Текст книги "Hard Spell"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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  "No reason to think so," I said. "But Longworth is believed to have been associating with a vampire/wizard named Sligo. There's no way of knowing if he's taught young Jamieson any tricks, or even if he's in there with him. But both those things are possible."

  "Um." Dooley wrote something in the notebook and put it away. "If the wizard's also one of the undead, we know what he'll be doing at this hour." He glanced up at the sky, where the sun was shining through a nearly cloudless sky. "And we've dealt with wannabe wizards before, too. Excuse me." He turned and went back into the van.

  "Took that warrant long enough to come through," I said to Karl.

  "McGuire thinks that Mrs. Longworth tried to stop it. Maybe she put out the word that any judge who signed the arrest warrant on sonny-boy was going to be running against a very well-funded opponent next time out."

  "Olszewski would've signed it," I said. "He doesn't give a shit. Anyway, he's what Rachel calls my paisan."

  "You're probably right. But his mother, who's in Florida, had a heart attack, or something. He just got back last night – and signed the warrant this morning."

  "Speaking of Rachel reminds me," I said, "you need to w what went down while I was on my way to work today."

  I took Karl aside and gave him the short version of what had happened at the parking garage.

  "Well, doesn't that just suck dog cock," he said. "You either tell him where Sligo is, assuming we ever find the motherfucker, or he turns Rachel into a human torch."

  "Yeah," I said, "but there's a couple of other–"

  I stopped because Dooley had come out of the black van again, and this time the rest of his team followed him. SWAT was ready to rock and roll.

  The first black-clad figure out after Dooley was Heidi Renfer, who was Karl's cousin. She had the same long, lean build, although I sometimes wondered if her supe-proof vest had to be custom-made to accommodate those formidable breasts. She was carrying a Benelli combat shotgun as her primary, and I knew it was loaded with a mixture of doubleought buck, rock salt, and BB-sized balls of silver, all blessed by a priest.

  Like everybody on the team, she wore a set of vision-enhancing/protective goggles around her neck and a wide belt encircled her hips. The belt held the holster for her backup weapon – Heidi favored a big .50 magnum Desert Eagle loaded with explosive rounds. It also held a can of Supe Repellant Spray (silver nitrate suspended in holy water), silverplated handcuffs made of cold iron, a tactical radio, and a couple of pouches that might contain anything – from extra ammo to field dressings imbued with a healing spell.

  Heidi smiled and waved at Karl, but ignored me, which good-looking women have a habit of doing. Give or take Lacey Brennan.

  Next out was a blocky guy in his thirties named Van Cleef. He looked like he had barely made the minimum height requirement of 5'8". Seeing him next to Heidi Renfer's 6'1" was enough to make you smile, but something about Van Cleef's face discouraged you from making jokes about it to him. Maybe it was the long puckered scar that ran from his forehead almost to his chin. He had an H&K MP5 assault weapon slung over his shoulder and carried the big door-busting sledge that was a vital part of SWAT's equipment. I'd heard that, during a breach, he always volunteered to be the first one through the door, and the others were happy to leave that hazardous job to him. I'm pretty sure if he was 6'4", he wouldn't feel he had so much to prove.

  He was followed by a Jesuit named Garrett who taught theology at the U. Garrett could have served on the prayer team and done a lot of good that way, but he'd volunteered for the combat training, and come out near the top of his class.

  A lot of Jesuits are badasses – I think it's part of their image. Their founder, St Ignatius of Loyola, was a soldier before he got religion, and the Jebs have never completely abandoned that military mindset.

  Garrett carried a mini-flamethrower strapped on his back, the nozzle held in one asbestos-gloved hand. Some supes are vulnerable to silver, others to holy water or garlic, or cold iron. But fire will stop practically anything.

  Then came Shiro Kyotake, who was born in Yokahama and speaks better English than I do. He studied the sword under a master in Japan and was the team's edged-weapons specialist. There aren't too many supe species that can survive decapitation, and Shiro can take the head off an ogre so fast the thing will be almost too surprised to fall down. He makes jokes about being descended from a long line of ninjas. But I've seen him at work with that long, curved blade, and I'm not sure he's really kidding. And he can throw a knife better than anyone I've ever seen.

  After that came someone I didn't know. Make that two someones. The human, who was dressed like the rest of the team, had wavy blond hair near ta muscular upper body. I couldn't see his eyes, since they were hidden behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses. The backup weapon in his belt holster looked like a Colt Python .357 Magnum, the only revolver I'd seen among this crew. The guy wasn't carrying a heavier weapon, but I knew he wasn't unarmed. His primary was the dog.

