Текст книги "Hard Spell"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

  I had to relate the details of my current case, over and over, to a couple of IA cops named Famalette and Sullivan. Karl was going through a similar routine down the hall with another pair from the Rat Squad. Maybe my two interrogators figured I'd get sick of the repetition sooner or later, and confess to something, just to make it stop.

  But they didn't get any confessions out of me, because I hadn't done anything. And I kept bringing the conversation back to the central fact that the undead guy had been truly dead for at least two hours before he ended up on top of my car, however the hell he got there.

  "How do you know the vamp had been iced two hours earlier?" Famalette asked, as if he'd just caught me in a slip-up. He had a rubber band wrapped around the spread fingers of one hand and he kept twanging it with the other. I think Internal Affairs training must include lessons on how to be annoying.

  "Because the M.E. doc said so. What's her name – Reynolds."

  "The M.E.'s report hasn't even been filed yet," Famalette said, in an a-ha tone.

  "She told me at the scene. She knew from the body temp."

  "What's she doing revealing confidential information like that to you?"

  "She thought I'd be interested," I said, "since I'm the one who had the dead guy dropped on top of him, and all. Well, me and my partner. And who says it's confidential?"

  "All M.E. reports are confidential, Markowski, you oughta know that," Famalette said.

  "Yeah, but the M.E. report hasn't been filed yet – you said so, yourself."

  His face started going red, and he turned away.

  "You real chummy with this chick from the M.E.'s office?" Sullivan asked me. He had a Brillo pad of curly hair that reminded me of that singer from the Seventies, Art Garfunkel. I hoped that he wasn't going to break into "Bridge Over Troubled Water" – although even that would have been better than the crap I'd been listening to for the last two hours.

  "Chummy?" I said. "I dunno – the last thing she said to me was 'Go fuck yourself.' Draw your own conclusions."

  "You sure the one you're fucking isn't her?" Sullivan said with a leer.

  "Not me," I said. "I like women with some meat on their bones." Like Lacey Brennan, for instance, but I kept that thought to myself.

  Famalette turned back from some graffiti on the wall he'd been pretending to read, still twanging that damn rubber band like a Spaghetti Western soundtrack. "You don't like vampires much, do you, Markowski?"

  "Vamps aren't so bad," I said. "At least, I never heard of one working for Internal Affairs."

  "Word is," Sullivan said, "you'd just as soon stake a vampire as have lunch."

  I shrugged. "Depends on what's for lunch."

  Sullivan leaned close, and his breath should have been banned by the Geneva Convention. "Face it, Markowski, you're not exactly broken up over this vamp's death, are you?"

  "I wouldn't be broken up if you two walked in front of a truck tomorrow," I said. "Doesn't mean I'd be the one behind the wheel."

  "Are you threatening us, Markowski?" Famalette said, trying for indignant and failing.

  I just shook my head slowly and wondered how much longer it was going to last.

Eventually they turned me loose. Karl, too. The rat fuckers had no case, and no choice. McGuire agreed with that assessment, and he told Karl and me as much in his office. By then it was end of shift – the double shift that Karl and I had pulled, again. I'd planned to spend the time doing something more useful than answering questions for morons, but McGuire was philosophical.

  "They're like the clap," he said. "The best you can do is take precautions and try to avoid them."

  Karl and I laughed at that. Then McGuire said, "None of which answers the question of who dropped a dead vamp on top of you guys – and why?"

  "Not to mention how," Karl said.

  "Had to've been magic," I said.

  "I wonder." McGuire leaned back in his chair. "I've been thinking about this. Let's say the vamp is in bat form, and he's flapping along, on his way to Joe's Blood Bank, or someplace. But there's a guy on the ground, or maybe on a roof, who's got a rifle loaded with silver, or that charcoal stuff we've been seeing lately. Bang! He nails Mr Bat, who turns back into human form upon death, like they do, whereupon gravity takes over and he drops like a rock – right on top of you."

  I glanced at Karl. I was pretty sure we had the same thing in mind: this is what happens the boss has too much time to think about stuff.

  "Be a hell of a shot," I said. "Especially at night."

  "More than that, it fails the test of Occam's Razor," Karl said.

  "Whose razor?" McGuire asked.

  "William of Occam, big philosopher dude in the Middle Ages. He said that 'The simplest explanation that fits the known facts is probably true.'"

  McGuire and I both stared at him.

