Текст книги "Evil Dark"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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  Barney gave me raised eyebrows. "You believe they were hired to kill you, and not simply paying off a grudge? There is bad blood between you and the goblin community that goes back some years, I understand."

  I gave him a look. "Barney, when's the last time you met a goblin who could remember what he had for breakfast yesterday, let alone something that happened eighteen months ago?"

  The little ghoul nodded slowly. "That is a reasonable point you raise."

  "More important, can you imagine six goblins, acting alone, who could stay organized long enough to build a campfire, let alone plan and carry out a hit?"

  "When you put it like that, I cannot help but agree. Someone would appear to have used the goblins as stalking horses against you."

  "Finally, the light dawns," I said. "So what I want to know is, what human's been hanging out with the goblins lately."

  Barney frowned into his glass. "Oh, dear."

  "Don't give me 'Oh, dear', Barney. This is me, remember? The guy who keeps getting your brother out of jail?"

  "I am well aware of your efforts, Sergeant. And I hope I have not proved ungrateful in the past. I am thus most distressed that I cannot be of assistance to you on this occasion."

  "Can't – or won't?"

  "I most certainly would, were it within my capabilities. But I have no lines of communication into the goblin community. They are very secretive, and do not mingle much outside their own numbers. Except for their cousins, of course."

  "Their what? Cousins?"

  "I refer to the ogres, naturally."

  "Ogres?" I almost spilled my drink. "The giants and the greenies – are you fucking kidding me?"

  "I grant you there is little physical resemblance. But they are both creatures of the fey, and feel a certain kinship with each other. It is rather like the Russians and Serbs, in human society. Different countries, different languages and cultures. Yet in 1914, the Russians came to the defense of Serbia, thus igniting the First World War."

  "Goblins and ogres. Jesus, why didn't I know that?"

  Barney shrugged those well-tailored shoulders. "It is not a fact that either side advertises. Ogres are, in their own way, rather secretive, too."

  "Son of a bitch."

  "I am thus most regretful of my inability to offer you assistance on this occasion. But perhaps if you know a friendly ogre…"

  I put my glass down so suddenly that I sloshed ginger ale over my hand. "Mother fuck," I said. "I think I just might."

Now I needed to see an ogre about a goblin, but it was almost time for Father Duvall's office hour, and that was an opportunity I didn't want to miss.

  Just inside the main entrance to St Thomas Hall was a building directory, which informed me that Peter Duvall, SJ, had his office in room 309. Turned out I didn't have to worry about room numbers as I reached the right hallway. Only one room had light streaming from an open door, and I was glad to see that Father Duvall, unlike some profs I've heard about, actually kept his office hours.

  I stepped into the doorway and rapped my knuckles against the open door. When the man in black with the clerical collar looked up, I said, "Father Duvall? I'm Stan Markowski, from the Scranton Police Department's Occult Crimes Unit." I showed him my ID. "Dave Garrett said you might be able to help me with a case I'm working on."

  Father Duvall had manners. He stood up and walked around his desk, hand outstretched. Once I got a good look at him, I knew what thought often ran through the minds of his female students. It was the same feeling I'd had in high school, whenever I looked at beautiful Sister Mary Alan.

  What a waste.

  Father Duvall reminded me of nobody so much as JeanPaul Belmondo, who was the essence of French cool in the 1960s. He had the same disarrayed black hair, hooded eyes, and thick, sensuous lips. Duvall even had the same kind of dimple on his chin.

  What a waste.

  "Good to meet you, Sergeant," he said, shaking hands with a smile. "I don't know what you're working on, but if Dave thinks I might be able to help you, then I'll give it my best shot."

  He invited me to sit in one of the wooden visitor's chairs that faced his desk. I told him that I was interested in the Church of the True Cross, but I didn't go into why. I just said that the Church had come up in an investigation of mine, and that I wanted to learn more about it.