  Instead of a leash, the blond guy had attached to the animal's collar a four-foot length of chain that would not have looked out of place attached to a tow truck. He had the other end wrapped a couple of turns around his left hand, which was encased in a heavy leather glove.

  Far as I know, the dog breed that comes closest to resembling what I was looking at is the Neapolitan mastiff. A cousin of mine used to own one, although he always used to say that it owned him. The SWAT dog, which must have weighed close to two hundred pounds, had the same black fur, floppy ears, and wrinkled face that you find with Neapolitans. But this animal also had a tuft of red fur that ran from its neck along the spine and all the way to its tail. Its teeth looked to be about twice as long as an ordinary dog's, and three times as sharp. And I saw that the eyes atop its huge muzzle glowed bright red, which you never see on anything that comes from this world.

  Without taking my eyes off this apparition, I quietly said to Dooley, "Since when did you guys start using a Hellhound?"

  "She's been on the team about six weeks now," he said.

  "She?"

  "Yeah, you have to use females," he said. "The males are just too big and dangerous."

  I tried to imagine one of these things that would be even larger and more frightening than what I was looking at now.

  "Kind of an experiment," Dooley went on, "but it's working out pretty well, so far. They can sniff out any species of supe, no matter what kind they are, or where they try to hide. We were using electronic detectors before, and the fucking things just weren't reliable. But Daisy never lets us down."

  "Daisy."

  Dooley shrugged. "That's what Sam named her," he said. "He's her handler. Bought her from some wizard and raised her from a pup."

  "I'm sure he did." And I bet she gets to go outside whenever she fucking well wants, too.

  The last SWAT team member out of the van was Spencer, one of the few African-Americans on the Scranton PD. I don't think it's racism – the Wyoming Valley just doesn't have a real big black population. Spencer was a sniper, a skill he'd picked up in the Marines, and the USMC Scout Sniper Program sets their standards high. I'd once asked him if that was why he'd been drawn to SWAT and he'd replied, "Nah, don't you read the comics, man? You ever seen a bunch of badass superheroes like this without a brother on the crew? Shit, it'd be unAmerican." Spencer likes to talk street, but I knew that both his parents were doctors. He went to some exclusive prep school before graduating to join the Marines, much to Mom and Dad's disappointment. He's about as ghetto as the Prince of Wales.

  After the tactical people came the prayer team. Their job it was to counter any black magic that was operating, or might be invoked, within the team's perimeter. Reverend Greene was a Baptist minister, O'Connell was another Jesuit from the U, and Rabbi Zimmerman could usually be found at Temple Beth Shalom, until there was a SWAT call-up. A Buddhist monk, Quan Tranh Han, had been part of the team until last year, when he died of cancer.

  As members of the Supe Squad, Karl and I were authorized to go along on the raid, as long as we didn't get in the way. As Dooley liked to say, "We'll send for you when it's safe."

  Iess Dooley must have given his briefing inside the van, because Spencer immediately picked up his long hardshell rifle case and jogged off. I watched him cross the street and disappear down a nearby alley. I figured he was heading for the building directly across the street from Longworth's condo. There he'd set up on the roof, ready to provide a diversion, covering fire, or a one-shot kill, as directed.

  Dooley had been on his tactical radio for the last few minutes. Now he put it back on his belt and announced, "Surveillance confirms that the subject entered the building at approximately 1900 hours last night, and he hasn't left. Plainclothes officers have just finished going through the building. Only one of the other condos was occupied this time of day, and they got the owner out the back way, nice and quiet. The field of operations is all ours, gentlemen." He nodded toward Heidi Renfer. "And lady."

  "Haven't been one of those since I was sixteen, Loot," Heidi said with a grin. "But thanks for the thought."

  A couple of the guys grinned at that, but nobody laughed out loud. I knew that, on the team, pissing Heidi off was widely regarded as a bad idea.

  "All right," Dooley said. "You know the order of march, and you each have your assignments. Questions?"

  Everybody on the team tried to look nonchalant, if not outright bored. Just a walk in the park.

  They didn't fool me, and I bet they didn't fool their commander, either. Each one was amped up to the eyebrows. You could see it in their eyes, their hands, and the rapid jaw movements as three of them chewed gum.

  "Okay, let's move out," Dooley said. Turning to the three clergy he said, "Prayer Team, whenever you're ready."

  The three clergymen formed a rough triangle, a few feet separating them. Each would read or recite prayers in his own tradition designed specifically to dispel black magic. Supposedly, having them pray together produced a "synergistic effect" greater than the sum of their individual efforts.

