Текст книги "Hard Spell"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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  "Truly it does," Barney said. "But the one recounting this tale said he was absolutely certain that the fellow was the one he'd known, especially after he'd heard the man speak. Apparently he has a rather distinct Irish accent."

  "A name," I said. "Please tell me that you got a name for this guy."

  "In point of fact, I did," Barney said. "Whether it's a first name or last I can't say, but the practitioner I overheard referred to him as Sligo."

The morning sun was bright, but inside this windowless place natural light never entered. It was probably too embarrassed. The cheap fluorescents in the ceiling gave off a sickly blue-white glow that made the people – Homicide dicks, forensics techs, uniforms, the rest of them – look like overflow from a zombied that tion.

  I pushed aside a couple of inflatable love dolls that were hanging from the ceiling and leaned over the counter to take a look at the guy who was lying on the floor. He stared back at me, the way corpses usually do. If I'm lucky, that's all they do.

  In life he'd apparently been in his early twenties, with longish blond hair and a bad complexion. There was blood on the garish Hawaiian shirt that was unbuttoned to his navel, and more of it pooled under the body.

  "Name's Peter Willbrand," one of the uniforms said to me. "Worked the counter last night, was supposed to've closed up at ten. The day guy found him when he opened up this morning, a little before nine."

  I'd been home for about three hours, and asleep for two, when the phone rang with the news that had brought me here to Fantasy Land, a depressing little shithole around the corner from the city bus station. Adult Books and Videos, the sign on the door said. Marital Aids, it said below that. Further down, Individual Viewing Booths, was followed by Supe-Friendly.

  Taped to the counter was a small poster that somebody had made on a PC, advertising what was playing in the jerk-off booths this week. In addition to the usual stuff, I noticed Ogre Gangbang 3, Werewolves Gone Wild, and something called The VILF Next Door. Guess that's what the sign outside meant by "Supe-Friendly."

  The coroner's guy on the scene was Homer Jordan, who went to Penn State on a football scholarship and still has the linebacker's shoulders to prove it. "So, how long's the corpus been delicti?" I asked him.

  "At least three hours, no more than eight. I might have a better idea after I post him."

  "Or not," I said.

  "Or not," he said with a little smile. Figuring precise time of death is a bitch for pathologists, always has been. But cops keep asking.

  "How about COD?" I asked.

  "Gunshot wound to the heart. That's officially preliminary, but, hell, Stan, you know what a bullet wound looks like, same as I do. That's what killed him."

  Fantasy Land had a string of small bells tied just above the door on the inside, probably so none of the pervs could sneak out without paying for their copies of Kiss My Whip Magazine. I heard the jangling and turned to see Karl come in, looking about as grumpy as I felt. Guess the thing with the LeFay sisters hadn't worked out.

  Or maybe it had, and that's why he was so pissed to be up early.

  Karl took his time walking over, sourly taking in the racks of magazines and paperbacks, the BluRay discs and DVDs, and the glass cases displaying every kind of vibrator, dildo, and butt plug known to man – or woman. As he got closer, I saw him looking at the poster for this week's porn videos. "What's a VILF?"

"Means Vampire I'd Like to Fang," I said.

  "I didn't think places like this existed anymore," Karl said. "What with all the Internet porn, online sex shops, stuff like that."

  "Not everybody's as good at finding smut on the Web as you are," I said. I batted the foot of an inflated love doll and set it swinging gently. "Besides," I said, "what Internet site is gonna be able to provide a guy with one of these honeys? On short notice, I mean."

  "Yeah, and speaking of short notice, what the fuck are we doing here, anyway?"

  I pointed to my left. "Over there," I said.

  Karl bent over the counter, looked at Peter Willbrand's corpse for a few seconds, then came back. "Okay, that's why Homicide's here," he said. "But why us?"

  "Good questi. I was wondering, myself." I looked over at Homer, who didn't bother to conceal the fact that he'd been listening. "You know anything about that?" I asked.

  "I've got no idea who called you guys, but I think I know where the impulse must've come from. Here, check this out."

  Homer eased behind the counter, careful not to step in the blood pool. He produced a pair of tweezers, bent over the dead guy, and carefully pulled back the collar of his gaudy shirt.

  There were three symbols carved into the corpse's nearly hairless chest.

  I didn't recognize them, but the alphabet looked like something I'd seen before.

  Karl and I looked at each other for a couple of seconds, then I pulled out my notepad and started carefully copying the stuff down.