  "The Church of the True Cross," he said softly, sitting back in a big leather chair that looked a lot more comfortable than mine. "You know, back in the Middle Ages, when Mother Church was the toughest kid on the block, heresy was punishable by death. We live in a more enlightened age, I'm very glad to say, but while most heretics these days are merely annoying, those who constitute the Church of the True Cross are, I suspect, truly dangerous."

  "Dangerous in what way?" I asked.

  "In the same way that Islamic fundamentalist terrorists are dangerous. Both share a sense of utter self-righteousness combined with an often violent contempt toward those who are different, either in beliefs or in nature."

  I put a hand to my forehead for a moment. "I'm just a simple cop, Father, who hasn't had much sleep in the last three days. Can you put that into words of one syllable for me?"

  Duvall tilted his head and looked at me. "'Simple cop'? I'm not so sure about that, but I'll try to stop talking as if this is a theology seminar. Fair enough?"

  When I nodded, he leaned forward, placing both hands on his desk. "What I meant by that last bit was that the Church of the True Cross will hate you if you either think differently than they do, or if you are different from them."

  "Different, you mean, the way supes are."

  "Yes, exactly."

  "But hasn't the Pope declared all supes to be anathema, too?"

  "Yeah," he said, and sighed again. "But that's not going to last, especially if the next pontiff isn't a Neanderthal like the current one."

  "Nice way to talk about the Big Boss," I said. "Not that I'm disagreeing."

  "The Big Boss is the Lord, my friend," Duvall said. "He's the CEO and Chairman of the Board. His Holiness is more like the corporation's president. Presidents come and go – only the Big Boss, as you call him, is eternal."

  "So you think the Church is likely to change its position on supes?"

  "Yes, inevitably. How soon depends on who the next pope is, but there's already a lot of sentiment in the College of Cardinals that Paul VI's condemnation of supernaturals was shortsighted, as so many of his views were."

  "How about you, Father?" I asked him. "What's your view of supernaturals?"

  "My view is that we are all God's creatures, and thus worthy of His love. If God did not want vampires, for instance, to exist, then they wouldn't."

  "But that's not an opinion shared by the Church of the True Cross, I take it."

  "Hell, no. Those guys would like nothing more than the return of the Inquisition – but with them in charge, of course. They'd be burning vampires and werewolves left and right."

  "And witches, too?" I asked quietly.

  "Yes, witches, of course." He stopped and looked at me for a second or two. "That's what this is about, isn't it? Those poor women who have been burned alive in the last few weeks."

  "That's part of what it's about," I said. "But there may be more going on than that – a lot more."

  "I wish I could say that I'm surprised," Duvall said grimly.

  "How did these True Cross guys get started, anyway? I tried to look up the Wikipedia article on them, but it's been taken down."

  "That's because the True Cross propagandists keep trying to rewrite it to conform to their own cracked version of history."

  Duvall steepled his fingertips and looked at them for a few seconds. "OK, you know how the Puritans came over here and settled New England because the old England just wasn't holy enough for them?"

  "John Winthrop and all those guys."

  "Right – and the logical conclusion of the Puritans' extreme self-righteousness was the Salem witch trials of 1692, in which, uh–"

  "Twenty," I said.

  "Yes, twenty innocent people were executed. You know your history," Duvall said.

  "That's the kind of history I'm supposed to know, just like I know that something like twelve other people were executed for witchcraft around New England, years before Salem."

  "Not many people know about those," Duvall said, nodding his approval. "But it all goes to show the lengths fanatics will go in order to preserve their power."

  "You're saying the Church of the True Cross is like the Puritans?"

  "In some respects, yes. Their church was founded in 1994, when a group of people broke with the Society of St Pius X, which was founded by Marcel Lefebvre, himself a defrocked archbishop and heretic."

  "He was the guy who thought the Second Vatican Council was a Commie plot to take over the world, right?"

