Текст книги "Evil Dark"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

  "So, let's do it."

  Karl drove us back to the station house, where we signed out and got in our own cars. We'd agreed that Karl would leave first, and park a couple of streets over from my house. He'd quietly make his way through the neighbors' yards and get in position to watch my place before I drove up.

  And if I encountered trouble from somebody already waiting inside, Karl's acute vampire hearing would pick it up, and he'd move in fast. He's been in my place many times, Karl has – he doesn't need to ask permission to enter.

  I went in through my front door carefully, ready for trouble. But I needn't have worried. The only living soul inside was Quincey. Bringing his cage with me to the Radisson might draw attention, so I quickly changed his bedding, overfilled his food bowl, and attached an extra water bottle, so the little guy wouldn't dehydrate.

  As I packed my suitcase, I kept one ear cocked for sounds of commotion outside. "If somebody does show up," I'd said to Karl, "take him – or them – alive, if at all possible."

  "Fine with me, but if you're thinking of interrogating another one of these clowns – well, you saw what happened last time."

  "Yeah, I know – they tend to be obstinate. That's why I have in mind something different to try, if we ever get our hands on another one."

  But I guess the Church of the True Cross wasn't interested in me any more tonight. I locked the front door, waved in the general direction of where I figured Karl would be, and drove off to spend a few days in the lap of luxury. Of course, it's easier to enjoy elegant accommodations when you're not concerned about people trying to kill you.

On my way to the Radisson I called Christine. She had another half an hour to go on her shift at Emergency Services, but I wanted to be sure she knew where I was before she went to ground for the day. She's not supposed to take personal calls at work, and I'd already caused enough disruption over there for one night. So I called her personal number and waited for the voicemail to kick in.

  "Hi, baby, it's me. I just stopped over to the house, and it's fine, but I still think we should both stay away for a few days. I'm going to be at the Radisson, under the name Michael Pacilio, P-A-C-I-LI-O. But if you want to call, you're probably better off just using my cell number. Love ya."

  Michael Pacilio was the hero of that novel I'd been reading about scientists who'd opened the door to hell. I didn't think anybody would recognize the name – the book hadn't exactly been a bestseller.

  I knew that using a phone while driving is against the law, and it's a law I usually agree with and obey. But shit happens, sometimes. I was tempted to arrest myself for the violation, but I decided to let me off with a warning, instead.

  At the Radisson I talked to the assistant manager, Tim Walsh. I've known Tim a long time, and he agreed to let me check in under the false name I'd selected.

  He also promised to override the computer's request for a credit card number to go with Michael Pacilio's name. Anybody with the resources of the Church of the True Cross might be able to access my credit card statements online. If they saw a current charge for the Radisson, they might send some people after me. Then the hotel would have more dead bodies to deal with, one of which might be mine.

  Once I got into my room, I ordered a big room service breakfast, which Tim agreed to deliver personally so I wouldn't have to worry about who the waiter was really working for. He's a good man, Tim.

  Then I called Lacey and brought her up to date. I also told her my idea about how to handle a prisoner from the Church, should we ever get another one. She agreed immediately, and said she'd start looking for a suitable place at once. I told her I'd ask around as well.

  After eating, I left the tray out in the hall, took a shower, and went to bed. They say that we all dream, every night. Maybe that's true, but if I had any dreams this time, I was blessed by not remembering any of them.

I'd been at work about ten minutes when the Feebies marched in, intent on talking to McGuire. I received the usual Greer glare, but Thorwald didn't look at me at all. I tried to catch her eye, but it was like I didn't exist for her. Guess she didn't take kindly to being stood up.

  I called Victor Castle and told him that the Church of the True Cross seemed to be escalating its efforts to start a "race war" between humans and supes. He said he would do his best to keep the supe community from overreacting to the latest atrocities, but urged me to "bring this matter to a successful conclusion as soon as possible," as if I needed encouragement to do my job. Prick.

  Even if it wasn't my job to take down the Church of the True Cross, I'd do it, anyway. Burn somebody alive on my front lawn, I take it personally. I'm funny that way.

  On my way to the break room for a cup of what passes for java in the squad, I noticed that somebody had left a copy of the People's Voice on an empty desk. The front page headline grabbed my attention – which wasn't hard to do, since the letters were about two inches high.

DEMON MURDER!

 

  it said. Underneath, in somewhat smaller type was,

 

"Snuff films" show torture of innocent humans

  and below that even smaller letters promised,

(Story, page 3).