  How somebody figured that God would pay more attention to a group effort than if each of these guys prayed separately wasn't real clear to me, but I'm just a simple cop, not a theologian.

  As the members of the SWAT team left the parking lot, single file, Dooley turned to Karl and me.

  "You're not armored, so hang back a bit. But come in fast if I call for you."

  We both nodded, and he went to catch up with his crew.

Dooley led us into an alley that ran along the rear of Jamieson Longworth's building. Karl and I followed the team as they made their silent way through the back door and up the stairs to the third floor. Then it was through a service door and down a hallway to number 304.

  I watched them "stack" along the wall just outside Longworth's door – bunching close together in a line so that they could get everybody inside very fast once the breach was made. Sam and the Hellhound brought up the rear, followed by Karl and me.

  Dooley was first in line. I saw him reach forward and slowly try to turn the knob, on the off chance that it might open. It didn't, but it's always good to check. More than one cop has gone to the trouble and risk of kicking down a door that wasn't even locked to begin with.

  Dooley turned to Van Cleef, and took from him the big sledgehammer and stepped with it to the opposite side of the condo's door. Van Cleef unslung his weapon. I saw him click off the safety and then, a true professional, look to be sure the switch was really disengaged.

  Behind Van Cleef, Garrett had ready two of the "Splash-Bang" grenades that he would throw into th condo as soon as the door was breached. The grenades looked like motorcycle handlebar grips made of cast iron, with holes drilled in them. Each one would explode with a loud noise, a bright flash, and a dispersal of four fluid ounces of holy water.

  I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears. Sligo, being a vampire, ought to be dead to the world, literally. Assuming he was in there at all. But that didn't mean he hadn't set up magical protections or booby traps throughout the condo. The work of the prayer team should nullify those, but everybody in that hallway had been around long enough to know what "should" is worth.

  Then there was Longworth himself. Normally, a pampered rich boy/cultist would pose no threat to these guys, but there was no way to know whether Sligo had taught him any dark magic, or whether Longworth had the Talent to use it.

  It had the potential to get pretty dicey in there. That's why every cop serving in SWAT receives the extra pay that all of them like to call "danger money." They get excellent life insurance policies, too.

  Van Cleef nodded at Dooley, who set his feet, gripped the sledge's handle tightly and lifted the head back and over his shoulder. With a barely audible grunt he smashed the sledge hammer into the door, just below the lock.

  The bam of impact was jarring after the silence, even though I had been expecting it. The wood splintered where Dooley had struck, and the lock mechanism came free of the door jamb. It looked like the door might be hung up on something – a security chain, maybe. But it was no match for Van Cleef's size 12 boot, as he delivered a vicious kick above where the lock had been. The door flew open and Van Cleef instantly crouched down to give Garrett a clean line of sight into the condo.

  The pins of the grenades had already been pulled. Garrett held one in each hand and flung both inside at the same time.

  One thousand one. One thousand two.

  Each of us squeezed our eyes closed. That's a risk in a tactical situation, but you've got no choice, unless you want to be temporarily blinded by the million-candlepower flash, just like whoever was inside the condo would be.

  WHAMWHAM!

  The two explosions were almost simultaneous, and they were fucking loud. The grenades contain magnesium instead of explosives – high on noise, but low on destructive power. And the cast-iron body won't fragment, so there's no shrapnel, which is why you can safely use them in hostage situations.

  Van Cleef, clutching the H&K against his chest, dived through the door. I couldn't see inside from where I was standing, but I've seen enough SWAT training to know that he would land face down, do a quick hip roll to the right, and come up on one knee, weapon ready to fire. The next man through the door would break left, then the others would follow, going alternately right and left. All of this usually took about three seconds.

  Once the team was inside, I waited for the rattle of gunfire, but it never came. Instead, I could hear voices, one after another, yelling "Clear!" as each room was checked in turn.

  Then there was silence for a little while, then Dooley appeared in the doorway. "Come on in," he said.

  We followed him into the sparsely furnished living room, its cream-colored walls and modernist furniture now stained with soot from the grenades and damp from the holy water.

  "Nobody home, Goldilocks," Dooley said to me. "You can have your choice of chairs, beds, and porridge."

  The other team members, who were leaning against walls and doorjambs, laughed loudly. I didn't mind – they had a lot of tnsion to get rid of.

  "So, no Longworth," I said. "I take it you guys didn't turn up any slumbering vampires, either."

  "Not a one," Heidi Renfer said. "But there's a pretty nasty-looking mouse in the kitchen that you guys might be interested in."

  More laughter.