  Karl shrugged. "Just something I read in a magazine, is all. But it makes sense. No disrespect, boss, but that thing with the rifle is just too complicated to be real likely."

  McGuire didn't get mad. "I wasn't pushing it," he said. "It was just a thought. And if that's not what happened, then why is some magician dropping a dead vamp on a couple of cops?"

  "We might have the beginning of an answer once I hear from Cecelia Reynolds," I said. "She's doing the post on the vamp and I asked her to look for those symbols carved on the body."

  "Oh, right," McGuire said. He rummaged through the mess on his desk and came up with a phone message slip, which he handed to me. "She called while you were in with the Rat Squad. Wants you to call back."

  I got out my cell phone. "You mind?" I asked him.

  "Nah, go ahead."

  I called the number that Cecelia had left. It rang five or six times, and I was just thinking that I was going to have to leave a voicemail message when she came on the line.

  "This is Dr Reynolds."

  "Stan Markowski, Cecelia. I'm calling–"

  "–about your vamp, right." Cecelia's phone manner tends to be kind of brusque.

  "You called, so I'm assuming you found–"

  "–weird symbols carved into the corpse. Yeppir, we got 'em. In the back, between the shoulder blades. Almost certainly post-mortem."

  "Were there–"

  "Three of 'em? Yep, just like you predicted, Stan."

  "Okay, I'll need–"

  "Photos, check. Ronnie already took 'em. Close up, middle distance, side angles, the whole nine yards. Give me your–"

  "Email address?" Two can play this game. "Sure, here it is."

  I gave her the address I use for official business. Cecelia promised to get photos to me within the hour, then hung up.

  I told McGuire and Karl what she'd said.

  "Which means that's number four," Karl said. "Just like you figured, Stan."

  McGuire looked at me. "Somebody was trying to send you guys a message."

  "That's not all they were doing," I said. "Remember, I sped up kind of sudden, to avoid hitting a cat that was crossing the street."

  "Yeah, that's right," McGuire said. "I hope you told Internal Affairs about the cat – they'll probably wanna interview it."

  "So it was a hit," Karl said. "The body was intended to go through the windshield, right on top of us – along with all that broken glass."

  "Yeah," I said, "and that's where this gets really fucked up. The esoteric marks on the corpse means it's Sligo – or whoever's been offing all these vamps." I hadn't forgotten about Vollman – not after Prescott said this hard spell had to be carried out by a vampire/wizard.

  McGuire nodded, then made a "Go on" gesture with one hand.

  "But now we've got another hit attempt, using magic. We've been operating on the assumption–"

  "But somebody who's involved in the vamp sacrifices just tried to kill us," I said. "And that means, one of our assumptions was wrong, either about Sligo or Longworth..."

  There was silence in the little room before McGuire finally put it into words.

  "Or the two of them are working together."

I needed sleep badly. My skull felt like it was packed full of wet cotton, and I knew that any heavy thinking was out of the question before I grabbed some z's. And in light of what we'd been discussing in McGuire's office, some very heavy thinking was going to be in order.

  Karl and I left the building together, like we usually did. There wasn't much conversation along the way. We were both beat, and besides, whatever there was to say, we'd already said it in McGuire's office.

  As we reached the cracked asphalt of the parking area I said, "I can probably function okay if I get six hours – how about you?"

  "That seems about right, I guess." Karl didn't sound happy about it, and I didn't blame him.

  "Then why don't we plan to come back on shift at–"

  "Stan." Something in Karl's voice brought me to full alertness in the space of a quick breath.

  "What is it?"

  "There's somebody near your car, but on the other side of the fence."

  I slowly pushed my sport coat back and reached for the Beretta on my right hip. A second later, I heard the soft click as Karl thumbed back the hammer on the Glock he carried.

  "What're you packing?" I asked softly.

  "Silver, cold iron, and garlic-dipped lead, alternating," he said. "You?"

  "Straight silver," I told him, "but it's been blessed by the bishop."

  Now that Karl had warned me, I could dimly see a single figure standing in the street, practically pressed up against the fence just opposite my Toyota. Whoever it was must have seen us notice him, but didn't try to hide or run away. He just stood there, waiting.

  As we walked forward, Karl and I separated, so as not to give whoever it was a twofer target. The parking area was warded, and those wards had been amped up considerably since somebody had gotten in with a couple of Medusa statues. But it's impossible to guard against all possible spells, and the wards might not stop someone outside the fence with a gun. No system's perfect.