  "Something like that," Duvall said. "He came out of the tradition of right-wing French Catholicism, and there's nobody more reactionary than that crowd."

  "Except for the Church of the True Cross," I said.

  "You got it. They decided that Lefebvre and the Society were too accommodating, because they weren't calling for John XXIII to be lynched after the reforms that brought us out of the Middle Ages. All Lefebvre did was put on his boogie shoes and leave Mother Church. But that wasn't enough for 'Bishop' James Navarra – he wanted a more militant posture. So he split, and took a bunch of the Society's members with him."

  "How big a bunch?" I asked.

  "Seventy or eighty, something like that."

  "I take it they've grown some since those days."

  "Oh, sure," Duvall said, "although they refuse to release any membership numbers. In terms of people who regularly attend his services here in Scranton, maybe a couple of hundred. That doesn't count the curiosity-seekers who go once and are so turned off that they never go back. And there are a number of people from outside the area who send him money, although how much is between him and the IRS."

  "Some folks will send money to anybody," I said.

  "Sad, but true – but here's the ironic thing: Navarra and company don't even need it."

  "Why the hell not?" I asked.

  "Because he's got a sugar daddy – a rich nitwit who's been bankrolling the Church for years."

  "Anybody I might have heard of?"

  "Probably not," Duvall said. "But I bet you've heard of one of his kids. The guy's name is Patton Wilson. He's got six kids, one of whom is Matt Wilson."

  "Mister Kiss-Kiss-Bang-Bang? The movie star?"

  "The very same. Although I don't think Matt talks much about his dad in public – he's probably too embarrassed."

  "Is that the source of Dad's money – his movie star kid?"

  "Not at all," Duvall said. "Dad's filthy rich all on his own. Used to own a chain of newspapers in the Midwest, I understand."

  "Used to?"

  "Far as I know. He cashed in and sold all the papers years ago, or so they say."

  "I wonder," I said. "So Dad's a true believer, is he?"

  "Hard-core, all the way. Some say he's even more extreme than Bishop Navarra, although I figure that the good bishop is exactly as extreme as Patton Wilson wants him to be."

  "It's like that, huh?"

  "I believe so," Duvall said. "Wilson pulls the strings, and Navarra dances as required."

  "You said these guys are dangerous? Why? There's no shortage of religious nuts around."

  "Most religious nuts don't have millions of dollars to play with," Duvall said. "And Navarra preaches a gospel of hate, pure and simple. He's like Hitler, in the 1920s – except Navarra wears a clerical collar, to which he is not entitled. And I'm no longer sure that he's all talk and no action."

  I leaned forward, which didn't make the chair any more comfortable. "Father, I think you'd better tell me exactly what you mean."

"Duvall says there's supposed to be twelve of these guys," I said. "You know, like the twelve apostles."

  "Twelve enforcers," McGuire said.

  Karl looked at me. "There's eleven of 'em now."

  "Apparently, they've been trained by some ex-special forces types," I said.

  "Commandos," Karl said with a snort.

  "Duvall said he's pretty sure these guys do the Church's dirty work," I said, "although he had no specific idea of what that work might be."

  "But he mentioned the witch burnings," Karl said.

  "That's what he thought of when he saw them on the news – that it was the kind of shit these guys might be willing to do."

  "Why the fuck didn't Duvall come in?" McGuire said.

  "He has no proof," I said, "and without that, he figured we wouldn't be interested in talking to him."

  "If only he knew how desperate we've been for a lead," Karl said. "Hell, speculation without evidence would've been an improvement over what we had, which was nothing."

  Whatever McGuire was going to say was interrupted by the ringing phone on his desk. He never did get around to finishing the sentence.

  "McGuire. Yeah." I watched the knuckles of his phone hand slowly turn white with the pressure of his grip. For some reason, he glanced at me. "Of course." He wrote something on a pad. "I'll put somebody on it right now. Thanks."

