to do anything else, you are authorized to shoot them.”

  He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

  Thirty-Four

  “SO THESE FUCKING priests told you never to darken their door again, all because you had the odor of demon on you?” Ashley said. Her voice was a bit unsteady. “Then what are you doing here?”

  Libby raised her head from between Ashley’s thighs and said, “Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”

  “But what about the afreet? Are you just going to rely on those pea-shooters Peters gave you?”

  “You talk too much.” Libby lowered her head again, and after a few moments Ashley forgot all about talking.

  Later, as they lay intertwined in her big bed, Ashley said, “You’re taking a big risk, going against an afreet with nothing but peach pits.”

  “Might not even have to do that,” Libby said sleepily. “Can’t even find the damn thing.”

  After a few minutes, Libby’s breathing started to deepen as she slid into sleep. “This compound the Knights have,” Ashley said softly, “that’s the one in Missouri, right?”

  “Hm? No... Ohio.”

  Ashley waited ten seconds, then said, very quietly, “Sure, that’s right. It’s just outside Columbus.”

  “Uh-um. Toledo.”

  “Of course. Goodnight, sweetie.”

  “’Night, Ashley.”

  Thirty-Five

  TIME PASSED, AS it has a way of doing. Spring reached full bloom, then eased into summer. And still the terrorists and their afreet did not strike – if there were any terrorists. If there was an afreet.

  Libby Chastain and Special Agent Colleen O’Donnell had phone conversations about the lack of progress.

  “What do you think, Colleen?” Libby had said, during one such call. “Is this a case of terrorist chatter being nothing more than a big load of hot air?”

  “The Goddess knows I hope it is, Libby. But the people at NSA who’ve been analyzing the stuff say it seems like something really is in the works.”

  “Are the jihadists still talking about midnight at some fucking oasis?”

  “I asked a guy I know at NSA,” Colleen said. “He said they picked it twice more in the past month, and once the month before that.”

  “You sure this isn’t just some al-Qaeda guy’s idea of a joke?”

  “Could be, but if so, it’s a pretty subtle one. And from what I know about jihadist types, whether they’re from al-Qaeda or one of the other groups, these dudes aren’t famous for either their subtlety or their sense of humor.”

  “And the zoo angle hasn’t led anywhere, either,” Libby said.

  “It hasn’t led us to the perps, if that’s what you mean. Dale and I got a look at the local police reports in both cases. We told them we were looking into some kind of multi-state Satanist conspiracy, and they gave us access to anything we wanted. Local law can vary a great deal in quality, Libby, but the guys working these are pretty good. They haven’t missed anything, far as we can tell.”

  “Maybe they haven’t missed stuff because magic covered it up so well.”

  “Entirely possible,” Colleen said. “The magic angle is intriguing – but of course we couldn’t say anything to the cops in Michigan or Indiana about that aspect, or ask the wrong kinds of questions, either.”

  “Were you able to sniff out the remains of any black magic?”

  “No, but I didn’t get on either scene until several weeks after the break-ins. The residue, if there was any, had faded away long before I arrived.”

  “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for internet reports of any new attacks on lions. And that reminds me – there’s some kind of specialized database that you FBI types use, isn’t there?”

  “I think you mean NCIC – the National Crime Information Center. It keeps track of reported crimes nationwide, at all levels of government.”

  “That’s the one – I read an article about it someplace. Is it possible for you to put, I don’t know the proper term, something like an e-mail alert on this thing, so that any zoo invasions will be brought to your attention as soon as they’re reported?”

  “Yeah, it is possible,” Colleen said. “And I’ll set one up as soon as we get off the phone. You think there’s gonna be more?”

  “I don’t know, but my spider sense is tingling.”

  “Your what?”

  “Sorry, I’ve always wanted to say that,” Libby said. “But here’s the thing – all my research supports the notion that an afreet doesn’t need to eat. These lion hearts are more in the nature of a tasty snack, an indulgence.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “You’ve never had kids, have you?”

  “No, and neither have you, unless you’ve been hiding something,” Colleen said.

  “I haven’t – but what I do have is a bunch of nieces and nephews. Some of them are adorable, but my sister Rhonda’s kids are total brats.”


  “Are you going somewhere with this, Libby?”

  “Yes, I am. Do you know what happens when you indulge a bratty kid by giving him treats?

  “What?”

  “The little bastard wants more.”

  Thirty-Six

  “ANOTHER ONE?” DR. Abdul Nasiri slammed his hand down on the table. “This is outrageous!”

  The table was in a back room of The Souk, one of Dearborn’s better Syrian restaurants. Nasiri had reserved the private room for his “business meeting”; they would neither be observed nor disturbed. He had thus allowed himself the indulgence of showing his quite genuine anger.

  “You are perhaps unwise in allowing our friend out of his confinement, my brother,” Jawad Tamwar said to Uthman, the wizard. “He could not make such unreasonable requests of you – of us – if he could not speak to you.”

  Uthman showed an attitude of patience that he did not feel. Between the afreet and these idiots he had to work with (always excepting Dr. Nasiri, of course), he sometimes felt as if his head was caught in a vice and each day the screw was turned a little tighter.

  “As I have said before, my brother,” he said to Tamwar, “it is necessary for me to have regular interaction with Rashid, to ensure that he will obey me when the great day comes.”

  “Then why don’t you tell him to stick his cock up his own ass, and see if he obeys you then,” Rahim said, and laughed. No one else at the table joined in.

  “My brother,” Nasiri said to Uthman, “can you not persuade our friend to a little more patience? We leave in two weeks, and soon thereafter he can let loose his fury at thousands of infidel targets, to burn as he has never burned before.”

  “He understands this, brother,” Uthman said. “He even says he looks forward to it. But if we deny him this last time, he may prove uncooperative on the great day, and what a loss that would be to our cause.”