  When I was done, I turned to Homer. "You've got photos of this, right?"

  "Course I do," he said. "I assume you want copies?"

  "You assume right, Homes." Homer likes it when I call him that – makes him feel like he's hanging with the cool kids.

  Homer watched as I put the notepad away, then asked, "What's that stuff on his chest say? Do you know?"

  "Uh-uh," I said, shaking my head. "But I'm pretty sure I know what it means."

  "Well, what?"

  "Trouble."

  Homer grinned with delight. "Damn, I love that kind of talk."

  "I know you do," I told him. "But do me a favor, will you? Peel back the vic's upper lip for a second."

  He gave me a strange look, but didn't ask any questions. Pulling out the tweezers again, he bent over the corpse, got a grip on the thin flap of flesh below the victim's nose, and lifted it up.

  All three of us stared at what Homer had uncovered, but Karl was the first one to speak. "Sonofabitch. Fangs."

By the time I finally got home from the crime scene, I was able to grab only three more hours of sleep. Then it was time to get up again, shower, eat, feed Quincey (my hamster, who's named after a hero of mine), and head back to the squad for the start of my regular shift.

  My email messages included one from Homer, who'd managed to do the autopsy on our vic right away. Must have been a slow day at the morgue.

  Stan:

  You owe me lunch, man (and not at Mickey Dee's, either) – I was planning to play golf this afternoon, not cut up a dead vamp for the Supe Squad.

  Okay: to the surprise of nobody, Mr Willbrand's death was caused by a single gunshot, bullet penetrating the left ventricle of the heart and lodging therein. Death was instantaneous, or near enough as makes no difference. I got the round out, more or less intact. It's a .38, but here's the weird thing: sucker looks like it's made of charcoal. That's right, something you'd use in your BBQ grill, except a lot smaller. I've sent it to the lab, and you'll get a chemical analysis from them, eventually. But I'll bet my next paycheck that I'm right.

  I've heard of silver bullets – and I bet you know more about that stuff than I would. But charcoal? What the fuck is up with that?

  Love & kisses,

  Homer

By the time I was finished, Karl was reading over my shoulder. "He asks a pretty good question there, near the end."

  "Sure does." I clicked the mouse a couple of times to add a copy of Homer's message to the case file. "Sts, sure. Even gold, a couple of times. Wasn't there a guy in some old James Bond movie that was known for using gold bullets?"

  "Francisco 'Pistols' Scaramanga," Karl said immediately. "The Man with the Golden Gun, 1974. Christopher Lee played him. Based on the last of the Bond novels that Ian Fleming wrote, before those other hacks started doing them. Movie was okay, but the book kind of sucked. Fleming was just going through the motions by then, rehashed a lot of stuff he'd done already. He died soon after."

  Karl is the biggest James Bond nut I've ever met, or even heard of. He's got the books, the DVDs, soundtrack albums, movie posters, and even – as he once admitted, after swearing me to secrecy – the complete set of 007 action figures.

  I'd only asked the James Bond question to postpone dealing with the fact that we probably had some kind of nut/wizard/serial killer operating in town, using each murder as an ingredient in some kind of elaborate spell to accomplish a goal that I couldn't even imagine.

  I was about to say as much when my email pinged, announcing a new message. I checked the address, to see whether it was worth reading.

  The message had come from [email protected].

  Son of a bitch.

I understand there has been another killing that seems relevant to our matter of mutual concern. Is my information correct?

  Vollman.

  "Wonder how he knew we'd be here?" Karl asked.

  "The old bastard seems to know everything – except how we're gonna clear this case," I said.

  I clicked "Reply," typed "You bet it is," and sent it.

  Less than a minute later I was reading, Do you have AOL Instant Messenger, or something similar? If so, what is your screen name?

  "Why do I feel weird about doing IM with a vampire?" I said out loud. "I mean, what would Dracula say about this shit?"

  "Probably, 'I vant to haf a chaaat vith you... in real time,'" Karl said, doing a pretty fair Bela Lugosi.

  I sent Vollman my AOL identification. After a few seconds, the computer made that annoying zziiiing sound, and a chat window opened.

  Inside the window was "VollWiz: Are we connected?" The rest of the conversation (if you can call it that) went like this:

  Supecop1: Yes, I'm here.

  VollWiz: Does this latest murder bear similarities to the first one?

  Supecop1: Some. There was cryptic stuff carved into the victim's chest.

  VollWiz: The same as last time?

  Supecop1: No, different symbols. Looks like the same alphabet, though.

