Текст книги "Evil Dark"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

  "That conception was my own," Wilson said with a tiny smile, "and it's really quite clever, if I say so myself."

  Yeah, you would. Cocksucker.

  "Not only do I largely eliminate the police who have been interfering with our campaign, but the deed contributes to the campaign itself. Imagine the headlines, especially in the People's Voice: POLICE MURDERED BY MAGIC, or perhaps BRAVE OFFICERS STRUCK DOWN BY EVIL SPELL."

  Then he giggled. He actually giggled – like a fucking schoolgirl.

  "It should be gloooorious," Wilson said.

  "Yeah. Glorious."

  I didn't waste any energy on that You'll never get away with this, you fiend nonsense you see on TV. It would just make me look like more of an idiot than I already was.

  Besides, it looked like there was a good chance he would get away with it.

  Wilson left me alone soon after that. That's the time when, if I was 007, I'd find a way to stand on my head and open the cuffs with the lockpick I'd concealed in my left nostril. Then I'd use the plastic explosives hidden in my belt to blow the door, karate-chop the nearest guard, and grab his gun. Then I could… aw, fuck it. Thinking about James Bond just reminded me of Karl. Poor Karl – I hoped he had at least died quick. If he had, that would make one of us.

  I had plenty of time to think about the horrible death I was going to experience – there was no doubt in my mind who was going to be on the receiving end in tonight's performance – unless I found some way out. After a while, I did come up with an idea of sorts. I guessed I'd find out pretty soon just how good an idea it was.

  Nothing much was riding on my little inspiration – just my life, the lives of a lot of other cops, and maybe even the success of stage one of Helter Skelter.

  No pressure.

  The slivers of daylight coming in through the Venetian blind eventually faded to night. Assuming the ritual was due to start around midnight, that meant I still had several hours to go. My bladder was uncomfortably full, but I was damned if I was going to abandon what little dignity I had left by pissing in my pants. So I held it, and eventually got used to the ache. My throat was also parched, but I figured I'd still be able to scream come midnight, if my idea failed.

  Tension and fear are exhausting, and I hadn't been to bed for more than twenty-four hours. Despite being scared out of my mind, I eventually fell asleep, sort of. You can imagine what my dreams were like.

I woke up with a start when the door opened. I realized it was time for the fun to start, and my heartbeat went the equivalent of zero to sixty in about 3.4 seconds.

  There were two of them – both young and dressed like members of Wilson's little commando unit. They'd have to unlock the cuffs to move me, and I figured that might give me a chance to try something. I wasn't optimistic about my chances against two Special Forces wannabes twenty years younger than me. But desperation sometimes gives people extra strength and speed, and I was about as desperate as they come. However, the boys had already thought of that – or Wilson had.

  One of them went behind me, and I waited for the sound of the key being inserted into the handcuffs. What I heard instead was the guy saying, "We don't want a lot of nonsense while we prepare you, so…" Then I felt another needle in the back of my neck. So much for mixing it up with the guards.

  I don't know how long I was out this time, but when I came back to the world it was clear that my situation had gone from bad to worse. I was now naked and shackled to one of the chairs that I'd seen in the videos. The smell like what you'd from get driving by a slaughterhouse in summer, with your windows down – only ten times stronger. I was on the killing floor now.

  Since the festivities hadn't started yet, I had time to look around, and I used it. Knowing where everyone was could prove crucial later.

  As I knew from the videos, the floor was concrete and the walls red brick. High ceiling, with lights hanging down. Two big windows were built into the wall I was facing, but they were set too high for anyone to see in from outside. Across from me, in the other chair, was a guy I'd never met before. Mid-thirties, red hair, a little overweight. It didn't surprise me that his expression combined confusion with terror.

  If the direction I was facing was 12 o'clock, using the Air Force system, then there were video cameras set up on tripods at 12 and 8 o'clock, about twenty feet outside the circle. Guess they had decided to go with a two-camera setup this time. A little more practice, and they'd probably have these atrocities available in 3-D. Behind each camera stood one of the commandos, who I guessed pulled double duty as videographers. I wondered if the things they had seen through the viewfinders ever gave them nightmares.