  "Motherfucker!" I muttered. Karl must've heard me, because he came up and looked over my shoulder.

  "Ah, shit!" he said. "How'd those fuckers get the story?" Before I could offer an answer he said, "Turn the page, will you?"

  The headline at the top of page 3 was in smaller print but equally hysterical: Videos Show Torture, Murder.

  The story was underneath.

Special to The People's Voice by Tod Solin

SCRANTON (Oct. 19) – A series of "underground" videos show the apparent torture and murder of innocent people at the hands of demon-possessed humans, humans who have no control over their macabre actions.

  Each video shows two naked prisoners, shackled to chairs facing each other. A voice off-camera can be heard summoning a foul creature from Hell. Then one of the prisoners is "possessed" by the newly arrived demon, who is then freed to commit bloody mayhem on the other screaming, pleading human.

  Despite advances in special-effects makeup that allow Hollywood filmmakers to realistically simulate torment and mutilation in the horror sub-genre known as "torture porn," it is highly unlikely that the atrocities shown in these videos are simulated.

  The People's Voice has obtained three of these so-called "snuff videos", and this reporter has been reliably informed that others exist as well. The videos have been…

• • • •

To the left of the story was a shot from the video that Thorwald and Greer had screened for the squad at the beginning of this nightmare. It showed the demon-possessed man at work on the other one, who we now knew as Edward Hudzinski. The image was carefully selected to avoid showing the participants' genitals or any actual explicit torture. But it had a good shot of Hudzinski's face in mid-scream.

  Karl stopped reading and stepped back. "Know that that splattering noise is?"

  I turned to face him. "What noise? I don't hear anything."

  "Sure you do," he said grimly. "It's the sound of all the shit that just hit the fan."

  I refolded the paper and took it with me to McGuire's office. The Feebies were still in there with him, but I rapped on the door a couple of times and opened it anyway.

  "Boss, I–"

  Thorwald gave me the kind of glare that Custer probably grew really tired of in his last moments. "This is a private conversation with your superior, Sergeant – which you have not been invited to take part in!" Hell hath no fury, and so on.

  "I know," I said. "And I've been feeling really bad about that, too. But I wondered if any of you folks had seen this." I tossed the newspaper onto McGuire's desk.

  McGuire reached for it, but Thorwald was faster. She snatched it up, stared at the headline, then ripped the paper open to page 3. She must have been a fast reader, because less than ten seconds went by before she closed the paper, folded it in one angry motion, and flung it back on the desk.

  "This is outrageous!" she cried.

  "I couldn't agree more," I said calmly. Next to me, Karl said, "Yeah, me neither."

  McGuire had acquired the paper by now and was reading the article with a look of horrified fascination.

  "This… this…" Thorwald seemed to be having trouble getting a sentence started. "Some cocksucker has leaked those fucking snuff videos to the motherfucking press. And since I didn't do it, and Greer didn't do it, do you know what that fucking means?"

  Normally, listening to an attractive woman talk dirty turns me on a little, but I think even a satyr's lust would have been quelled by Thorwald's fury.

  "Um, someone in Washington isn't to be trusted?" I asked innocently. I wasn't going to give Thorwald the fight she was obviously spoiling for. I wondered if she would have been quite this pissed off at me if she'd achieved the two hours of "good hard fucking" that she'd been seeking.

  I guess Greer was feeling neglected, because he pointed an index finger at me and said, "I've had just about enough out of you, pal."

  Before anybody could respond to that, Thorwald turned and headed for McGuire's door, with an expression that said as clear as words, "Don't get in my fucking way!"

  Karl and I stepped aside and let her pass. After a couple of seconds, Greer followed. I was glad Thorwald wasn't the last one out. She'd probably have slammed the door hard enough to shatter the glass.

  The three of us watched as the two agents made their angry way across the squad room and out the door. A couple of other detectives at their desks turned and looked, too. That much rage is impressive, even when it's not directed at you.

  McGuire sighed and tapped the newspaper a couple of times. "Histrionics aside," he said, "this is pretty goddamn bad."

  Karl and I sat down in the chairs the Feebies had vacated. "Yeah, I know," Karl said. "The public is gonna go nuts over this, which means pressure on the politicos, which means more pressure on us."

  "As if we needed it," McGuire said.