  Vollwiz: Can you send me a copy?

  Supecop1: My keyboard doesn't have the symbols. I doubt they make a keyboard that does.

  About half a minute went by. Then:

  Vollwiz: Do you have a text scanner available?

  I knew what Vollman was getting at, and it annoyed me that I hadn't thought of it myself.

  I pulled my notebook out and found the page where I'd copied the message found on Willbrand's corpse. Handing it to Karl, I said, "Do me a favor and run the scanner over this, will you? Put it on a thumb drive for me."

  "Right," he said, took the notebook, and headed out room. I turned back to the keyboard and typed:

  Supecop1: I should be sending that to you shortly.

  VollWiz: Very well. Now, as to cause of death: I have heard it was a gunshot. Can you confirm that?

  Supecop1: Where do you get your information, anyway?

  Vollwiz: Please, Sergeant – let us not waste each other's time.

  I stared at the screen while trying hard to keep control of myself. I didn't have to take shit like that from some bloodsucker, even if he was also a wizard.

  By the same token, telling Vollman to go fuck himself wasn't going to get these cases cleared.

  It would sure be fun, though.

  I took in a deep breath, and let it out slow.

  Supecop1: Yeah, he died of a gunshot wound. If you know that, I guess you know he was one of you... people.

  Vollwiz: If you mean he was undead, yes, I was aware of that. May I assume that the bullet that killed him was silver?

  Supecop1: No, you may not. Lab report says the slug was made of charcoal. It's like he was trying to barbecue the guy from inside. You ever hear of that?

  Vollwiz: In fact, I believe I have.

  Supecop1: I thought I was pretty well up on the ways to kill a vampire.

  At the last second, I'd added "ire" to that last word. Some vamps don't like being called vamps.

  Vollwiz: I'm sure you are, Sergeant. And this method of murder is not inconsistent with the knowledge you possess. Consider: what IS charcoal, anyway?

  I figured out what he was getting at in about three seconds, then spent another ten feeling stupid.

  Supecop1: Charcoal's super-compressed wood, isn't it? Wood – as in wooden stakes.

  Vollwiz: Exactly. It is an uncommon method to kill one of my kind, but effective. As you have seen yourself.

  Supecop1: Yeah, I guess I have.

  Vollwiz: Have there been any other developments in the case?

  Supecop1: Yeah. I may have a name for the perp. I guess you could call that a new development. It's hard to be sarcastic online. Unfortunately.

  Vollwiz: Indeed? That is most interesting. Congrat ulations.

  Supecop1: Don't pop any corks just yet. There's no way to know for sure whether it's our guy, but I like him for it. From what I hear, he's: 1. a wizard. 2. new in town. 3. acting secretive – pretending to be somebody else, etc.

  Vollwiz: I agree, he sounds like a promising candidate. What is his name?

  Supecop1: Calls himself Sligo.

  No response. I watched the empty screen for a while, then typed:

  Supecop1: You still there?

  Still no answer. I was starting to wonder whether the connection had been broken, when this appeared:

  Vollwiz: Are you absolutely certain?

  Supecop1: Certain that's the guy? Hell, no. Certain that's what my informant told me? Yeah, I'm sure, since I don't have wax in my ears, oranything.

  Karl appeared over my shoulder, holding a thumb drive. I attached it to the computer, downloaded the file, then sent it to Vollman's email address as an attachment.

  Supecop1: I just sent the file with the symbols I copied from our latest vic. It's pretty accurate, I think.

  I waited. Nothing, for maybe two minutes, then this appeared:

  VollWiz: I will be in touch with you later.

  Then the chat connection was broken.

"Motherfucker," I heard Karl mutter from behind me.

  "Yeah, I know," I said. "But at least he's given us a way to find out where he hangs his cloak, and that's something we've been wanting to know."

  I looked up the customer service number for AOL and called them. It took the better part of an hour to find a supervisor with the authority to look up a customer's mailing address, and to convince her that I had the authority to ask for it.

  Finally, I heard her say, "Very well, Sergeant. What is the email address you have?"

  "It's V-o-l-l-m-a-n-e-x at aol.com."

  I heard her keyboard clacking in the background. Then silence. Then more clacking, followed by another stretch of silence.

  "I'm sorry, Sergeant," the supervisor said, "but we have no account listed under that address."

  "Has it been cancelled recently? Say, within the last hour or so?"

  "No, sir. We have never had an account under that name. It simply doesn't exist."