  At the 10 o'clock position and further back stood another one of the commando boys. He was cradling a stocky automatic weapon with a long curved magazine, although who he might be expected to shoot was beyond me. The gun looked like one of those H&K MP5s that the Navy SEALs carry. Once a wannabe, always a wannabe. He seemed to be the only one holding a weapon.

  At 3 o'clock and about thirty feet out was the resident lunatic, Patton Wilson himself. He was next to a very tall thin guy in a black suit, whose brown hair was mostly covered by a red skullcap – apparently Bishop Navarra still retained some of the trappings of the Catholic Church he hated so much. The bishop was not looking happy to be here.

  Not far from them, at 4 o'clock, a portable podium had been set up. Resting on it was a large, old-looking book, which I assumed contained the incantations. A tall, balding guy, who I assumed to be Wilson's tame wizard, stood behind the podium. One of his hands rested on the book, while the other clutched what looked like a pointed drumstick with symbols engraved on it – his wand. Malachi wore crimson robes and a tense expression. I didn't recognize him, which meant Wilson had imported him from out of town.

  And that was it, except for one guest who hadn't arrived yet – but then, he wasn't expected until a little later.

  I assumed we were waiting for midnight, the time when the dark powers are at their strongest. Most of those attending waited patiently – after all, they'd done this before. But Bishop Navarra was agitated. In the near-silence I could hear him speaking softly to Wilson.

  "I don't see why I should have to be present for this… butchery," he said. "You didn't ask me to be here for any of the others."

  "Yes, but tonight's ceremony is the one that will tip the balance," Wilson said, with the utter confidence that all madmen have. "Unlike the others, the policeman's body will be found – and what a stir that will create! Then after tomorrow night, when several more defenders of law and order succumb to the effects of black magic, the outcry will be loud and long, and few among the local community will be able to resist it. And soon thereafter the great, cleansing war will begin."

  "All of that will happen whether I am here to watch the bloodletting or not!" Navarra said, although he didn't raise his voice. He probably wouldn't have dared.

  "You've been spending all your time in that study of yours writing sermons, James – or in the church I built you, preaching them," Wilson said. "I thought it was time for you to gain an appreciation of the other side of our crusade – the side where people get their hands bloody."

  "Patton, I have never failed to appreciate–"

  "That will do, James." There was steel in Wilson's voice now. He glanced at his watch. "In any case it is nearly midnight, and time for us to commence the ritual."

  He looked over at the wizard. "Whenever you're ready, Malachi."

  "I'll start now, sir," Malachi said, like a good lackey. And then it began.

The procedure was the same as before. First, they killed all the lights, leaving us in darkness for half a minute or so. It should've been a welcome respite for me, but I couldn't stop thinking of all the wickedness that had been done inside this warehouse, all the suffering and death that had occurred because some lunatic wanted to start a race war. The very walls reeked of evil, and the dark only made it worse.

  Then all the lights came on at once, and it was showtime. The conjuration ritual hadn't changed, but this time I paid attention to the name of the demon being summoned: Acheron. It wasn't familiar, but that meant nothing – there are lots and lots of demons. But now I had a name. In magic, names are power, and maybe this one would give me the power I needed to survive.

  Acheron arrived in the column of smoke – looking almost human, apart from his ears (pointed), his eyes (red) and his jaw (large, misshapen, and revealing several rows of sharp teeth). He snarled defiance at Malachi, and was rewarded with a jolt of agony for his efforts. Demons are no strangers to pain, so Malachi must be administering quite a jolt to impress him like that.

  Once Acheron agreed, reluctantly, to obey, Malachi gave him his instructions. The wizard spoke in Demon, and I had to concentrate hard to get the sense of what he was saying.

  But I understood when the wizard told Acheron to possess the redhead, not me. Well, that figured. Then he was instructed not to damage my face beyond recognition, and to leave the fingertips of at least one hand intact. That would allow, I knew, for easy identification. If you've never heard somebody refer to your body like it was a cattle carcass about to be carved up – well, I can't say I recommend the experience.

  Acheron faded from view, and it wasn't hard to tell when he had taken over the body of the red-headed guy, whose name I didn't even know. When it was clear that Acheron was in charge, Malachi spoke a word and the shackles holding the redhead dropped away. The demon-possessed human moved slowly at first, unused to this new form. He stared at me for a few seconds, and it was the kind of look that a glutton gives a big plate of prime rib. Then he walked over to the table.