  "Boss," I said, "have you ever noticed that the stuff that's published in the People's Voice always seems like an echo of the bullshit put out by the Church of the True Cross?"

  McGuire glanced down at the screaming headlines again. "You figure there's a connection?"

  "At this point, I'd be surprised if there wasn't."

  "Even if there is, so what? There's no law says a church can't own a newspaper."

  "Yeah, but they're hiding it, aren't they? If so, they're doing it for a reason."

  "You got any thoughts as to what that reason might be?" McGuire asked.

  "No, not at the moment."

  "Then bug me about it when you do, not before."

  "No matter who owns that rag," Karl said, "somebody sent them copies of those fuckin' videos. Since it wasn't us, I gotta wonder–"

   Louise appeared at McGuire's door and said, "Excuse the interruption, sir." She looked at me. "Rachel Proctor on the phone. Says it's urgent."

  I turned to McGuire. "You mind, boss?"

  "No, go on – get out of here, both of you. I've got calls of my own to make. When I tell the chief, I bet he's gonna make Thorwald sound like a Mary Poppins."

  I walked quickly to my desk, pushed a blinking button on the phone, and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Rachel?"

  "Stan, one of the best ideas you had was when you suggested I tell the other witches that those murderers were still at large – although I like to think I would've thought of it myself."

  "I'm sure you would," I said. "What's up?"

  "I just got a call from Carol Ann Cosgrove."

  "Yeah, I know Carol Ann."

  "Apparently one of those commando assholes made a grab at her, but she had a spell ready to protect herself."

  "She froze him, like you did?"

  "No, she used a sleep spell," Rachel said. "He's dead to the world, until she wakes him."

  "Good for her. I'm glad she was quick enough, and kept her head."

  "Me, too," she said. "Thing is, Carol Ann isn't sure who she should call to report it – the regular cops, the Supe Squad, or–"

  "Rachel, are you home, or in your office?"

  "Office. I could've come up, but wasn't sure if you were there. I was gonna call your personal number if Louise said you were out."

  "Great," I said. "We'll be down in a minute."

  I put the phone down and looked at Karl. "Come on," I said, and turned toward the door.

  As we walked down the hall, Karl asked, "What've we got, Stan?"

  "A break. If we play it right, maybe a big one."

"Did Carol Ann say where the perp is now?" I asked Rachel.

  "Curled up on the floor of her garage," she said. "He was hiding there, and apparently made a grab for her when she got out of the car."

  "How long will he stay out?" I asked.

  "I know the spell she used. It'll remain in place until she lifts it. I mean, she has a moral obligation to wake him before he dies of thirst, or something, but that won't be a danger for several days."

  I thought for a couple of moments. "You mind getting her on the phone for me, Rachel?"

  "Sure."

  Rachel made the call.

  "Hi, Carol Ann, it's Rachel again. I've got Stan Markowski from Occult Crimes with me. You know Stan, don't you? Good. He'd like to speak with you, so I'm going to hand him the phone now, OK? All right, just a second."

  "Hi, Carol Ann."

  "Hello, Stan. Long time."

  "Yeah, it is. I hear you've had quite a night."

  "To say the least. I don't think my heart rate has returned to normal yet – but it's better than it was."

  "You'll be fine, soon," I said. "Tell me, how was the guy dressed, do you recall?"

  "He looks like something out of the movies, Stan. Black clothing, even his stocking cap."

  "OK, that's what I figured. Uh, Carol Ann, I'm going to ask you to do something kind of… unusual."

  Her voice became guarded. "Go ahead and ask."

  "Well, instead of sending a squad car over there right now to pick up Sleeping Beauty, I'd like to leave him where he is for a few hours. Think you can stand that?"

  After a short pause she said, "Yeah, I suppose so. What's going on, Stan? Are all the cells full tonight?"

  "Not exactly. But I want time to arrange for some special accommodations for this fella."

  "What kind of accommodations?" Carol Ann asked.

  "It's probably better that you don't know that," I said. "But I'll tell you this much – if I can make my idea work, I might be able to find out who's sending these thugs after you and your sister witches."

  Actually, I already knew the answer to that question – what I needed was proof.

  "All right, Stan. I suppose I can go along with that – with one proviso. Are you planning to do harm to him? Because, although part of me would love that, I cannot permit it to happen as a result of my magic."

