Demon King

by Erik Henry Vick

  Drew chuckled. “Points to LaBouche.”

  Lewis shrugged. “Sure, but I found the link to the others. Even if my initial assumption was wrong.” LaBouche glanced at Lewis.

  What was that? A flicker of hatred? Why do you hate your partner, LaBouche?

  “I traced the movements of the victims we had and then went backward to find the ones no one had reported.”

  “And you got up to twenty-two?”

  Lewis nodded. “From the greater Rochester area, yeah.”

  “Okay,” said Drew. “There seems like there is something to it, Trooper Lewis, but even so, how do you know something untoward befell these people?”

  “Yeah,” said Lewis, once again all smiles and aw-shucks charm. “Some of them might have just moved on, but all of them?”

  “Okay. Tell me the rest then.”

  “Not much left to tell,” said Lewis. “They were all male, all middle-aged, all white. All disappeared without a trace.”

  Drew grinned. “And I supposed you checked with Oneka Falls?”

  Lewis laughed. “That we did. Nothing.”

  Drew hadn’t known about any link with Oneka Falls. Might be worth a visit, see if the whole place is populated with demons. “Anything on the MO? Trace evidence? Anything?”

  LaBouche shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Okay. So why do you need a profiler with…what did you call it?”

  “Occult sensibilities,” laughed Lewis. “Because the only thing we have to go on is Oneka Falls.”

  Drew looked back and forth between the human cop and the demon. “I don’t get it.”

  “Have you heard of the Temple of the Wolf?”

  Drew held up his hands. “Wait a minute. Despite the huge number of claims of ritualistic abuse, there are no substantiated reports of satanic rings or cults who abused children. Zero.”

  LaBouche nodded with a long-suffering expression plastered on his face.

  “Yeah,” said Lewis. “But there were findings, in some of the cases, of ritualistic aspects secondary to actual abuse. Most often to intimidate the victim, to keep the victim from telling anyone.”

  “True,” said Drew.

  “The Temple of the Wolf sect played a role in a large percentage of those cases of confirmed abuse.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  Lewis flashed a half-smile. “I plotted all the cases in the area on a map.”

  “The cases with ritualistic aspects?”

  “Yeah. When I was a kid, all those reports fascinated me. When we looked in to Oneka Falls, something kept tickling the back of my mind.”

  LaBouche grunted.

  “And?”

  “And the thing that was bothering me is that Oneka Falls was on that map I used as a kid. It’s the geographic center of all the reports.”

  Interesting, thought Drew. “But no reports were from the town itself?”

  “Reports from all around, but not a one from Oneka Falls,” said Lewis.

  “Now that’s interesting,” muttered Drew. He pulled on his bottom lip. Could be the place is a haven for the demons. Like a convention center, a place where they can go and not have to worry about who’s watching them. But why would the town be the center of those reports? “What is it you want from me?”

  Lewis looked away. “Look, I get that you can’t do a profile on this mess. What I need to know is: whether someone might believe they are an avenging angel or something.”

  Drew spread his hands. “Like something right out of that book: Michelle Remembers? Driving the devil straight back to hell? Sure, anything is possible.”

  “What other kinds of motivations would there be?”

  Drew shook his head. “Anything you can imagine. There’s not enough here for more than guesses, and there’s nothing here to rule anything out. Yes, it’s interesting.” He nodded at Lewis. “Enigmatic, even, but I can’t begin to build a cogent profile on this. It’s all about the victims. About the offender, if there is one, there’s nothing.”

  “That’s what I told him,” croaked LaBouche.

  “Okay, forget the profiling a minute,” said Lewis. “Put on your mythology hat. Is there anything about these cases that tugs at you?”

  Besides the fact that I killed all twenty-two of the demons you consider victims? “No,” he said. “Nothing.”

  4

  “So, what does that huge gut of yours tell you, Lee?” Scott asked as his partner slid into their cruiser.

  “Don’t like him.”

  “You hid it well…yeah, no you didn’t—not at all.”

