Текст книги "Evil Dark"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

  She was fully dressed, I was glad to see, except for the outer jacket she'd been wearing. She was perspiring freely.

  I guess she'd familiarized herself with the place during her first visit, because she went without hesitation to a door and opened it to reveal a sparsely stocked linen closet. She found a tattered blue bath towel, looped it around her neck, and began to dry her face and hair.

  I was waiting for her to say something. When she didn't, the best I could come up with was, "Done for the night, Lacey?"

  She stopped mopping her face and looked at me, her expression hard to read. "Yes, Stan, I'm all finished."

  When she didn't elaborate, I said, quietly, "Did you kill him?"

  "No, he's very much alive."

  "Has he still got all his parts intact?"

  She gave me a half smile. "If he didn't, I'm sure you would have heard the screams. Or if you couldn't, Karl would have." She looked at Karl. "Right?"

  He just nodded.

  "So what did you do to him?" I said.

  "I broke his spirit," she said. "Through a combination of terror and sexual excitement, I put so much stress on his psyche that he couldn't stand it, and he broke."

  Karl and I looked at each other.

  "Sexual excitement?" he said to Lacey.

  "Oh, yes," she said. "It can be an important component in an effective interrogation. That's why I was naked. The Gestapo used the technique sometimes, with prisoners they thought wouldn't respond to the more direct approach. Certain prisoners would be questioned by an attractive woman, who would slowly build sexual tension in them, but deny release until she got the information she wanted."

  "How come you know all about the Gestapo?" I asked.

  "I've been doing a lot of reading, Stan, ever since you told me I might have the chance to question one of these people. God bless the Internet."

  "You studied torture, you mean."

  "No, I studied methods of interrogation – which sometimes included torture, I admit. Some of the stuff I read grossed me out – or would have, under other circumstances. But I just viewed it as data that might prove useful."

  "And was it?" I said. "Useful, I mean?"

  "Oh, did I forget to mention that part?" The grin that blossomed on her face reminded me of the old Lacey, someone I hadn't been sure I'd ever see again.

  "The next snuff video is scheduled to be filmed two nights from now, in a warehouse at 1634 Stansfield Avenue. Festivities are due to start at midnight, I believe."

  "Holy shit," Karl said.

  I jumped up, ran over to Lacey and hugged her. "Lacey, that's fantastic! It's all we need to bust these motherfuckers, once and for all."

  The grin was still in place when she said, "Well, it's good to know that my little efforts do not go unappreciated."

  "They don't – believe me," I told her.

  "Did you get anything else out of him?" Karl asked.

  "Just a couple of things," Lacey said. "One is that they've been using Drac's List to identify likely victims."

  "Damn, I knew there was something wrong about those people," I said, ignoring the look that Karl gave me.

  "Once they have a profile that looks promising," Lacey said, "someone pretending to be a vampire member will contact him – or her – and start an online conversation. The so-called vampire will find out if he lives alone, has any close friends or relatives, all that stuff. Once they identify somebody who won't be missed for a while, the 'vampire' makes a date – except the poor guy, or woman – gets a lot worse than a vampire bite."

  "You mentioned a couple of things," Karl said. "What's the other one?"

  "Just that, to the surprise of nobody here in this room, the Church owns the People's Voice," Lacey said. "The connection is hidden by a series of holding companies, but the Church is pulling the strings."

  "I asked the Feebies to have someone look into the paper and who was behind it. They never got back to me, which isn't exactly surprising." I looked at Lacey. "Congrats, kiddo – you did a hell of a job."

  I ran a hand through my hair. "The only other pressing problem is what to do with Rambo down there until we raid the warehouse the night after tomorrow."

  "We could just leave him there," Lacey said. The monster was back in her eyes now. "I can come back in a week or so and bury him."

  "That's not exactly what I had in mind, Lace," I said. "There's got to be another way to keep him on ice until–"

  "I think I've got an idea," Karl said, and we both turned toward him.

  "The county sheriff's an old fishing buddy of my Uncle Ned," he said. "Name's Andy Probert. I used to do a lot of fishing up here myself, and I've known the guy for years. I bet if I ask him, he'll put our commando in a cell for a few days under a John Doe – which is maybe the only name we'll get out of the guy, anyway."

  "Hold him on what charge?" I asked.

  "Doesn't have to be a charge, does it?" Karl said. "We'll call it 'protective custody'. Sheriff Probert won't ask too many questions."