  We had almost reached my Toyota when I realized who it was, standing on the other side of the fence. "It's all right, Karl," I said, and holstered my weapon. The still figure spoke for the first time.

  "Hello, Daddy."

• • • •

"You know, you could've come into the fucking station house if you'd wanted to see me, instead of lurking around the parking lot like this," I said. "It's a public building – you don't need to get permission." I'm not sure if I was being pissy because I was tired, or because of the momentary fright she'd given me.

  "Oh, I wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of your brother officers," Christine said, the sarcasm more in her voice than in the words. "And as for lurking, that's what we undead do best – but I guess you know that."

  I took a breath and got better control of myself. "Well, if you want to talk, meet me at the gate. Or I'llgo out there, if you'd rather."

  "Let's talk like this," she said. "Sunrise in less than ten minutes. Thanks to you, I haven't got much time."

  Well, if you'd let me know you were out here... I kept the thought to myself. There was no point in getting into one of our arguments now – not with dawn so close.

  I remembered that Karl was standing a few yards to my right. "It's okay," I said. "Go on home, get some sleep. I'll see you about 1:00, okay?"

  "Is this your partner, Daddy?" Christine asked. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" I saw a glimmer of white in what could have been a smile.

  Without voicing the sigh that I felt, I said, "Karl, meet my daughter, Christine, who you've heard me talk about. Christine, this is Karl Renfer."

  I saw Karl nod. "Hiya. Hard to shake hands through the fence, but, anyway – hi."

  "He's told you about me? The vamp daughter?"

  "Yeah, he has," Karl said in a neutral voice.

  "And did he tell you how I came to join the ranks of the bloodsucking undead?"

  "Christine," I said, "there's no fucking time–"

  Karl spoke over me. "Yeah, he did. And he told me why, too. He couldn't stand to watch you die, because he loves you so much."

  I thought I heard Christine draw in a breath, but I must have imagined it, since she doesn't need to breathe. She looked at me a moment, then turned back to Karl. "Then why doesn't he–"

  "Christine!" It was the voice I'd used to show I was serious, back when she was... human. "Unless you want to find out the hard way what sunlight does to vampires, you better say what you came for, and quick."

  When she spoke again, her voice was emotionless. "Okay, then, I will. There's a rumor that you killed another vampire. Ran him down with your car, like a dog in the street."

  "And you believed that bullshit?" I said.

  "No, I didn't. That's why I'm here. Wanna tell me what happened?"

  What the hell, it can't do any harm. And I'd rather not have every vamp in town looking for a piece of me. Not now.

  Being as concise as possible, I ran it down for her. When I'd finished, Karl said, "For whatever it's worth, I know he's telling the truth. I was there."

I saw Christine nod at Karl. "I know. I believe him."

  The fact that I could see her better meant it was getting lighter out. False dawn, probably, with the real thing not far behind.

  "I'll put the word out," she said to me. "I had noticed the unmarked car at the end of the lot with a huge dent in the roof, but it's nice to hear it from the source."

  "Good," I said. "I'm glad you don't just have to take my word for it." Sarcasm was slipping out, and I reined it in, hard. "One thing before you go: a guy who would know says that the only one who could pull off this spell would be a vamp, uh, vampire who is also a wizard. You hear of anybody like that?"

  After a moment she said, "Mr Vollman, of course."

  "Yeah, him I know. Questions is: can you think of anybody else?

  "The vamp community seems to thrive on rumors as much as we do on blood," she said. "I did hear something about a guy new in town who plays for both teams, but I didn't pay it any mind."

  "Did you maybe hear where he spends the day?"

  "Well, one chick told – oh, shit!"

  Thin smoke had started to rise off her head and shoulders. I could see it clarly in the growing light.

  "Get out of here! Go!" I shouted.

  She turned and ran, shouting over her shoulder, "Tonight, sunset, right here!"

  A second later, she was out of sight.

• • • •

I went home. What else was I gonna do? I ate, showered, and got into bed. Despite being exhausted, I didn't get a lot of rest. My mind was like a madhouse in an earthquake – each inmate demanding my attention – Karl, McGuire, the IA clowns, Prescott, Rachel, the witchfinders – and Christine. Especially Christine.

  Had she made it back to her resting place, before the sun turned her into a screaming torch? I'd had the police radio in the car on while driving home, and there'd been no reports of unexplained combustion anywhere. She was okay. Probably.