  “There’s something…I don’t know…something off about him. He’s jumpy. He’s in his head a lot. I make him nervous.”

  “You are about as subtle as a rhinoceros in a glass factory. He reacted to your dislike of him, but I got the impression he was nervous, too.”

  “Didn’t want to meet my eye.”

  Scott laughed. “Neither did the last three boys Becky brought home to meet me.”

  Lee glanced over at him, mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You don’t say. Did you wear your gun all three times?”

  Scott laughed. “Jenny wouldn’t let me.”

  “But you would’ve if she hadn’t been there.” In the privacy of their car, Lee’s gruff, no-nonsense exterior evaporated.

  “Well, of course I would’ve. How else are those little punks supposed to get the message that I’ll kill them if they hurt her? I mean, I can’t just come out and say it.”

  Lee chuckled—a harsh, crackling sound in the tight confines of the car. “Next time, I’ll just happen to be over when the kid comes to pick up Becky. I’ll give him ‘the face.’ He’ll shit his britches.”

  “Funny you should mention that…I told Jenny we ought to do that.”

  Lee smiled and cracked his knuckles. He was a big man, three hundred and thirty-five pounds if he was an ounce, but his size was the least intimidating part of him. LaBouche had an air about him, no doubt a cultivated air, that just plain scared people. He could gaze at a suspect with a certain expression without saying a word, and the guy would just start talking, answering any question they put to him. Scott imagined any predator eyeing his dinner would wear a similar expression.

  “But, unfortunately, Jenny said no.”

  “Rats,” said Lee. “Might’ve been fun.”

  “Yeah,” Scott sighed. “What’s your opinion—he good for it? Is he the guy in the video?” Lee LaBouche had a sense for criminals, especially for those of the serial variety. He had an uncanny way of getting inside their heads.

  Lee rocked his head back and forth—like a lizard. Scott hated it when he did that. “He’s the right general size, but…well, that guy doesn’t have it in him. What we saw in that video was a cold, calculated professional. No, Andrew Reid is not the guy.” Scott looked at him askance. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but he had the distinct impression that LaBouche had just lied to him. “Besides, that guy is mayo on white bread, man. The guy in the video has something… Something…”

  “Yeah. The guy in the video, he didn’t hesitate. Confident, like he—”

  “—had done it before. More than once…he has it down pat,” finished Lee.

  “Exactly. He’s done it before, twenty-two times.”

  “Well…”

  “Yeah, but I bet once we know who the decedent in the video is, we’ll find he goes to Oneka Falls on a regular schedule.”

  Lee shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Anyway, the murderer in the video wouldn’t be so nervous, would he? I mean, you, you can scare the dead, but little old me?”

  “Well, you were wearing your gun.”

  Scott laughed. “That I was.” They sat in silence while Scott drove them off the campus and onto 390 south.

  “Anyway,” said Lee.

  “Anyway, can we scratch him off our list?”

  “Yeah,” Lee grunted.

  Why is he lying? wondered Scott.

  5

/>   As soon as the two troopers left his office, Drew packed his shoulder bag. Leaving a note on his door canceling office hours, he strode down to the medical school lab building.

  He was breaking one of his many rules. He never visited the lab during the day. Drew wasn’t supposed to have access to it, but the fake university ID card in his palm had master key status. The card had his picture on it, but the name under the picture read: Nathan Hauser, M.D. He wasn’t sure why the name gave him a warm fuzzy feeling, but it did.

  He peeked through the narrow window in the lab door. The lab looked deserted. He slid his ID through the card reader and pushed his way through the door when he heard the distinctive buzzer.

  He dropped his bag near the door and went straight to the industrial digester. The pressure door was still closed and secured. The body of last night’s demon had gone into the pressure vessel over twelve hours ago, so it was no doubt already rendered to its chemical components, but he hadn’t had a chance yet to drop by and clean out the calcium phosphate that remained. First checking to make sure the digester wasn’t running on a new body, he opened the pressure vessel. He scooped out the handful of soft white pellets—the remains of the demon’s bones and teeth—and tossed them into the bin set aside for the disposal of legitimate remains from the medical school.