  Karl shot his cousin a dirty look, then said to Dooley, "Lieutenant, didn't you say that surveillance had reported Longworth coming in the building, and didn't see him leaving?"

  "Yeah, you've got a point," Dooley told him. "I wonder if the guys watching this place fucked up, or... just a second."

  He pulled the tactical radio from his belt and thumbed the switch. "S-4, this is S-1. Do you copy? Over."

  "Loud and clear, skipper." Spencer's voice came through crisply. "Hell, I can even see you through the window. Got the crosshairs right on you."

  "Make sure your finger's off the trigger, then," Dooley said. "Did you see anyone leave the building from your side since we went in?"

  "Negative, skipper. Nobody in or out. What's up – you missing a suspect or two?"

  "Stand by."

  Dooley scratched his cheek. "I suppose he could've made us somehow, as we came up the stairs, and went up or down the front stairs to another floor. All the other condos are locked up tight, but nothing's stopping him from roaming the hallways – or even breaking into somebody else's place, if he's got the right tools and know-how. We didn't have the manpower to put a man on each floor, dammit."

  Then I noticed that the Hellhound was acting strangely. She'd been sitting obediently next to Sam's leg, but now she was up, whining softly as her nose quested around the room.

  "Daisy's got something, Loot," Sam said. "Don't know what it is, though."

  "Look alive, people!" Dooley snapped. "There may be a bear at home, after all."

  The rest of the SWAT team assumed alert postures, weapons ready. A couple of them started walking slowly around the big room, looking closely at the walls, the floors, the ceiling.

  "Priest hole, do you think?" Garrett asked.

  I knew the term. Used to refer to small hidden closets built in English houses during Henry VIII's time, after Catholic clergy were expelled from the country. Some stayed behind, and had to be hidden by Catholic families when Henry's goons came searching.

  I wondered if Garrett the Jesuit saw the irony.

  "I need him, or them, alive, if at all possible," I said, my own eyes roaming the room.

  "It's always their choice," Dooley said softly. "Now shut the fuck up."

  "You want us to check the other rooms again, boss?" Kyotake asked. He held the big samurai sword at guard, both hands on the custom grip.

  "Let the dog show us where to go," Dooley said, and nodded toward Daisy's handler. "Sam."

  The blond guy, still wearing his shades indoors, released his grip on the Hellhound's chain, which hit the carpet with a muffled clank.

  Continuing to sniff the air, Daisy began moving around the room, dragging the chain behind her. Her nose led her toward the big window overlooking the street. She approached it slowly, then became still, growling softly – a sound that made my asshole pucker, even though I wasn't the focus of her attention.

  Heidi Renfer was standing maybe ten feet from the window, with her back to it. I was looking in her direction when I saw the air ripple behind her, something that I wish I could say I'd seen onwalkin the movies.

  Then a man was standing there, where nobody had stood an instant before. At the same moment he appeared, I heard a male voice I didn't recognize snarl, "Aw, shit!"

  The bastard was fast, I'll give him that. As he materialized, his left arm snaked around Heidi's slim waist and pulled her right up against him, while his right hand brought a black-bladed knife up to the side of her long neck, the point an inch away from her flesh.

  The young guy's face was flushed and sweaty and tight with tension, but I was pretty sure I recognized it from mug shots, as well as an evening I once spent in a certain warehouse.

  It looked like Jamieson Longworth was home, after all.

For a few seconds, we all stood in a tableau, like wax figures at Madame Tussaud's – maybe an exhibit titled "Hostage Situation."

  Then the Hellhound lowered her haunches, preparing to spring.

  "Daisy!" Sam's voice was a whipcrack. "Sit!" Then: "Stay!"

  The dog obeyed, but you could see she was reluctant, not understanding why she wasn't being allowed to tear the intruder's throat out.

  I knew exactly how she felt.

  "Everybody stay right where you are!" Longworth shouted – unnecessarily, since that's exactly what we were all doing.

  I saw Heidi wince when he yelled that, since his mouth was just a few inches from her ear. In response, Longworth squeezed her even tighter. "Keep still, bitch!" Longworth gasped a couple of breaths, then said to her, "Keep hanging on to your gun, honey. But if I see that barrel move an inch, in any direction, you're fuckin' dead! Understand?"

  "Yeah," Heidi said hoarsely. "I understand."

  "Something all of you should know!" Longworth said, still gasping for breath. He must've had enough adrenaline rushing through him to fuel an Olympic track team. In an older man, I might have hoped for a heart attack. "This is a Death Dagger," he went on. "One scratch, anywhere on her, and she's dead meat."