  "That sounds like exactly what we need," I said. "You wanna give the sheriff a call and see if you can set it up?"

  "Absolutely," Karl said.

  Ten minutes later, the three of us went back to the basement. Our prisoner, who was still tied as before, started when we walked in, but seemed kind of relieved that Lacey wasn't alone this time.

  He looked at us dully. His face was streaked with drying tears, and there was a half-absorbed puddle in the dirt underneath him. I assumed that Lacey had so terrified him at some point that he had pissed himself.

  "All right," I told him. "In a minute, I'm going to start cutting you free from there. When I finish, I want you to get dressed. Understand?"

  "Yeah."

  "Once you're loose, you don't want to even think about going all Bruce Lee on me. If you do, my vampire partner over there will tear your throat out. He hasn't fed in a couple of nights, and he was telling me earlier that he thinks you look tasty."

  Karl smiled, giving the guy a good look at his fangs. "Tasty," he said.

  "Yeah, OK, sure," the commando muttered.

  When the prisoner was cut down and dressed, Karl handcuffed his hands behind his back and led him out to Lacey's car. She was going to drive them to the Pike County jail, where the sheriff would be waiting to make sure that prisoner John Doe was processed the way we wanted. Guess Karl and I should have taken separate cars, after all – we hadn't thought far enough ahead. I wanted to get back to Scranton as soon as possible, to brief McGuire on what I'd learned tonight.

  Lacey started to follow Karl and his prisoner out, but stopped and turned back to me.

  "I wanted to thank you," she said, "for leaving before I was completely naked."

  "It seemed… I dunno… wrong to stick around."

  "I wouldn't have said anything if you and Karl had stayed, but I'm glad you didn't. So – thank you, Stan."

  "You're welcome, Lacey." What else was I going to say?

After nearly getting murdered in the police parking lot a couple of times, Karl and I had bugged McGuire to see about getting better lights for the place. He'd impressed upon the chief the importance of what we wanted, and he, in turn, had gone to the mayor. To the surprise of practically everybody, the city council had approved the funds, and our parking lot behind the building was now lit up like a football field during a night game.

  The downside of all that illumination is that it makes you a well-lit target for somebody looking at the parking area from outside.

  That's why when a deep voice from across the street yelled, "Hey! Markowski!" I scuttled behind my car, dropped into a crouch, and drew my weapon. I heard a car door open, and peered through the chain-link fence that encloses the parking lot.

  Ivan the ogre was slowly climbing out from behind the wheel of a big SUV. "Markowski," he called, "I got a goblin!" He made a summoning gesture. "Come on!"

  I was torn. I needed to tell McGuire what I'd learned about the next snuff film – but he'd be in his office for another couple of hours. If Ivan had found a goblin willing to talk about who had sent the hit squad of greenies after me, then that was a goblin I badly wanted to meet.

  I yelled over to Ivan, "I'll be right there!" Having him bring an unauthorized vehicle into our parking area would require all kinds of time-wasting paperwork. It was quicker for me to go out to him. I stood up and walked rapidly toward the gate.

  Ivan was back behind the wheel and as I approached he said, "Get in back, Markowski."

  There was a goblin in the front passenger seat. Like all of them, he was short, with matted green fur over black skin. In the close confines of the SUV, I noticed that he smelled like wet dog – a big, old wet dog with bad teeth. The goblin was half turned in his seat, looking back at me nervously.

  "This Fred," Ivan rumbled. "Only goblin I could get to come here. Has no English, so I translate."

  I looked at Ivan. "Fred?"

  He shrugged those enormous shoulders. "Close enough."

  "OK," I said. "Ask him if he knows about somebody going out to Goblinville to recruit a bunch of them willing to kill a cop."

  Ivan frowned at me. "Goblinville? What's that?"

  "I mean whatever they call the place where they live, out near the dump."

  Ivan turned to his passenger and spoke in Goblin, which always sounds to me like a mixture of Chinese, Russian, and the sound of a cat fight.

  After another nervous look at me, Fred turned to Ivan and answered.

  "He say human come, a while ago–" Ivan began.

  "Wait," I said. "How long is 'a while ago'?"

  "Goblins not good with time," Ivan said. "Could mean a week, a month – who knows?"

  "All right," I said. "Go on."

  "He say human come, bring meth – but not much. Give to some goblins, promise more. Want goblins to kill human – cop."

  "Did the human say why this cop needed to be killed?"