  He scooped up his shoulder pack and made his way to the parking lot, surreptitiously looking for the trooper’s car. Drew slid behind the wheel of his Honda, the car he called “The Professor-mobile” in his mind. The car drew zero attention from anyone, and he hated the damn thing, but it had the intended effect.

  To make sure no one was following him, Drew drove downtown and circled the courthouse three times. When he was sure, he drove to the parking garage where he kept his other wheels. He traded the Honda for his bright red BMW 328i and pulled on a baseball cap and dark glasses.

  He had a small one-bedroom apartment near campus—it was a place he stayed, not the place he lived. Drew didn’t want to be where anyone could find him. He pulled out his cell phone at a light and turned it off. At the next light, he pulled out the battery and put both in the glove box. He headed east out of Rochester and made his way north to Lake Road, following it east to the South Side RV Park. He pulled in behind his 1999 Odin Desperado and got out a remote that looked like a garage door opener. After he pressed the button, the back wall of the toy hauler descended, and he drove the BMW up the ramp and into the claustrophobic “garage” space. He clicked the remote once more and the rear wall began to ascend.

  Once the door closed all the way, he breathed a sigh of relief. No one knew about the Desperado—at least no one who knew Dr. Andrew Reid. A traveling salesman named Benjamin Cardrite owned both the BMW and the toy hauler on paper. It didn’t matter though. No one looked at the drivers of huge class A motor homes—not ever.

  Finally able to relax, Drew dropped his school stuff on the floor, kicked off his shoes, and fell on the couch. He reviewed the conversation with the troopers again and again until he convinced himself that they didn’t suspect him—that he’d played them just right. The demon, though, he was a complication Drew didn’t need. He will be a problem.

  With a sigh, he sat up and took out his laptop. Piggy-backing on his neighbor's wifi, he logged in to his VPN and ordered more M99 from a website in Brazil. He found the demons he killed by data-mining the internet data relating to unexplained murders or attacks, possession, alien sightings, and similar items. He configured his data-mining software to add Oneka Falls and the Temple of the Wolf to its heuristic search parameters.

  His head was pounding and pounding by the time he finished. Too much stress, too much uncertainty. He hated having the smallest detail up in the air, let alone the life-threatening detail of having a demon in the guise of a police officer on his tail.

  For the three hundredth time since leaving campus, he thought about packing up the Desperado and heading west on I-90. The freedom of the open road beckoned him. No more pretense. No more public face to maintain. He could just go from RV park to RV park, finding the local demons and dispatching them. He’d be free, untraceable, invisible.

  Until the money ran out.

  And besides, something about Western New York called to him, demanded his presence. He’d learned that in medical school. There was a part of him that needed to hunt here, needed to kill demons here. A voice in the back of his mind kept screaming that he had unfinished business in New York—though for the life of him he couldn’t imagine what.

  Chapter 3

  1979

  1

  Matt Greshin pulled into the parking lot of the red and chrome monstrosity that was Jenny’s Diner. There was a Genosgwa police cruiser in the lot, and one from the Kanowa Sheriff’s Department. John Morton, chief of Cottonwood Vale’s police department, had the farthest to go, and he was the worst at getting anywhere on time.

  Greshin walked into the diner and tossed a smile Jenny’s way. The four of them had been having these unofficial meetings at Jenny’s place for years, and she knew them all by sight. He slid into the booth next to Bobby Jefferson, the county’s sheriff.

  Bobby was a working Sheriff, not a politician. He wore a Sam Browne belt and a uniform every day, never a suit. He’d polished over the scuffs in his well-worn shoes, but the heels needed replacing. He tipped Matt a wink.

  “Boys, how’s the criminal organization coming?” asked Jenny from behind the counter.

  “One more still to come,” said Bobby in his gravelly voice.

  “Morton? He’s always late. You three want to order?”

  “We can wait,” said Bobby.