I hung up the phone and said to Karl, "Fuck Vollman and the hearse he rode in on. I'm getting tired of that old bastard and the way he keeps jerking us around. It's time we started acting like goddamn detectives, for a change."

  "Sounds good to me," Karl said. "You got any particular kind of detecting in mind?"

  "Yeah, I do. Sligo, or whoever the perp is, has offed two guys so far, right? Why those two? Were they picked at random, or–"

  "Or is there a common factor?" Karl said. "Some pattern he's following."

  "Exactly. Why don't you get on that, see if you can find anything about the vics that stands out."

  "Okay. What are you gonna be doing?"

  "See if I can find out more about this forbidden book," I told him. "Vollman said there were only four copies in existence. Let's see if he was right."

  Karl went over to his own desk, and I turned back to my computer and brought up Google. I typed in Opus and Mago and clicked "Search."

  A few seconds later I was looking at the first hundred of my 28,343 hits. A lot of them involved classical music, although several seemed to refer to some penguin in a comic strip.

  Realizing where I went wrong, I went back to the search screen. This time, I put quotation marks around Opus Mago so the search engine would read it as a phrase.

  Eight hits. That was more like it.

  Seven of the references were duds. Five of them lumped the Opus Mago in with fictional works like the Necronomicon, the Lemegeton of Solomon, and the Grimorium Verum. Shows what they know. Two other hits brought me to bogus black magic sites, constructed by obvious wannabees who'd probably run screaming for their mothers if they ever got close to the real thing. It didn't take me long to figure out that these morons didn't know the Opus Mago from the Kama Sutra.

  The one hit left was a news item saying that a prossor at Georgetown University had translated some fragments of the Opus Mago, which the article said was one of the oldest and most obscure works in the black arts. Dr Benjamin Prescott was described as "one of the foremost authorities on the ancient grimoires." Then I read that Prescott had refused to allow his translation to be published. Anywhere. Ever.

Georgetown University, I found out, is a big place – especially if you're trying to find your way around by using their website. I finally learned that Professor Prescott's office was located in the Department of Theosophy, and even persuaded a campus operator to connect me to his direct line.

  That's where my luck ran out. I'd been hoping against hope that I'd find Prescott working late in his office, but all I got was an answering machine.

  I left a message saying who I was, but not what I wanted. I asked him to call me back the next night, anytime after 9:00. Then I got his email address from the campus directory, and sent him the same message that way.

  The professor could read the email at any time – whenever he felt like checking his account. And if he was one of those people who didn't do that regularly, he'd probably get my phone message tomorrow. Assuming he wasn't off on a research trip to Transylvania, or someplace.

The rest of the evening was typical of a night shift for the Supe Squad, if you'd want to call anything we deal with "typical."

  A ghost was haunting one of the girls' dorms at Marywood University. Marywood's coed now, but it used to bill itself as the Largest Catholic Women's College in America. Some guys at the U (a Jesuit school that used to be all-male, back in the day) used to say "Mary would if Mary could, but Mary goes to Marywood."

  I hear that Marywood girls are a little different, these days.

  A haunting isn't necessarily a big deal, but the pesky spirit was hanging around the bathrooms and ogling the young lovelies as they stepped out of the shower. Some of the girls were terrified; others were downright offended, since the ghost liked to make comments about their attributes. Not all of his observations were kindly.

  Turned out the spook was the spirit of an old guy who'd been a janitor at the school for years. He'd come back to live out some of his fantasies.

  We sent for an exorcist. Several Jesuits at the U are qualified and on call. Father Martino compelled the old guy's ghost to depart the premises, and imposed a geas on him against returning. Before he was expelled, I suggested he start haunting one of the city's strip clubs, where nobody would much care how much skin he looked at. He seemed to think that was an idea with some merit.

Then we got a call that a female vamp was using Influence on some of the customers at Susie B's, our local lesbian bar. A lot of vampires have powers of fascination. That "Look into my eyes" stuff you see on TV is real, although it's exaggerated – like everything else on TV. Despite what you hear, Influence can't take away somebody's free will – but a proficient vamp can weaken it quite a bit. And sometimes, that's all they need.

  Karl and I dropped in at the bar and talked to the owner, Barbara Ann, who'd called in the complaint. She wasted no time pointing out the bloodsucker among her clientele. "She's the one at the corner table sitting by herself – but she won't be alone for long," Barbara Ann said.

  We went to have a word with the young lady (who was probably neither very young nor much of a lady), ignoring the hostile glances from some of the other customers. Men aren't popular in Susie B's, and cops even less so.