  I believed him. Putting a spell like that on a weapon was pretty basic black magic. He might've done it himself, or had Sligo do it for him – if Sligo had been here, and I was betting he had.

  It also explained why Longworth didn't have the blade pressed against her flesh, the way they usually do in situations like this. He didn't want to kill her – by accident. The Prayer Team's efforts might have neutralized the effects of the dagger's magic – but I don't think there was a man in the room willing to gamble Heidi's life on it.

  Sligo must have taught Longworth how to work the Tarnhelm Effect – an invisibility spell, and not easy to do. That one's not black magic, but it's still pretty good work for a novice. He had fooled us all – except for Daisy.

  "Okay, we hear you," Dooley said – pretty calmly, under the circumstances. "We'll all get this worked out somehow. Just stay cool."

  Cool? Longworth was being about as cool as the Fifth Circle of Hell. But Dooley was handling it right.

  I turned my head, very slowly, to take in the rest of the room. The other members of the SWAT team were utterly still, but each was coiled, like the dog had been, ready to spring.

  I'd wondered if any of them had a shot at Longworth from the side, and whether he'd have the nerve to take it. But the only one with anything like the right angle was Garrett, holding his useless flamethrower. Like the others, he had a pistol on his belt – but there was no way in hell he'd be able to drop the flamethrower, draw, and get off an aimed shot without giving aimed shorth plenty of time to stab Heidi.

  "Something for you to keep in mind," Dooley went on in that same, almost-calm voice, "is that if you do kill her, you're standing there naked, without protection. And I guarantee you won't live long enough to disappear again."

  Longworth's voice went up a couple of notches. "Are you fucking threatening me, you cocksucker?"

  Dooley shook his head slowly. "Nope, not at all. Just pointing out a good reason for you to keep that knifepoint from getting too close to her neck. Be a shame to have people die today, just because of an accident."

  "Don't fucking worry about me – worry about this bitch right here."

  Then Longworth's gaze shifted to me, and something changed in his face. It only lasted a second or two, but it might almost have been the beginning of a smile. He added, "And you can worry about your bitch, too, you Polack assfuck. You and that depraved motherfucker next to you threw my brother to a fucking demon! Did you think you can do that and just walk away, laughing? Did you?"

  I remembered my laughter in the warehouse after Karl had saved my ass from the demon. I didn't think trying to explain to Longworth that it had been an hysterical reaction would be likely to improve the situation, so I kept quiet.

  But I was confused by his reference to my "bitch." My poor wife was in the ground, and I didn't have a girlfriend – the closest thing to that in my life was Lacey Brennan, and she wasn't all that close, anyway.

  Did Longworth realize that? Or was Lacey in trouble?

  I was trying to phrase a question that wouldn't set him off, when he spoke again. "You'll see what it's like, motherfucker, lose somebody you really love. Then maybe I'll be the one to laugh."

  Someone I really... Christine? Did this crazy bastard mean Christine?

  Longworth was talking to Dooley again. "Okay, here's how this is gonna work. Me and sexy here are walking out, real close together. You boys are gonna stay right here. I see anybody follow me out, she's dead. We're gonna get my car, then she's gonna drive us wherever I wanna go. I see one cop car or helicopter or police dragon along the way, and she's dead. We get where we're going, I'll turn her loose, unharmed. My word of honor. Got that?"

  Sure, we'll be happy to take the word of a wannabe black wizard and cult murderer. And right after that, we're gonna see if Charlie Manson is free to babysit the kids Saturday night.

  Dooley nodded a couple of times. It was then I noticed that he still held his tactical radio down by his side, and a couple of his fingers were moving, ever so slowly, toward the "Transmit" button.

  Who had he talked to last, on that radio?

  "I'll even help you out with that," Dooley said. "If you want, I can make sure that all the traffic signals go your way, no matter where you're headed. No reds or yellows to slow you down. You'll see nothing but–"

  Spencer. He'd been talking to Spencer.

  Dooley had paused, just for a second, and I saw his finger depress the "Transmit" button before he continued, "Green light, green light, green light. All the way home."

  Maybe my concern for Christine was distracting me, but it took me a heartbeat too long to realize what Dooley had just done.

  Longworth was saying "I don't need your fucking–" as I opened my mouth to tell Dooley to call it off, that we needed Longworth alive–

  There was a loud click as a small hole appeared in the window behind Longworth, who gruntnce, then stopped talking because he was already dead and falling to the floor, the dagger tumbling harmlessly to the carpet as the sound of the rifle shot that had killed him echoed back and forth across the street like lost hope.

• • • •