  He hung up the phone and sat staring at it. "Looks like the Church's enforcers have been busy." He spoke softly, as if talking to himself. Then he looked at me.

  "There's been another witch burning," he said. His voice was not quite steady.

  I immediately thought of Rachel. Did they send someone to finish the job, with Rachel not expecting trouble anymore?

  "They have an ID?" I asked, my chest tight.

  "No. All I've got is this." He pushed the pad toward me. Written on it was "921 North Webster Ave."

  "Son of a motherfucking bitch," I said. "That's my house."

As Karl and I walked, very fast, out to the parking lot, I opened my phone and keyed 911.

  The woman who answered was not Christine.

  "Emergency services. How may I assist you?"

  "I want to talk to Christine Markowski – she's one of your operators. Put her on the line."

  "Sir, I'm sorry, but this number is only for–"

  "This is Detective Sergeant Stanley Markowski, Scranton Police Department, badge number 4341. I don't know who you are, but if you don't put Christine on right now, I promise you'll be charged with obstruction of justice. Now do it!"

  "Y-yes, sir."

  The line went silent. God doesn't hear from me all that often these days, but I was praying in my head now, for all I was worth.

  Please don't let her come back and say that Christine didn't make it to work tonight. Please don't let—

  "Hello, Daddy. What's wrong?"

  You can have your symphonies and concertos and angelic choirs singing. As far as I was concerned, the sweetest sound in the universe right then was my little girl's voice.

  "Chris–" I tried to speak, but my throat was clogged. I cleared it noisily and managed, "Christine."

  "Yes, I'm here – what's going on? You scared Roberta half to death."

  We were at the car now. It was my night to drive, but I flipped the keys to Karl, who didn't need any explanation. I got in the passenger side and slammed the door.

  "Christine, in case we get cut off somehow, you need to know this: do not go home this morning. Do. Not. Go. Home. Understand me?"

  "Yeah, OK, sure. I can crash at a friend's place. But what the fuck is going on?"

  "There's been another witch burning – apparently at our house."

  "What? Our house? Why?"

  "I dunno," I said. "But they haven't ID'd the victim yet, and for a second I thought the evil bastards had moved up from witches to vampires, and the charred body was you."

  "Oh, my God, you must've been – no, I'm fine. I've been here the last three hours or so."

  "Baby, I am so glad you're all right," I told her. "I've got more calls to make, so I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow night. Don't go home until I tell you it's OK – all right?"

  "Sure, Daddy, that's no problem. Make your calls – I'll talk to you tomorrow."

  "OK, bye."

  Karl had the flashing light on the dash going, and the siren screaming. Under other circumstances, he'd have been grinning like a kid. But his face was serious as he glanced at me.

  "Christine's OK, then?"

  "Yeah, thank God."

  "Thank God is right."

  I brought up the directory in my phone and pressed a number.

  "Who're you calling now?" Karl asked.

  "Rachel."

  Rachel's line started ringing. One. Two. Three. If she didn't answer, that didn't necessarily mean anything bad. She could be out getting a cheeseburger, or something. Four. "Come on, Rachel, answer the fucking–"

  "Hello?"

  "Rachel, it's Stan."

  "What's wrong? It's bad, I can tell."

  "There's been another witch burning. I was afraid it was you."

  "Another one? But I thought the man doing that was dead!"

  "He is. Apparently he'd got friends."

  "Oh, goddess – that poor woman, whoever she is."

  "That spell you used the other night," I said, "the freezing one – I'd reactivate that, or whatever the proper term is."

  "Yes, of course. I'll do that at once."

  "And you might want to call your sister witches and put the word out. Tell them the danger hasn't passed."

  "All right, Stan, I'll take care of it."

  "The other witches are probably OK for tonight," I said. "These bastards have never done more than one a night. But then, they never did one in my yard, either."

  "Your yard! Oh, Stan, that is so awful–"

  Karl made the corner onto my street on what felt like two wheels. Ahead, I could see flashing lights.