  The vamp said her name . Hucretia. It might even have been true – she had an old-country Italian look about her: midnight black hair, with eyes to match, pale skin, and red, red lips. Nice tits, too – for a vamp.

  I was surprised that she found it necessary to use Influence in order to get laid – here, or anyplace else. Of course, she was probably in the habit of using her beautiful mouth for more than cunnilingus. Most ladies who'll happily spend a few hours trading orgasms with another woman will draw the line when it comes to giving up a few pints of the red stuff.

  Karl and I took turns explaining to Lucretia that the law prohibits the use of Influence to secure consent for any kind of transaction, whether sexual, commercial, or vampiric.

  "I really don't know what you're talking about, officers," she said, all wide-eyed innocence. "I wouldn't do a thing like that. Now I think you should both leave." Her words seemed to echo inside my head, and Lucretia looked right at me as she said them, those coal black eyes burning into mine irresistibly...

  She must have been pretty old. Her Influence was strong. I actually felt my feet begin to move under my chair, before my will reasserted itself and made them stop. If I'd had any doubts that Miss Lucretia been using her power improperly, they'd just been staked, but good.

  I smiled at her and shook my head. "Nice try, Vampirella, but no sale."

  Our police training includes the use of deep hypnosis to make us pretty much immune to that kind of stuff, and we get boosters twice a year.

  Then, mostly to see what would happen, I said, "You know, I don't think Vollman would approve of you taking advantage of people this way. It doesn't exactly reflect well on your kind, does it?"

  Her heart-breaker's face grew very still. "You know Mr Vollman?" Lucretia asked, in a tight, quiet voice she hadn't used before.

  "Sure," Karl said, with a shrug. He'd picked up on what I was doing. "We do favors for him sometimes – and vice versa."

  "You don't want us to ask him for a favor that has your name on it, do you, honey?" I said gently.

  Lucretia shook her head stiffly. In a quick rush of words she said, "No, I'm sorry, I won't do it anymore, I have to go now, g'night."

  She stood up and quickly walked out of the place, without once glancing back in our direction.

  "Guess Vollman wasn't shitting us," Karl said, as he watched the beautiful vamp's departure. Maybe he was checking her ass for clues.

  "Nope," I said, and pushed my chair back. "Looks like he really is The Man."

• • • •

I'd been on duty less than half an hour the next night when my desk phone rang.

  "Supernatural Crimes. Sergeant Markowski."

  "Yes, Sergeant. This is Dr Benjamin Prescott from Georgetown University. I believe you've been trying to get in touch with me."

  So the professor wasn't one of those Hey-call-meBen types. Well, he had lots of company.

  "Yes, sir, I have. Thanks for getting back to me."

  "Quite all right. So, what can I do for the Scranton Police Department? I assume this has something to do with my visit. I hope there isn't a security issue that's arisen."

  There was a wheeze in Prescott's voice, as if he suffered from asthma. Maybe he was just a heavy smoker.

  "Visit?" I said. "Sorry, I don't get what you mean."

  There was a pause, then he said, "I'm speaking at the University of Scranton the day after tomorrow. It's part of the Thomas Aquina lecture series that most of the Jesuit colleges participate in." Another pause. "I gather all this is news to you?"

  "Yes, sir, it is. But I'm glad to hear you're going to be in town. It'll be easier than trying to do this over the phone."

  "Easier to do what, Sergeant?" He was starting to sound impatient.

  "To ask you some questions about the Opus Mago."

The silence that followed had me wondering if we'd lost the connection. Then Prescott said, "Okay, cut the bullshit. Who are you, really?"

  "I'm who I said I was, Professor."

  "Really? Seems to me that anybody can answer the phone by saying 'Supernatural Crimes.' I bet you've been doing it all day, haven't you, waiting for me to call."

  "Professor, I–"

  "What are you, a reporter? I don't talk to you people, not about that subject. Why can't you get that through your thick skulls and stop bothering me?"

  I sighed, loud enough so that he could hear it on the line. "Professor Prescott, I left my direct number on your answering machine because I figured it would be easier than making you work your way through the system. But, okay, I tell you what: let's hang up, and you get the number for the Scranton Police Department from Directory Assistance, or the city's web page. I could give it to you myself, but you'd probably think it was a trick. So, get the number, call it, then tell the switchboard you want Supernatural Crimes. That'll get you this office, and our P.A.'ll transfer your call to me when you give her my name. Think that'll ease your mind?"