  But what if she had stayed a minute longer this morning? Would she have burned, while I stood helpless behind the chain link fence and watched? Would her screams be echoing inside my head right this second? Is that why I saved her from leukemia – so she could die like that today, or tomorrow, or next week?

  I guess I've spent worse mornings trying to sleep. But not recently.

After a while I got up. I changed the sweaty bedding, did a load of laundry, and cleaned Quincey's cage. As I did that last chore, I told him about the latest developments in the case. Quincey doesn't say much, but he's a good listener. And sometimes it's good to talk about stuff out loud – helps me organize my thoughts, and lets some of the psychological pressure off. And I know I can trust Quincey to keep it to himself. As a reward for letting me bounce some of that stuff off him, I put some raisins in his bowl along with the food pellets. He really likes raisins.

  Around noon, I made some scrambled eggs. I wasn't hungry, but I didn't want low blood sugar making me slow and stupid later on. I'd been slow and stupid enough already.

  I left for work about 12:45, and I was two blocks from headquarters when I noticed the woman standing on the corner. She drew my eye because she wasn't staring across the street at the crossing light, like people usually do. She was turned sideways, looking into the oncoming traffic stream, which included me.

  Driving a familiar route doesn't require a lot of concentration. I was thinking about the case, but a tiny part of my mind whispered, "Hey, I know her."

  Which was of no particular importance, but it aroused my curiosity. I focused my attention on the woman and suddenly realized that I was looking at Rachel Proctor.

I hit the brakes, which meant that the blue SUV behind me damn near ended up in my trunk. The driver stopped in time, but his blaring horn was designed to show me he wasn't too happy about it all.

  All of that registered dimly, like a voice you hear from three rooms away. I was focused on Rachel.

  She locked eyes with me and nodded, once. Then she turned and walked away.

Rachel had gone down a side street, so I put on my turn signal and waited for the traffic flow to take me to the corner. I've got a portable flashing red light that I could have put on the roof – that would have allowed me to cut around, as well as shutting up the honking, bird-flipping idiot behind me, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself, or to Rachel.

  I finally made the turn, and saw Rachel a couple of hundred feet ahead, walking along at a good clip. I came up alongside her and tapped the horn, but she ignored me. I was looking for a parking space when she turned into the big parking garage that serves that part of the city. At least that solved my prom of what to do with the car.

  I had to stop and get a ticket – even a badge won't impress an automated gate – and by the time I was inside I'd lost sight of her. I cruised the ground level slowly, my eyes darting everywhere. No Rachel.

  Nothing to do but go up. Second level – nothing. Third level – nada.

  Only one more place to go.

  I saw her as soon as I reached the roof level. She was leaning against the retaining wall that stops careless drivers, or suicidal ones, from driving off the top of the building.

  Plenty of room up here; most people parked on the roof only as a last resort, since it's not sheltered – maybe that's why Rachel had chosen it. I slid the car into a parking slot, got out, and walked toward her. She stood, arms folded below her breasts, watching me approach.

  "Rachel, you took one hell of a chance, showing yourself like that," I said. "The police think you're a cop-killer, and you've been around the force long enough to know what that means."

  "It means they will shoot first, and ask questions probably never," Rachel said.

  Except it wasn't Rachel.

  The voice was deeper than Rachel's, the intonation somehow different. I looked closely at her face and saw subtle differences in its shape and form from what I remembered. But the big difference was the eyes.

  The gentle gray eyes of Rachel Proctor were gone, replaced by the bright blue eyes of a madman.

I swallowed a couple of times and tried to keep my voice under control as I said, "George Kulick, I presume?"

  Rachel's head inclined a few inches. "None other."

  Getting emotional about what he had done to Rachel, and might yet do, was a waste of time, so I just said, "What do you want?"

  The eyebrows went up in an exaggerated show of amazement. "A man who gets right to the point, and a policemen, no less. How unusual!"

  I had nothing useful to say to that, so I kept quiet. But wizards are sensitive, so I wouldn't have been surprised if he could feel the hatred coming off me, like heat from a freshly stoked stove.

  He nodded slowly, as if confirming something for himself. "As to what I want: I want the man who killed me."

"Sligo, you mean."

  "He did not bother to tell me his name. But I will know him, when we meet again. I want him in my power, so that I can make him suffer as I did. When I have paid him back in full measure for my pain, plus considerable interest, then perhaps – perhaps – I shall allow him to die."

  "I want pretty much the same thing," I said. "Without the histrionics."