  "We're almost there. Gotta go. Talk later. Bye."

  I wasn't even surprised to see Scanlon anymore. He stood at the bottom of my front steps, hands in his overcoat pockets, and watched me approach. Karl went to talk to the uniformed officers who'd responded first.

  I took a few seconds to look at the tree, a poplar that I'd planted on the day Christine was born. But I saved most of my sympathy for the victim. Like the others, she was reduced to a charred lump of meat, tied to the tree with rope at her chest and shins. The odor was – well, it was all too familiar by now, although I never imagined that I'd be smelling it here.

  "Ten minutes ago, McGuire said you didn't have an ID on the vic. Anything change since then?" I asked.

  "No, she's still a Jane Doe," Scanlon said. "We'll do the usual – send dental work out, DNA, look for a missing persons report that fits. We'll probably have an ID in a couple of days, if the earlier cases are any indication."

  I made myself look at what was tied to the tree. Without taking my eyes away, I said, quietly, "I wonder what husband is asking, right about now, where his wife is, or what kid is worried because Mom is late getting home. Or what father– " I had to stop for a second. "What father is going crazy because his daughter's missing."

  "You talk to Christine?" Scanlon asked.

  "Yeah, she's fine."

  "How about Rachel Proctor?"

  "Talked to her, too. She's OK."

  We stood there in silence, gazing upon the remains of one of the cruelest things one human being can do to another. Finally Scanlon said, "I thought this was supposed to be done with."

  "Yeah, we all did."

  "As that partner of yours would say, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?"

  "I'm pretty sure I know what happened," I said. "Problem is, I can't prove diddly-squat."

  "Tell me what you think."

  He listened closely as I told him what I'd learned about the Church of the True Cross.

  When I was done, he was quiet for a bit, then asked, "What do you figure the point was of doing this in your front yard? Revenge? Defiance? A warning?"

  "I think it was their way of saying, This isn't over, motherfucker. And you know something?"

  "Um?"

  "They're right."

I had to let homicide detectives traipse through my house, to make sure there wasn't anything in there connected to the atrocity out front. I guess Scanlon had told them not to be annoying about it, because they weren't – for the most part. But just having a couple of cops walking around inside your home is enough to annoy most people, me included.

  Finally the forensics techs had all the photos and soil samples they wanted, the body of the victim was on its way to the morgue under a Jane Doe tag, and I was free to go back to work.

  Once we were in the car, I pulled out my wallet and started sorting through all the junk I've stuck in there and keep meaning to get rid of.

  Karl watched me for a few seconds. "What're you doing?"

  "Looking for – ah, there it is." I retrieved from amidst all the crap a piece of paper with a phone number on it. I got my phone out and, before Karl could ask, said, "There's an ogre I need to call."

  Karl looked at me. "An ogre."

  "Yep."

  As I started touching numbers, Karl nodded calmly.

  "Makes perfect sense to me," he said. Maybe he'd read somewhere that you're supposed to humor lunatics.

  Midway through the second ring a voice answered. "Yuh?"

  "I'm looking for Ivan." If he asked me for a last name, I was sunk. I didn't know if ogres share phones, or what the hell they do.

  "This Ivan."

  "This is Sergeant Stan Markowski, Scranton Police Department."

  "Mark who?"

  I tried not to sigh into my mouthpiece. "The cop who could've shot your brother Igor, but didn't."

  "Oh, yeah, Markowski. OK, I remember. Hi."

  "You said you owed me a favor, remember?"

  "I did? Oh, right, 'cause you didn't kill Igor. Yeah, I owe you, Markowski."

  "Well, tonight's the night I collect on it. I need to talk to you somewhere, face-to-face."

  "You wanna talk? That's the favor?"

  This time, I couldn't stop the sigh from escaping.

  "No, I want to talk to you and tell you what the favor is."