  “You’re the Sheriff,” said Jenny and turned away.

  “I’m glad you called, Matt,” said Genosgwa’s Chief of Police, Tom Walton. “We got another one reported today. I’m getting worried.”

  Bobby shook his head. “These things come in threes, Tom. Don’t get too worried until you’ve got a fourth.” Bobby was the eldest of the four and had the most experience.

  “Well, better get started with the worry. Matt’s got one.”

  Greshin held up his hands. “I don’t know it’s a runaway. Kid’s mom is a piece of work, and her boyfriend is a candidate for a tramp ride out of town if you ask me.”

  “Abusive?” asked Bobby.

  Matt nodded. “Popped off wise to Jim Cartwright.”

  “Who, being Jim, let it slide,” said the sheriff.

  “Yep. This guy’s a little twerp. You know the kind. Strutting bantam rooster until someone stands up to him, then cries about how he was abused as a kid and he don’t know better.”

  Bobby and Tom both grunted.

  The door opened, and John Morton came in.

  “Why, if it isn’t Chief Morton,” said Jenny. “Your partners in crime are over there.”

  Matt grinned. “She’s about to give him the sauce, I’ll bet you a dollar.”

  “Hmph. No bet,” said Bobby.

  “Say, John,” said Jenny. “I’ve been meaning to ask you… Are you on time for church?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Or maybe to get your kids to school?”

  John caught on right about then, so he just stood there with a little smile on his face.

  “Nothing to say? Have you been on time to anything? Your own birth, maybe?”

  “I think I was late to that too,” he said with a chuckle.

  “T’wouldn’t surprise me,” said Jenny with a wave at the booth. “You kept them waiting long enough.”

  John chuckled again and slid in next to Tom. “Gents. Sorry I’m late, I was delayed.” It was the same thing every time. “I was delayed” but he never had anything to say about what had delayed him.

  “Huh!” said Jenny with an extra helping of sarcasm.

  “You know what we all want, woman,” said Bobby. “Get to it.”

  “Bobby Jefferson, don’t you go thinking that your lofty position will protect you from the heel of my shoe.”

  “Ye
ah, yeah. Go away.”

  Jenny made a show of huffing off, and all four of the men grinned.

  “So, you think this bantam cock is good for the boy?” asked the sheriff.

  “Hell, Bobby, I don’t even know the boy’s dead. He could’ve just run off somewhere.”

  “How long’s he been gone?” asked Morton.

  “Four days.”

  Morton whistled. “No one’s seen him? Kids?”

  “A kid was the one who noticed him gone. Benny Cartwright.”

  “Jim’s boy?” asked Bobby.

  Greshin nodded.

  “What about you, John? Any runaways or missing kids?” asked Bobby.

  “No, nothing. But Cottonwood Vale’s forty miles from Oneka Falls. Farther from Genosgwa.”

  “Hmm.” Bobby picked up his spoon and tapped it on the table.

  “It’s coming!” yelled Jenny from the other end of the counter.

  Bobby chuckled. “Still, John, you keep your eyes peeled. Any of you have a new, unsavory type in town?”

  Matt shrugged. “No one knows too much about the mom’s boyfriend. I’m heading over to see him next.”

  “I’ll ride along if you don’t object,” said Bobby.

  “Things might get…excited.”

  Bobby turned his steely blue eyes on Greshin. “I think I’m the one who taught you how to handle situations like that.”

  “Yup, you did, when I was back on the deputies.”

  “Then it’s settled. Now, Tom. What do you know about these two runaways?”

  “They all came from the poorer parts of town, o’course. One of ‘em is in a situation similar to what Matt’s describing. His daddy gets heavy hands when the boy smarts up in school and the like, but he’s a good man.” Walton shrugged. “The other one is a bit of a mystery. Quiet, that one. No real friends. You know the type.”

  “This might sound crazy, but just go along,” said Greshin. “Did those boys have bikes?”

  Walton gave him a strange look. “Um, I’m not sure.”

  “Why,” asked Bobby.