  I was trying desperately to keep focused, when what I really wanted to do was scream for mercy. Yeah, and good luck with that.

  When Acheron turned back toward me, he was holding the blowtorch. Panic fought savagely for release inside me, but I kept the lid of that box closed, somehow.

  Acheron tested the blowtorch to be sure it worked. You just squeezed a lever, and the mechanism got the gas flowing and generated a spark to light it. Once he was sure he knew how to get a nice hot flame going, he headed my way.

  I swallowed hard a couple of times to lubricate my vocal cords. I needed my voice to work at the first attempt, or I'd be too busy screaming to try a second one.

  As Acheron bent over me, I croaked, in Demon, "Hail, great Acheron, Lord of the Underworld!" I could have spoken in any language and been understood, but this had gotten his attention, as I'd intended.

  He stared, then gave me a vicious open-handed slap on the side of the head, probably just as a warm-up. The redhead's voice snarled, in Demon, "Who dares speak to me in the tongue of the Fallen?"

  "I am Markowski, a mere human and unworthy to address such as you," I said in his language. At least, I think that's what I said. "But this insignificant human can give you what you desire."

  He laughed scornfully, and whacked me again. But at least he hadn't started with the blowtorch, yet. "I desire your blood, Markowski, and your tears, and your screams. And I will have them, whether you give them to me or not."

  I swallowed again, hoping that my throat wouldn't constrict with fear and make speech impossible. "I offer more, great Acheron – I can give you vengeance."

  More laughter, and another hard slap to the head. I'd had a bad concussion a few months ago, and blacking out right now would mean the end of me.

  "Vengeance against whom? And how?"

  OK, he was interested. Now to close the deal.

  "Vengeance against those who would dare to summon you from the Netherworld, and would have the impudence to give you orders." I hadn't even realized that I knew the Demon word for "impudence", but the old memory came through when I needed it most.

  I took a breath and continued, "I can free you. I can break the circle that you are forbidden to touch."

  Another blow, but this one hit the back of the chair – and barely touched me. I didn't think that was accidental.

  Acheron bent over me, the blowtorch in hand. Oh shit, did I fuck up? Is he turning me down?

  Then I noticed that he had released the valve, and allowed the flame to go out. Acheron moved slightly, to block what he was doing from the cameras. He brought the flameless nozzle closer to my chest.

  "Scream," he said. "Scream as if you feel the fire on you."

  So I screamed – but good. If Laurence Olivier was watching from the Great Beyond, I bet he applauded a little. I screamed, I struggled against the chains, I pleaded for mercy. It's amazing what talents you discover in yourself when trying to avoid being tortured to death.

  Acheron withdrew the blowtorch a little, as if giving me a respite. "If I try to release you, that fool with the book will smite me," he said softly.

  Fortunately, I'd had plenty of time to work this out.

  "Use the blowtorch to sever the chain holding my right hand," I said. "Pretend you are using it on me. Then strike the chair again, knocking it over. If I am close enough to reach the circle, I can break it."

  He gave a loud snarl – for effect, I assume – and brought the blowtorch close. "Scream again," he said. "And continue to scream until I tip the chair. Do this for me, and you will be spared."

  I resumed my Academy Award performance. Acheron restarted the blowtorch and brought it over to the chain holding my right hand to the chair.

  That was when I realized something – iron is an excellent conductor of heat. As the link Acheron was working on turned cherry red, the other links and my shackle also started to glow. Then the heat reached me, and I started to scream for real.

  It only lasted a couple of seconds, but seemed a lot longer. Then the link that Acheron was working on began to melt, and my frantic struggles broke the rest of the chain free. At once the demon struck the back of the chair hard, knocking it, and me, over.

  Finally the wizard realized that something was wrong. "What are you doing, disobedient one?" Malachi shrieked in Demon, then said the word of pain again. Acheron let out a howl of anguish – and I had fallen short of the circle.

  I had to reach the red circle or I was cooked – maybe literally. Using what traction I could gain with the edge of my shackled right foot and my elbow, I jerked forward, mere inches at a time, like a snail on Adderall.

  My progress was slow, so slow. Meanwhile, I could hear Malachi screaming "Obey me!" in Demon, and Acheron's bellows of pain.