  "Oh. OK."

  I waited, but the ogre didn't say anything more. "Where can I meet you?" I asked, finally.

  "Meet? You mean tonight?"

  "Yeah, tonight. Soon."

  I listened to several seconds of heavy ogre breathing before Ivan spoke again.

  "How about Leary's Bar?" he said. "Nice place."

  That idea was so brilliant, I knew something must be wrong with it. In a moment, I knew what the flaw was.

  "I think maybe they're closed," I said. "For remodeling."

  "Nah, I pass by there last night. Didn't go in. Bar is open. Look like all new stuff inside."

  "That's a great idea, then. How soon can you get there?"

  "I leave now, maybe… ten minutes?"

  "OK, Ivan, I see you in Leary's Bar. Ten minutes."

  God, now he had me doing it.

  "See ya," the ogre said, and the call ended.

  Karl was looking at me. Of course, he'd only heard my end of the conversation.

  "Do I have this right?" he said. "We're gonna meet an ogre who owes you a favor – in Leary's?"

  "That's about it."

  Karl turned the ignition key. "Then we better get a move on. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

  As we pulled into traffic he said, "Siren and lights a little too much?"

  "What the fuck," I said. "Go wild."

Leary's place looked good as new. Of course, a lot of the stuff in there was new.

  He'd replaced the tables and chairs – not just the broken ones, but all of them. I guess he wanted everything to match. The mirror behind the bar still had manufacturer's stickers on it, and if Leary hadn't completely restored the collection of bottles that usually lined the shelf in front of the mirror, a lot of them seemed to be there. I checked the ceiling lights – yep, repaired or replaced. Even the floor looked as if it had been refinished.

  I took all this in during the time it took Karl and me to walk from the door to the highly polished bar and sit down. I checked out the two waitresses, but neither one was Heather, who'd had such a stressful time with Igor the other night. I wondered if she'd ever come back to work here.

  Leary came through a door behind the bar, saw us, and swaggered on over. He was one of those guys who look like they could strut while sitting down.

  "Well," he said with false bonhomie, "look what the bat dragged in!" When he caught the look Karl was giving him, Leary just smiled and said, "No offense, of course."

  "I'm amazed how fast you got this place put back in order, Leary," I said. "Must've cost you a fortune to have it done in only a few days."

  The shock of red hair bobbed up and down. "That it did," Leary said. "But if I'm closed, I can't make money. And if I stay closed very long, my regulars'll find someplace else to do their drinkin', that's for sure. Besides, I plan to stick the insurance company with the bill for most of it."

  He slapped the bar with his big hands. "Now, what can I get you fellas? First round's on me."

  "Really?" I said. "Pity we're on the job, or I'd ask for a nice single malt." I'm not exactly sure what "single malt" means, except that it's expensive booze. "As it is, I'll have a ginger ale, and my partner here will have…?" I looked at Karl, who said, "Club soda is fine."

  Leary cocked an eyebrow at Karl. "Club soda, is it? Well, just as well you didn't ask for a Bloody Mary, since mine aren't made with real blood." He laughed, which made one of us who found him funny.

  Leary drew our drinks from his dispenser and brought them over. Setting them down with exaggerated care, he said, "A ginger ale for the good Sergeant Markowski, and a mere club soda for Detective Renfer. I didn't even know you people could drink this stuff, Karl – it lackin' the hemoglobin, and such."

  "It doesn't do much for me, tell you the truth," Karl said with a friendly smile that displayed his fangs, "but I can drink it without puking. Besides, if I get an uncontrollable urge for the real thing, I know what to do." He looked Leary up and down. "You'd be a Type O, wouldn't you, Leary?"

  Leary forced a grin at what he probably hoped was humor, then turned to me. "What brings you gentlemen here, then, if not for spirits? If you came by just to see how old Leary is gettin' on after the great ogre invasion of a few nights ago, well, I'm touched at your concern, I am."