  "Carol Ann, I'm not planning to harm a hair under his little stocking cap. Now, there's just one more thing I need to ask you…"

  As Karl and I walked back to the squad room, I reached for my own phone. It only took a few seconds to find Lacey's number and call it.

  "Hello?" she said.

  "It's Stan."

  "Yes… and?"

  "We've got one. It's on."

  "I'm very glad to hear that."

  "How soon can you be ready?"

  "Everything's all set up at the cottage," Lacey said. "All I have to do is get there. Say… an hour fifteen, to be on the safe side."

  "Fine. We'll see you there."

  "Stan?"

  "What?"

  "Thank you."

  When I told McGuire that Karl and I were going to take personal time for the rest of our shift, he looked at me and nodded grudgingly. He doesn't like stuff like that, but union rules say we can, and neither one of us does it a lot.

  McGuire looked at me. "Do I want to know how you and Karl are going to be spending the time?"

  "No, you don't."

  He nodded slowly. "All right. Good luck."

  As we walked outside, I asked Karl, "You sure your uncle's not likely to show up in the middle of things?"

  "Naw, he's already in Florida. I called him last night, before I gave Lacey the key and directions. He's down there, all right."

  In the parking lot, Karl said, "No point taking two cars, is there?"

  "None that I can see."

  "Which one, then?"

  "You've got more trunk space," I said.

  "Good point. OK, get in."

  In another ten minutes, we were ringing Carol Ann's doorbell. She answered it almost at once.

  "Come on in, guys."

  She gave me a quick hug. "Good to see you, Stan."

  She had a hug for Karl, too. "How've you been, Karl?"

  "Not too bad, I guess."

  Carol Ann asked him, "I understand you're nosferatu nowadays," she said. "How's that working out for you?"

  "Ah, it's like anything else, Carol Ann – good points and bad ones."

  I asked her, "Did you prepare what we talked about?"

  "Yep, got it right here."

  She showed me a small statuette. I'd had a bad experience with a Gorgon statue a while ago, but this one looked entirely different. There was nothing evil about it.

  "It's a representation of the goddess Hecate," Carol Ann said. "I'd like it back someday. No hurry."

  "I'll take good care of it," I said.

  "When the time comes, just close your hand around it, like this–" she made a fist "–and say the word pardac. It's only charged to work once, so be sure you're ready before you say it."

  "It's pardac," I said. "Right?"

  "Perfect. Here you go." She handed me the statuette, and I carefully put it in my jacket pocket.

  "Well, any time you guys want to take out the garbage, he's ready for you," she said.

  Five minutes later, we pulled out of Carol Ann's driveway. In the trunk we had an unconscious commando, who was probably in for the worst night of his life.

To get to Lake Wallenpaupack, you take Route 84 east from Scranton for about twenty miles, then follow shitty secondary roads that seem to go on forever – or at least they do in the part we were headed for, a stretch of shoreline that mostly consists of smaller houses or cottages. They're empty for about half the year.

  Often a bunch of fishermen will chip in and buy one of the cottages, and use it as a base in the summer. Karl's uncle had one all his own, and that's where we were headed, much to the dismay of Karl's shock absorbers. We bounced through the potholes at ten to fifteen miles an hour. Our guest in the trunk should have been glad he was unconscious, although he'd still find himself all bruised and banged up when he awoke. And that was going to be the least of his problems.

  Lacey's Dodge Perdition was already there when we pulled into the graveled driveway. Good – that was the plan.

  We opened the trunk, and Karl carried the limp form down some sloping ground and around to the back, to the basement entrance. A couple of big doors that belonged on a barn stood slightly open, and a light shone from inside. I pulled one of the doors wide enough for Karl and his burden to get through. He didn't need an invitation – he'd been in here before.

  As we came into the big, open room, we found Lacey facing the door, waiting for us. "Good evening," she said. Some people might have said that à la Bela Lugosi, but not Lacey – she was serious tonight. Deadly serious.

   I took in the dirt floor, peeling wallpaper, and ramshackle furniture that I figured had constituted all the original furnishings. But Lacey had brought in a few things of her own.

  The most impressive of the new additions was a big frame made of black PVC pipe, the stuff they use in industrial plumbing and scaffolding. The freestanding structure was about eight feet square, and the plastic surface of the pipes gleamed in the overhead light. It looked like a big Tinkertoy that had been designed by the Spanish Inquisition.

  Next to the PVC structure, but at a right angle to it, was a folding table that I assumed Lacey had also brought with her. Arrayed along it was a collection of implements, which I had described for Lacey from the two snuff films I'd seen.