  More Goblin talk followed. Then Ivan turned to me again.

  "Human say cop bad for goblins. Say he kill goblin, year ago. No goblin remember year ago, but some want meth. Meth enough reason."

  "Ask him what this human–"

  Suddenly, Fred stiffened. I noticed he was staring past Ivan, out the driver's side window. He pointed out the window and started jabbering.

  I turned and looked where he was pointing. In the police parking lot, Special Agents Thorwald and Greer were getting into what looked like a black Ford Explorer. Ivan had the windows of the SUV closed, so the Feebies couldn't hear the goblin, fortunately.

  "What's he so excited about?" I asked Ivan. "What's he saying?"

  Ivan said, "He say that the human who come with meth, over there. The bitch."

  "Bitch?"

  "That what he say," Ivan said. "'That one, that one, the bitch'."

  "Ask him if he's positive." I watched the Feebies back out of their parking space and drive away.

  Another exchange in Goblin.

  "He sure," Ivan said. "Say bitch come to where goblins live, bring meth, want them to kill cop. Some goblins say yes, go off with bitch in big black car – car like one just drove away. Goblins not come back."

  Damn right they didn't – thanks to me and Sharkey.

  Thorwald. The bitch, indeed. She had hired goblins to kill me. The only reason she'd do that was if she was working for the Church of the True Cross. Their own little double agent inside the FBI. Well, well.

  I pulled some bills out of my wallet and handed them to Ivan. "Don't give this to him – he might use it to buy meth someplace. Buy him a reward – some food that goblins like, or something. OK?"

  Ivan took the money and put it in his shirt pocket. He looked at me over the back of his seat. "We square now, Markowski – yeah?"

  "Yeah, Ivan," I said. "We square."

When I finished telling him what the commando had given up to Lacey, McGuire was smiling – but then the smile faded. He said, "We'll need a warrant to raid the warehouse, and the judge is going to want to know on what basis we're asking for it."

  "So tell him we received a tip from a confidential informant," I said. "That's worked before."

  "But the confidential informant is Lacey – a cop."

  "Yeah, but she isn't a cop in this department, or even in this county. Hell, she isn't even a cop in Wilkes-Barre right now – she's on extended leave."

  McGuire rubbed his jaw. "Yeah, I guess."

  "Take it to Judge Olszewski, boss – him or Rakauskas. Either one of them will sign the warrant application in a second."

  "Hope you're right," he said, and slapped his palms on the desk. "OK, I'll have to alert Dooley, and tell him to have SWAT ready to roll night after tomorrow. And I'm going to assign two detective teams from the squad to go along, for extra manpower. I assume you and Karl want to be one of them."

  "Bet your ass we do."

  "Where is Karl, anyway?"

  "He and Lacey took our prisoner to the Pike County jail. After that, I figure he headed home – the sun'll be up soon. Anyway, we're both on personal time tonight." I grinned at him. "I'm not even supposed to be here."

  "OK, then," McGuire said. "We'll send SWAT, plus you and Karl, along with one of the other detective teams. And I'll have to get the Feds in on it, of course."

  "No, you won't," I said. "And you shouldn't."

  He stared at me. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  I told him about my visit with Ivan and his goblin pal, and what I had learned regarding a certain Federal agent.

  "Thorwald," McGuire said, shaking his head. "Jesus fucking Christ. Are you sure?"

  "All I'm sure about is what the goblin said, boss. And he didn't seem to have any doubts."

  "Shit." McGuire closed his eyes for a second, his brow furrowed. "We can't use what the gob told you as the basis for arresting Thorwald, that's for certain. And there's no chance we'd get away with that 'confidential informant' crap twice in the same day."

  "Yeah, I know," I said. "We can't bust her – at least, not yet – but that doesn't mean we have to tell her about the raid. If she knows, the Church will know, and then there's no point in having the fucking raid in the first place. All we'd find is an empty warehouse."

  "All right, we'll keep the Feds in the dark, and may the ghost of J. Edgar Hoover have mercy on us. We'll have to keep an eye on Thorwald, as well. That'll be tricky – she knows all the detectives in the squad."

  "Why not put Lacey on it?" I asked.

  "The same Lacey who isn't a cop these days? That Lacey?"

  "She doesn't have to be a cop just to conduct surveillance," I said. "She can testify under oath about whatever she sees, just like any other private citizen. And she's as good at surveillance as anybody we've got available, that's for sure."