  His eyes narrowed. "Why? Because it is just another case you must solve?"

  "That would be enough," I said. "But it's a lot more. Sligo is planning to work a spell from the Opus Mago to do... I don't know what. But it's gotta be pretty powerful, because the recipe calls for five dead vampires. That ring any bells with you?"

  He shook his head, which was now Rachel's head. "My responsibility was not to read the book, even if I could have, but to safeguard it."

  I thought about saying, Yeah, and you did a hell of a job. But a cheap shot like that would just piss him off, and I expect he'd been thinking about it, anyway. Maybe that was part of what was fueling his rage: the knowledge that Sligo had made Kulick betray his trust.

  "Well, he's got something big and bad in the works, and I have to stop him," I said. "Oh, and he keeps trying to kill"

  He made with the eyebrows again. "Does he, indeed? How many attempts?"

  "Two – so far."

  "And yet, here you are before me. Good – that means you are resourceful. You will be a useful ally."

  "I'm not your ally, pal – not until you let go of Rachel." And not even then, fuckwad – but I thought it best to keep that last thought to myself.

  Kulick/Rachel looked at me as if he'd suddenly realized he was conversing with the village idiot. "What would you have me do? Simply leave this body and float away into eternity, my revenge unfulfilled? I am curious about what comes after this life, and I shall satisfy that curiosity, once I have exacted vengeance. But for now, this woman is useful to me, and I will not leave her. But you can speak to her, if you wish."

  The face changed in small ways, to become completely Rachel's. She blinked a couple of times, then said urgently, in Rachel's voice, "Kill me, Stan – do it now! It's the only way. He's got to be stopped, before he destroys–"

  Her mouth closed, and after a moment the face began its subtle transformation again.

  "'Kill me, Stan'?" The deeper voice was mocking. "Is that what you intend to do – assuming I would permit you?"

  I didn't know whether I had it in me to carry out Rachel's plea or not, but I couldn't do it now, anyway – Kulick was ready for me to try. He probably had a defensive spell set to go at an instant's notice.

  "No," I said, keeping most of what I felt out of my voice.

  "Good," he said, putting a tiny smile on Rachel's face. "Then we are allies, after all."

  He reached into the pocket of Rachel's wide skirt and removed something shiny that he tossed to me.

  It looked like half an amulet. Whole, it would be the size of a half-dollar. It had words engraved on it that looked like ancient Greek, and part of a symbol that I didn't recognize.

  "It is imbued with a finding spell," Kulick said. "I retain the other half. When you have located this Sligo, or whatever his name might be, hold this between your thumb and forefinger. Say my full name – George Harmon Thraxis Kulick – aloud five times. At the fifth utterance, I will join you."

  I studied the half-amulet a second longer, then slipped it into my pocket. "All right," I said. "Anything else?"

  Kulick stared at me with those insane eyes. "Give me what I want, and I will return this woman to you, unharmed. But you may think to deny me my vengeance, perhaps by refusing to use that amulet at the crucial hour. Understand this, policeman: if Sligo escapes, or dies by any hand but mine, I shall have no further use for this woman's body."

  He touched one of Rachel's breasts, and I wondered if he was enjoying feeling himself up.

  "I will depart her, to see what awaits me on the other side. But before I do, I will soak her in gasoline. And my last act in this vessel will be to light a match. Do we understand each other?"

  God almighty, just let me kill this fucker right now. All I said was, "Completely."

  Then the ugly image of Rachel burning stirred my memory of something else. "You should know, there are a couple of witchfinders in town, hired by the mayor. I guess you realize what'll happen, if they get their hands on you – her."

  A smile crossed the face that was and was not Rachel's. "Witchfinders? How quaint. Well, if they should succeed in locating this particular witch, they will have scant time to wish that they had failed to do so."

  Rachel's bod detached itself from the retaining wall and headed toward the elevator. "Goodbye, detective," Kulick's voice said. "I'm sure that you will be in touch."

  Once the elevator doors closed, I dashed for my car and headed for the exit. Driving as fast as I could without the telltale noise of tires squealing, I made it to the exit gate and showed my badge to the sleepy-looking teenage attendant. "Open it! Now!"

  As soon as I'd made my turn out of the garage, I was scanning the street for Rachel. If I could follow her to where she and Kulick were holed up, I might... oh, hell, I didn't know what I could do. But knowledge is power, and I'd had damn little power in this situation from the beginning.

  I didn't gain any more this time, either. I circled the block twice, then checked the side streets and alleys, with no sight of Rachel.