  The macabre smorgasbord included knives of course, and a new-looking blowtorch. Somewhere she had found an old-fashioned corkscrew – the kind that is just a tightly wound spiral of steel with a sharp point at one end and a handle on the other. She had a hammer and the needlenose pliers, too.

  Lacey looked slowly around the room and said, "Nice place your uncle has here, Karl."

  "I know it's a wreck," he said, "but fishermen aren't too fussy. All they wanna do is fish, tell lies about what got away, and drink beer."

  Lacey shook her head. "No, Karl, I'm sorry – you misunderstood. No sarcasm intended – I mean it. For what we're going to do tonight, this place is perfect. I practically fell in love the first time I saw it."

  Karl placed his unconscious burden gently on the dirt floor. Lacey looked at the black-clad man for a moment, and something in her face reminded me of stories I'd read about Indians involved in intertribal warfare centuries ago, and how their greatest fear was being taken prisoner and turned over to the women.

  "Well, you might as well strip him and get him secured to the frame," she said. "Then we'll get started."

  Undressing our prisoner was easy enough, although I smiled a little when I discovered the guy wore no underwear – he really was going commando. But trying to get a naked, unconscious man tied to a structure like that, arms and legs spread wide, was harder than we'd thought. But finally it was done.

  Lacey looked at our work and nodded approval. Then she asked me, "You have something to break the spell?"

  "Sure do," I said, and brought the little statue from my pocket. "All set?" I asked her, and she nodded tensely. I closed my hand around the statuette, looked at the naked man, and said, "Pardac."

  The guy didn't snap awake. It took him ten or fifteen seconds to reach full awareness – and when he did, he was not a happy little camper.

  He blinked rapidly, then shook his head, the way a dog will when trying to get rid of water on its fur. Like the other representative of the Church's elite guard that we'd met, this one was in his late twenties and very fit-looking. His black hair was cut short, but his eyebrows were bushy. One of his knees was circled with old surgical scars, as if he'd tried a little too hard when playing high school football.

  Our prisoner looked around at us, eyes wide.

  "Who are– What did you– How did I get–" Then he seemed to realize the full extent of his plight – he was alone, tied up, spreadeagled naked in front of strangers whose intentions were uncertain. In his place, I'd be scared, too.

  "Jesus fucking Christ – let me down from here! Let me go, goddamnit!!

  "Blasphemy. How distressing." Karl sounded disapproving.

  "And so early in the proceedings," I said. "Gives us less to look forward to later."

  The commando's gaze traveled around the room, and he didn't seem nearly as pleased with what he saw as Lacey had been. "Wh-where am I?"

  "Someplace where nobody can hear you scream," I said.

  When I spoke this time, he'd stared at me, as if my voice had jarred something in his memory. "I know you!"

  I just nodded. Then the guy shifted his gaze to Karl. "And you! I know you, too. You're that vampire cop!" Karl nodded as well.

  Finally, he looked at Lacey, who stood there, hands in her pockets, a gentle smile on her face.

  "Who – who the hell are you?"

  She walked slowly over to him until she stood with her face only a few feet from his. "Me?" she said softly. "I am Vengeance."

  The commando opened his mouth, but no sound came out. After a few seconds, Lacey walked slowly over to the table and its array of agony. She gently ran the fingertips of one hand along the length of the display, lightly touching each instrument in turn. Then she turned back to our prisoner.

  "Do you recognize these?" Her voice was light, almost casual. "They should be familiar. I thought there was a certain… irony involved in taking the implements that have been the source of so much pain for others…" She paused. "And using them on you." Lacey abandoned the teasing tone then, and her voice became hard. "Every one of them."

  The naked man was trembling now, as if the temperature in the basement had just dropped twenty degrees. Finally he screamed, "I don't care what you do to me – I'll never talk! I'll never tell you anything, you cunt."

  "Ooh, such language." Lacey was playing the tease again. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Or should I say, 'Did you?' Because you never will again."

  She was wearing a medium-weight navy-blue jacket, and now she unzipped it to reveal a short-sleeve knit pullover top and jeans underneath. She draped the jacket over the back of a nearby chair, then reached up, crossed her arms, and pulled the top over her head.

  At least she hadn't gone the Victoria's Secret route. Underneath the top, she wore a plain black sports bra. I thought it looked pretty damn good on her anyway, but that wasn't the point. The striptease wasn't part of the script we'd agreed on.