  "No, actually, we're meeting someone to discuss police business," I said, "and this was a convenient location for everybody." I saw something large moving in my peripheral vision and turned to look. "And here he is now, right on time."

  Leary was looking in the same direction I was, and his eyes were suddenly the size of drink coasters. "What in the name of all the saints is he doin' here? The bastard's in jail, ain't he? Don't tell me he made bail, because the judge didn't set any. I called and checked."

  I acted like I had just figured out what he meant. "Oh, you mean you thought this fella is… no, no, you're quite right. That one's in the slam, and likely to remain there for some time." I paused for effect. "This is his brother."

  "Good Lord between us and all harm," Leary breathed. To me he said, "What does he want?"

  "A drink, I expect," I said. I waved to the ogre. "Come on over and sit down, Ivan."

  And so he did, taking up two bar stools in the process. I noticed Ivan lowered himself down carefully even so, as if used to the fragility of human furniture.

  "What'll you have to drink, Ivan?" I asked. "The good innkeeper, Mister Leary, here is buying – isn't that so, Leary?"

  Leary seemed incapable of speech. He just looked at Ivan and nodded.

  "Cognac," Ivan rumbled. "I like cognac."

  "My friend here will have a cognac, Leary, a double. The good stuff, if you please."

  The look that Leary gave me could be bottled and used to poison pit vipers. But off he went, and soon came back with a snifter of cognac that he set in front of Ivan. No dramatic flourishes this time, I noticed.

  Before turning away, Leary caught my eye and mouthed what I'm pretty sure was "You're responsible."

  Ivan took a sip of his cognac – I noticed he didn't swirl it around in the snifter first, the way people do in the movies. I never understood that ritual, either. He put the glass down and said, "Good stuff. Thanks."

  "You're welcome, Ivan. Now I want to ask you something. Is it true what I've heard, that your people are related to… goblins?"

  The ogre sat staring into his glass, and I wasn't sure he was going to answer. But then he nodded slowly and said, "Not close relations, but yeah. Some say like 'cousins', but I'm not sure what they mean."

  "Do you speak Goblin?"

  Another slow nod. "Some."

  "Do you know any of the local goblins?"

  "A few, yeah."

  "Do any of them owe you a favor? Or is there maybe one who you can scare into doing something for you?"

  Ivan turned and looked at me. "Depends on what 'something' means."

  I turned my stool toward him and leaned forward a little. "OK, here's what I had in mind."

By the time we finished talking with Ivan, who promised to stay in touch, it was getting near the end of our shift. But I wanted to do one more thing, before Karl and I parted company for the night.

  "Since the bad guys know where I live," I said, "I told Christine to spend the day someplace else."

  "Sounds like a good idea," Karl said. "You planning to follow your own advice, for a change?"

  "Yeah, I am, as a matter of fact. I thought I'd get a room someplace until this mess of a case is resolved."

  "Probably for the best. Got someplace in mind?"

  "I want a hotel, not a motel," I said. "If I can get a room four or five stories up, or higher, I won't have to worry about anybody coming at me through the windows. And I'll set up some stuff at the door to give me a few seconds warning if anybody tries to get in that way."

  "As long as you don't blow away some poor maid who just wants to change the sheets."

  "I'll notify housekeeping to leave me alone," I said.

  "So, there's five high-rise hotels in and around town, haina? Which one floats your boat?"

  "I was thinking of the Radisson."

  Karl whistled. "Stan the man is going first class."

  "Fuckin' A," I said. "The city will reimburse me, since this is work-related, so I may as well make the most out of it."

  I didn't tell Karl why I hadn't considered staying at the Hilton.

  "Thing is," I said, "I need to go home first and pack a bag."

  "And you want me to watch your back." One of the things I like about Karl is I don't have to draw him any diagrams.

  "Exactly," I said. "Which is why I'd like us to go now, while there's still some night time left."