  "She's not likely to go all Death Wish on Thorwald, is she?" McGuire said with a frown. "The absolute last thing we need is having some Fed burned down by a cop, on leave or not – especially a Fed against whom not a damn thing has been proven yet. Nothing admissible in court, anyway."

  "Lacey's got it under control," I said. "If she didn't cross the line with our prisoner, then she's not gonna cross it – period."

  "Here's hoping you're right," he said. "OK, put her on it, if she's willing. Surveillance only – be very clear about that."

  "I will, boss." I looked at my watch. "Well, I'm not on the clock right now, but if I were, it would be time to go home – or to the Radisson, anyway."

  "Yeah, take off," McGuire said. "You've given my ulcer enough to work on for one night."

  In the parking lot, I called Lacey – but all I got was her voicemail. Since I wasn't sure when I'd get to talk to her, I laid out as briefly as possible what I wanted her to do. I asked her to get started watching Thorwald as soon as she'd had some rest, and to call me if any problems arose.

  As I drove to my palatial accommodations, I was feeling cautiously optimistic about the case. With luck, we were gonna bust a lot of bad guys in less than forty-eight hours, and wouldn't that be sweet?

  Yeah, I felt pretty cheerful – that alone should have served as a warning.

I arrived at the Radisson just as the sky was lightening in the east. As soon as the door of my room closed behind me, I knew something was wrong. It took a second or two to realize that it was a smell – an odor both alien and familiar, which hadn't been present in the room when I'd left.

  I drew the Beretta and stood, listening. I couldn't hear anything except my pulse pounding in my ears. Then the heater came on automatically, and I almost put three bullets into it.

  I took a couple of slow, deliberate breaths, in an effort to tamp the adrenaline down a little. The rising sun had barely reached the window, and my room was still dimly lit. I reached behind me and clicked on the light. Squinting against the glare, I swept my gun across the room, but found nothing to shoot.

  The only thing that seemed out of place was on the bed.

  My pal Tim had agreed to instruct housekeeping to stay the hell out of my room for the duration of my stay. But someone had been in here, because in the center of the bed, under the blanket, was a lump about the size of a basketball, but irregular in shape.

  A bomb? Not too likely. You put a bomb in somebody's bed, the last thing you want is to make it conspicuous.

  So if it wasn't a bomb, then what? I approached the bed slowly, gun still in my right hand. I flashed on that scene from The Godfather when the Hollywood producer wakes up to find a very nasty surprise sharing the bed with him. Good thing I didn't own a horse.

  I slowly grasped the edge of the covers with one hand, then threw them back in one swift motion. I had my gun trained on the bed before I could register what I was seeing.

  His broad-brimmed hat had been knocked askew by my sudden removal of the bedding, but the sunglasses were still in place. The teeth were bared, so it seemed as if Sharkey's head was grinning at me.

  I gaped in shock – which is just what I was expected to do. Behind me, the bathroom door clicked open, but I registered the sound just a second too late. I tried to turn, but a strong hand grabbed my gun wrist and an instant later I felt the sting as a needle went into my neck. I struggled for a moment longer, but then I was falling, and the dope worked so fast I never even knew when I hit the floor.

The first thing I realized was that I was cold – not freezingto-death cold, but enough to be uncomfortable. The second thing I noticed was that my ass hurt.

  Eventually, I gathered enough of my wits about me to figure out that I was cold because I was in an unheated building with my sports coat off, and my ass hurt because I was sitting on a concrete floor, and probably had been for a while.

  Both of those things had to do with the fact that my back was against some kind of wooden pillar with my hands bound behind me. I could feel metal around my wrists, and realized I was handcuffed – probably with my own cuffs. Motherfuckers.

  My legs were tied together at the ankles with rope. I squinted for a closer look and saw that the rope was triple-strand nylon – not rare, but not the kind you buy at Sears, either. I've learned a lot about rope in my job.

  I thought about the ME's report on the second witch burning. I don't have a photographic memory, but sometimes stuff sticks in my head, whether I want it there or not.

  The deceased was secured to the tree in two places with ligatures consisting of triple-strand nylon rope.

  Funny, the things you remember – and at the oddest times, too.

  Having nothing else to do – unless you count panicking, which I figured I'd save until later – I checked out my surroundings.

  I could see because of the double fluorescent light in the ceiling, which flickered as if it was on its last legs. The room was about twelve feet square. My view through the single window was blocked by a dirty white Venetian blind, but a little sunlight leaked through, so I knew it was still daytime.