  Calling a huddle right then might give our prisoner reason to suspect dissension among the ranks of his tormenters, and that would never do. So, trying to sound casual, I said to Lacey, "Um, what're you doing there?"

  She was just kicking off her plain black shoes to reveal bare feet. "Doing?" She gave me an innocent look that I didn't believe for a microsecond. "Oh, you mean this?"

  As she spoke, she'd been unbuckling her belt and undoing a button on the jeans. Now she yanked the zipper down and pushed the jeans past her slim hips. They fell, pooling around her ankles, and she kicked them free.

  "Gosh, Stan, you don't think I want to get a mess all over my clothes, do you? Blood washes off skin much more easily than it does fabric."

  Lacey bent, picked up the jeans, and placed them on the chair. She had on a pair of those gray women's undershorts that look like the boxers men wear, and are just about as sexy. But, still, on Lacey…

  A couple of steps brought her over to the commando, who was staring at her in barely concealed panic, despite his big talk of a few moments ago.

  She ran a hand slowly along his inner thigh, just brushing his shrunken penis. "Besides, having a naked woman do all the things that I'll be doing to him adds a touch of piquancy to the whole experience – don't you think?"

  Then she reached behind her back for the bra fastener. "If you guys want to stay for the show, it's OK with me. But if you go upstairs, there's beer in the fridge and a working TV in the living room. In fact, you might want to turn it up extra loud."

  "Good idea," I said, and turned away just as the fastener came undone and the bra slid down her arms. Karl followed me at once.

  We pulled the big door shut behind us, and immediately from inside came the sound of metal sliding on wood. I remembered that there'd been a big bolt next to the knob, and it seemed that Lacey had just shot it, locking the door securely from the inside. I looked at Karl, and he stared back. This part wasn't in the script, either.

Karl and I made our way back around the side of the cottage to the front door and let ourselves in. There was beer in the fridge, all right, but it didn't appeal to either of us – for different reasons. Lacey was right about the TV, too. The old 19-inch portable had extendable rabbit ears that could pull in two of the local channels. We settled on one and watched stupid sitcoms. The reception wasn't all that good, but then I can't say that I paid real close attention. I kept waiting for screams to start issuing from the room underneath us, but all I could hear was the inane dialogue and canned laughter of the TV show. Finally, I asked Karl if his acute vampire hearing was picking up anything from below.

  "No screaming, if that's what you mean," he said. "I can sort of make out Lacey's voice, and sometimes the guy's, but I can't catch what they're saying."

  "Let's say we start hearing screams, thirty seconds from now. What do we do about it?"

  Karl scratched his chin. "What do you want to do about it?"

  "You could take that basement door down, couldn't you? Despite the fact that it's bolted shut?"

  "Yeah, that wouldn't be much of a problem," he said. "Assuming that's what we decide to do."

  "Why wouldn't we? The plan was to terrify him into talking, remember? We can't sit here and let her torture the guy, even if he is a fucking scumbag."

  "The dude's not under arrest," Karl said. "And Lacey's not acting in her official capacity as a cop, either."

  "He's in our custody, Karl. We brought him here, which makes him our responsibility. And torture, no matter what the motivation, is still a crime. We're supposed to uphold the law – we're the good guys, remember?"

  Karl looked at me. "You never bent the law a little, Stan? Here and there, out of necessity?"

  "Even if I did, what Lacey's doing down there is more than bending the fucking law – it's breaking it."

  "Not yet, it's not," he said. "No screaming, remember?"

  "What if she gagged him?" I asked.

  "He'd still be making sounds through his nose, and I'd hear it."

  I sat back and pretended to watch the TV. I was beginning to wish I'd never had the bright idea of trying to scare one of the Church's thugs into giving us information. I should have had Karl try Influence, even if he wasn't real good at it yet, and kept Lacey out of this entirely. Grief and rage had turned her into someone I didn't know anymore, and didn't like very much.

  What if Karl heard muffled screams from below and didn't tell me? Or what if I heard them, too? In theory, I was Karl's superior and could order him to tear that basement door down. Except the operation we were on had no official sanction. And what was I going to do if Karl refused – shoot him?

  I came up with answers for all those questions – trouble was, I kept changing them every couple of minutes. I was still trying to figure out what to do if it got bad down there when the front door opened and Lacey walked in.