  It was then I realized that the phone in my coat pocket was vibrating, and had been, off and on, for quite some time.

  As I pulled into the nearest parking space, I realized that I had actually gained two things from the encounter on the roof. One was that I now held half of an amulet with a finding spell connecting me to George Kulick. I don't know much abut finding spells, but I was betting the connection ran both ways. A good witch could tell me whether that was true, and what to do if it was.

  The second thing is that the bastard had given me his true name: George Harmon Thraxis Kulick. "Thraxis" must have been the name he took when they put that tattoo on his hand. It had to be legit, or the finding spell wouldn't work. Names are important in magic, I knew that much – and now I had his.

I opened my phone and put it to my ear. "Markowski."

  "Stan, are you all right?" It was Karl's voice.

  "Yeah, I'm okay. Sorry I'm late getting in to work, but something pretty weird happened."

  "I was startin' to get worried, since you'd made a big deal of wanting to start our shift at 1:00, and it's almost 2:00. When you didn't check in by 1:30, I started calling you, but got no answer – until now, anyway."

  "I didn't have a chance to call in," I said. "I encountered something interesting on the way to work – look, I'll tell you when I see you."

  "Something about our case?"

  "Yeah, kinda. I don't want to discuss it on the phone, okay?" Not with the witchfinders after Rachel, I didn't.

  "Okay, sure. As long as everything's cool."

  "I'm fine, Karl. See you at the squad in ten minutes."

  "No, you won't."

  "Say again?"

  "I'm in our new unmarked car – well, new for us, anyway – on the road, trailing behind the SWAT van."

  "What? Why? What happened?" I asked.

  "The arrest warrant for Jamieson Longworth finally came through, that's what happened. Since the little bastard may have been associating with a black magician, McGuire figured that SWAT ought to serve it. But I wanted to be there when they do, and I figured you would, too."

  "Fuckin' A right, I would."

  "So I'll meet you at the staging area, which is gonna be one block south of Longworth's crib, at the Rite-Aid lot. You remember the address?"

  "It's 157 Spruce, right? I'm on my way."

  "Ten-four."

  Ten-four. Yeah, Karl loves shit like that.

I turned into the parking lot of the Rite-Aid drugstore just as the black, windowless SWAT van was coming to a stop. I parked nearby and walked over.

  Scranton PD can't afford to maintain a full-time Sacred Weapons and Tactics unit. It just isn't needed often enough to be cost-effective. So, when there's a mission, the commander has to send out a call-up. All SWAT-trained officers on duty, and several affiliated members of the clergy, leave whatever they're doing to convene at police HQ. There they strap on their gear, receive a situation briefing, and get their orders.

  SWAT doesn't roll for just any dicey set of circumstances. Black-and-white units can handle 90 percent of what happens, and if there's an extraordinary situation involving human perps, they send the TRU (Tactical Response Unit). But if you've got a barricaded ogre, or a hostage situation with werewolf involvement, or you have to serve a warrant on a powerful witch or wizard, then the SWAT team will get the job done. One way or another.

  The back of the van opened and a tall, lean guy in black fatigues and a matching baseball cap stepped out. Lieutenant Frank Dooley has been SWAT commander for the past four years. To look at him, you'd never know that he did a year and a half at the seminary before realizing he had a different vocation. Come to think of it, the outfits of both jobs are pretty similar, give or take the hat.

  I saw Karl come around the van from the other side. Inside, several black-clad figures were moving around putting on spell-dispelling body armor, checking their weapons, and probably saying lastminute prayers. Even the non-clergy SWAT guys are a religious bunch. I guess they have to be.

  "I devoutly wish we had better intel about what we're likely to be facing in there," Dooley said to Karl and me.

  "I told you what we know, Lieutenant," Karl said. "I admit it ain't much."

  Dooley unbuttoned the flap on his breast pocket and pulled out a notebook. He opened it, flipped past a couple of pages, then frowned at the page he'd stopped at.

  "Condo's owned by one J. Longworth." He looked up. "Any relation to the Longworths? The rich ones?"

  "Their son," I told him.

  "Oh, good," he said with a smile. "I just love busting me some rich bitches." Dooley grew up shantytown Irish, and never quite got over his resentments. "Hmmm. Cultist." He was looking at the notebook again. "Busted for summoning demons and murder of a known prostitute." He looked at me. "That what you figure we're likely to be up against? A demon?"