  More silence. Finally, Prescott said, "I suppose that won't be necessary. But I hope you understand that I have to be careful about discussing certain aspects of my work."

  "I understand completely, sir. The Opus Mago is a pretty scary book, from what I hear. That's why I wanted to talk to you about it."

  "I assume your interest isn't… academic?"

  "No, it's not. We've had three murders that appear to be tied to the book in some way. And I'm afraid we might be due for more if I don't figure out what's going on."

  "On what basis did you conclude that the homicides you refer to have anything to do with… the book we're talking about?"

  He doesn't want to say the name out loud. Interesting.

  "The first victim had a copy of the Opus Mago in his possession. He was tortured to make him tell where the book was hidden, then killed after he gave it up."

  "My God." The wheezing in Prescott's voice was worse now.

  "The other two victims are apparently part of some kind of sacrifice connected to a spell from the book," I said. "At least, that's the theory we're working from right now."

  "And how on earth did you reach that unlikely conclusion, Sergeant?"

  "Each victim had occult symbols carved on their bodies, symbols that aren't part of any recognized system of magic. I've been told that the symbols may have been taken from the Opus Mago."

  "Told? By whom?"

  "A local guy who's acting as a... consultant on this case. His name's Vollman, Ernst Vollman."

  There was no long pause this time. The name was barely out of my mouth before Prescott said, "I'm afraid I can't help you."

  "Professor, listen, if there's–"

  "I really doubt there's any real assistance I could offer," he said. "I've only translated fragments of the book in question, and I can't see how my very limited knowdge on the subject could be of any use to you. It would just be a waste of your time – and mine."

  "Professor Prescott, I–"

  "I'm sorry, Sergeant. Goodbye."

  A second later, I was listening to a dial tone.

  I hung up and said several nasty things about Prescott under my breath. Once that was out of my system, I grabbed my Rolodex and looked up the phone number of a guy I know who's a professor at the U.

  If he didn't know the time and place of Prescott's guest lecture, he'd sure as hell know how to find out.

I was hoping to hear from Vollman before my shift was over. Instead, I got a call from Lacey Brennan.

  Lacey works the Supe Squad over in Wilkes-Barre, which is twelve miles away and the biggest city in the Wyoming Valley, after us. We've done a little business over the years when a case crossed jurisdictional lines – like the time when a werewolf serial killer was going around tearing up people in both her county and mine.

  Lacey's a good cop. A fine-looking woman, too, but I wasn't hot for her or anything.

  Besides, she was married.

  The first thing I heard when I picked up the phone was, "Hey, Stan, how many vamps does it take to change a light bulb?"

  "I'm fine, Lace, thanks for asking," I said. I'm used to her supe jokes by now, although they never seem to get any better. "I don't know, how many?"

  "Trick question – they can't do it. Because when it comes to changing light bulbs, vampires suck."

  "That one's a hoot, it really is. I'm cracking up, but deep inside, where it doesn't show." If I ever actually laughed at one of her jokes, I think Lacey'd be offended. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" I asked.

  "I hear you've got murder vics turning up with weird shit engraved on the bodies."

  "Where'd you hear that?" There's no reason to hide stuff like that from Lacey, but in this job caution becomes a habit after a while.

  "Ah, you know how the rumor mill is. Cops gossip worse than old ladies at a bake sale."

  "Well, you heard right. Two corpses, so far. We're still working on what the symbols mean."

  "Anything unusual about the CODs?"

  "Cause of death for the first one was a slit throat. The second guy was shot."

  "That doesn't exactly sound out of the ordinary, Stan," Lacey said.

  "No, but get this: the knife was apparently coated with silver, and the bullet we dug out of the other vic seems to be made of pure charcoal. Oh, and there's one thing I forgot to mention: both victims were vamps."

  "Holy fuck," she said softly. I never figured out whether Lacey swears because she wants to be considered one of the boys, or if she's just a natural guttermouth.

  "My feelings exactly," I said.

  "What about the perp – you got any leads that aren't totally worth shit?"

  "Bits and pieces, but nothing solid yet. Why?"

  "Because it looks like your perp's broadening his range. I'm pretty sure last night the motherfucker did one over here."

I got authorization from the lieutenant to put in some overtime the next day in the cause of inter-departmental cooperation. The chief always loves to hear about stuff like that. When my shift was over, I headed home to grab a few hours' sleep. After lunch, I'd head down the line to Wilkes-Barre, to see whether Lacey Brennan had turned up the third victim of our serial killer.