  The red brick walls were chipped and pitted, the mortar crumbling here and there. In one corner was a battered gray file cabinet. Ten feet or so in front of me was a severely functional desk, the kind you'd find in high school homerooms back when I was in school. It had seen better days, too, and so had the vinyl-covered desk chair behind it.

  Clearly, this was an office of some kind, or had been. It was what you might expect to find in an old auto repair shop – or maybe a warehouse. I shuddered, and it wasn't because of the cold. The word warehouse had some pretty bad associations for me these days.

  There was a plain wooden door to my left, and I happened to be looking in that direction when it opened. A young guy wearing a black turtleneck stuck his head in, looked at me and said, "Good."

  He stepped back out, but left the door ajar, so I had no trouble hearing him say, "Mister Wilson – he's awake, sir."

  Father Duvall had said that the head honcho of the Church of the True Cross, bigger even than Bishop Navarra, was a rich nut named Patton Wilson. I figured I was about to find out just how nutty he was.

I heard footsteps approaching rapidly, and then a man strode into the room and closed the door behind him. He didn't look crazy – but then, they hardly ever do.

  Patton Wilson was probably in his sixties, but there was nothing old about the way he moved around. His iron-gray hair was thick, with a moustache to match. He had a tan, but it was the kind you get from a lot of time spent outdoors, not a bottle. His head was large, and his face took up a lot of territory, but the dark eyes were small and mean, like two raisins in a bowl of rice pudding. He had big hands.

  "Sergeant Markowski, I presume." His voice fit the rest of him. It was deep and loud – louder than he needed to be in such a small space.

  "You ought to know," I said, "unless you're in the habit of having random guys abducted and brought here."

  "They said you were over-fond of your own wit," he said. "Pity that they were right."

  He dropped his lean frame into the desk chair and rolled it forward until he was sitting behind the desk, hands clasped in front of him.

  "Choose your next witticism carefully, Mister Markowski," he said sternly. "It may be your last."

  Then he threw his head back and laughed. Looks like I wasn't the only one around here over-fond of his own wit.

  When the laughter was done he looked at me and said, "I trust you recognize the reference."

  "Sure – it's from Goldfanger," I said. "But that stuff's wasted on me. My partner's the real James Bond nut."

  "Oh, yes, Detective Renfer. Pity I won't get to meet him as well."

  "If you want to wait a few hours, I'll give him a call," I said. "I'm sure he'd love to join us – maybe even bring a few friends."

  "No, I'm afraid that won't be possible. Our FBI colleague is attending to him–" he looked at his watch, a gold Rolex "–perhaps even as we speak."

  He peered at me. "I note a distinct lack of reaction when I mentioned the FBI. So you know about our mole, do you? Well, aren't you a smart one."

  "What kind of 'attending' are we talking about?" If Thorwald was going to try for Karl while he slept, good luck with that – even if there was no more Sharkey around to blow her head off. Karl had made some improvements to the lock on his bedroom door since the last attempt. The codebreakers at NSA would have trouble cracking it now.

  "Oh, nothing that extraordinary," Wilson said. "Merely the application of a small amount of plastic explosive to the hinges of a certain door, the removal of said door, followed by the vigorous pounding of a wooden stake into a certain chest. Very simple, really."

  I understood my situation very well – there was no way I could get to Patton Wilson right this moment and do what needed to be done – but my hands apparently didn't agree. The short chain joining the cuffs rattled as they followed the impulse to wrap themselves around the bastard's throat, only to be stopped by the cuffs and the pillar behind me.

  "Please, Sergeant, no histrionics, especially over what can't be undone." He leaned forward, and a small smile made an appearance. "I am well aware that one of the reasons why that James Bond idiot is able to survive, and thwart his enemies' plans, is that his captors talk too much. Instead of putting a bullet in his head as soon as he is captured, the various villains feel obliged to keep him alive for awhile to explain themselves and perhaps gloat a little. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

  "Sure." What else was there to say?

  "I never confuse film and life, Sergeant. Nor do I consider myself a villain – indeed, I expect that, in time, the human race will come to regard me as its savior."

  Yep – nutty as my Aunt Hazel's fruitcake.

  "But putting a bullet in your head at this moment isn't convenient," Wilson said. "We have need of you, alive and in good condition, later tonight. Around midnight, to be exact."

  I can't say I was surprised. As soon as I'd realized where I was, the prospect of ending up chained to a chair in front of the cameras was never far from my mind. But that doesn't mean I enjoyed hearing the bastard say it.

  "And so," Wilson went on, "since there is time to spare and a search by my associates has satisfied me that you are not concealing a laser in your shoe, I wouldn't mind explaining how you have come to find yourself here – and why. And I confess, I am rather pleased with myself over it all."

  Wilson spread his hands, a study in candor. "So, ask me what you like. I'll tell you the truth, since you won't be repeating it to anyone – apart from Saint Peter, or, more likely, Beelzebub. I'm sure there is much that puzzles you about recent events – so ask."

  "Anything?" I said.

  "Yes, of course."

  "OK," I said. "How old were you the first time a troll fucked you up the ass?"

  He sat looking at me for a few seconds, his lips a thin tight line.

  "Assuming that your adolescent display of bravado is done with," Wilson said, "is there anything you'd really like to know, or shall I just leave you alone until we're ready for you?"

  Sitting here by myself until midnight would give me far too much time to think about Karl's fate – and my own. Even talking to Wilson was better than that.

  "How did you manage to get Sharkey?" I asked.

  "Oh, that was a simple matter," Wilson said. "After what happened to the specialist we imported from Chicago, we knew that Sharkey was watching Detective Renfer's apartment building during the day. We sent a decoy into the building through the front, carrying the same kind of long bag that I understand Mister Duffy had employed. When Sharkey broke cover to follow him, another of our people, stationed on a nearby roof with a rifle, shot him down in the street."

  "I guess congratulations are in order," I said. "Sharkey was known as being very hard to kill."

  "That was only true because no one with any intelligence had decided to kill him," Wilson said.

  "So, how did he get from the street outside Karl's to my hotel room – part of him, anyway?"

  "A van with our people in it was parked a block away. Once the shooter reported success, the van sped to where Sharkey was lying and removed the body. Decapitation took place inside the van, and the result we left as a little gift – and a distraction – for you."

  "So, you're shooting your next video tonight… not–"

  "Tomorrow night – as Jeffrey told you?"

  "Who the fuck's Jeffrey?"

  "Oh, didn't he give you his name?" Wilson said with a smirk. "He's the young man you captured last night, at that slut witch's house."

  "You knew about that," I said.

  "Knew about it? We were expecting it."

  "How could you possibly know that Caro– that the witch would get a spell into action in time?"

  Wilson said, "We couldn't be certain, of course. But considering what happened to Charles – the brave young man who took his life while in your custody – we thought it likely. And if perchance the bitch was too slow with her detestable magic, then Jeffrey would have another witch to bring to justice, and we could try again another night. But it worked the first time, I'm glad to say."

  I was trying to get my mind around what he was telling me but was having trouble – maybe because I didn't want to believe it.

  "Jeffrey was a plant?" I said.

  "Indeed, yes. He had done some acting off-Broadway a few years ago, before he saw the light and decided to give his life to the Church. I trust his performance was moving. Whatever did you do with him, anyway? We lost track, after you left the witch's house."

  I just looked at him.

  Wilson gave me an elaborate shrug. "Well, no matter. He has served his purpose – which was to provide what the Russians used to call 'disinformation'. The filming will take place tonight, not tomorrow, and we are nowhere near Stansfield Avenue, by the way."

  "So… tomorrow night…"

  "There will be no filming at the other warehouse – which is not to say there will be no bloodshed."

  I closed my eyes. Don't try to figure it all out – it'll drive you crazy. Just wait – he'll tell you what he means. He needs to.

  "When your fellow officers raid Stansfield Avenue tomorrow night," Wilson said, "they will find a rather nasty surprise waiting for them. Our resident wizard Malachi, the same fellow who does the summonings, has prepared a spell and put it in place."

  "So magic is only 'despicable' when somebody else is using it," I said.

  Wilson spread his hands again, like a priest giving benediction. "We all use what we must, in the service of the greater good. Tomorrow night, all Malachi need do is utter a single word, and the spell will cause the deaths of everyone inside the building. Their internal organs will swell and burst. Not a pleasant way to die – although not nearly as unpleasant as yours, of course."

  He doesn't know about the prayer team. SWAT deploys with a group of clergy from multiple faiths, and their prayers will disrupt any black magic in the vicinity.

  Maybe.

  They've never faced a spell that somebody's had a whole day to prepare. But they can stop it.

  Probably.