  Then at last I reached the circle painted on the concrete floor. The paint was already fading a little, and I went to work on it like a madman – maybe that's what I was, by then. I made my right hand a claw and dragged my nails through the paint, bearing down as hard as I could. And again. And again. My fingertips were starting to bleed now. And again. And again. Then I heard Acheron say something that chilled my blood. He told Malachi, "Very well, cease, I will obey you."

  Acheron walked slowly over to me, intent on righting the chair and starting the torture for real, since he had no choice. Claw the paint again. And again. And–

  I felt something move over me and through the circle, where I must have scratched a tiny break in the paint's continuity. That sliver of a gap was all Acheron needed. The red-headed man, whose body the demon had been using, collapsed limply to the floor. A shrill cry of triumph echoed through the warehouse, although I couldn't see its source.

  "Cease!" the wizard Malachi screamed. "Return to the circle! You must obey my commands!"

  Then the shit really hit the fan. And what a bloody mess it made.

• • • •

I tried to follow Acheron's progress as best I could, lying on the floor with three of my limbs still shackled to the chair. His first stop was Malachi. Smart move. I could hear the wizard scream "Noooo!" as he felt the demon take over, but Acheron didn't linger – he stayed inside Malachi just long enough to force the wizard to pick up his wand and plunge it into – and through – his left eye. Malachi collapsed, blood spurting from the ruined socket.

  There was chaos in the room now. Some of the men were yelling questions, others were trying to issue orders, and a few were running around to no particular purpose. I made a bet with myself about who Acheron's next victim would be – and I won.

  The commando wannabe holding the automatic weapon jerked suddenly, as if touched by an electric current. I watched his face change from surprise to malice as the demon took over. Then he started firing.

  I'll say this for Acheron – he had good fire discipline. He didn't expend all his ammo in five seconds, like an amateur, but instead fired controlled, three-shot bursts.

  His first target was Bishop Navarra, who took three in his lower belly. Acheron really knew how to hurt a guy, but then he would.

  The two commando camera operators then decided to rush their demon-possessed buddy. In my personal dictionary, there's a word for unarmed men who run toward an enemy who's holding a loaded automatic weapon – morons. Acheron cut them down like wheat at harvest time.

  I looked around for Patton Wilson, who I assumed would be the next target, for either bullets or possession. But he was gone. The cagey bastard must've run for the door the instant that Acheron was free. Damn.

  There were only three humans still alive in the warehouse. Acheron, gun still smoking, ignored Red and me and walked slowly over to Bishop Navarra, who lay moaning in a pool of his own blood. That's what's so bad about being gutshot – you take such a long, painful time to die.

  Acheron put the gun down gently on the concrete floor and began going through his commando host's pockets. I saw a terrible smile on the boyish face as he produced a good-sized jackknife. Guess he forgot about all the torture implements on the table, or maybe he just liked to improvise.

  I don't think I want to describe what happened next. I stopped watching after a few seconds, anyway – although there was nothing I could do to block out the screams, or the wet sounds that Acheron was making with his knife. After a while, I began to envy Red his unconscious state.

  I don't know how long it went on. In real time, it probably lasted ten minutes, but to me it seemed a lot longer – although not nearly as long as it probably seemed to Bishop Navarra.

  Finally, the screams and pleadings were silenced. I heard footsteps approaching, and looked up to see the bloodsplattered commando heading our way, the dripping knife still in his hand. He crossed the circle without difficulty – now that it had been broken, it was just so much red paint on a floor to him. He stood over the redhead's unconscious body for a moment, then bent over. One hand grabbed the red hair and pulled the guy's head back, while the other sliced his throat.

  "Hey!" I cried, "You didn't–"

  I'd been about to say, "You didn't have to do that!" But of course, he did. He was a demon, after all.

  Once Red was well on his way to bleeding out, Acheron walked over to me. He stopped a few feet away from the chair I was tethered to and said, "Your turn, Markowski." He spoke English now – maybe because Demon had been the language of his tormenter.

  "You said you'd spare me," I said, but I didn't say it very loudly. I'd never really thought he would.

  He laughed – it wasn't a pleasant sound. "The One whom I serve is known as the Father of Lies," he said. "Did you think I would stint at one of my own, if it served my purpose?"

  He weighed the bloody knife in his hand. "I will, however, spare you the kind of death just suffered by His Excellency the Bishop over there, as well as the far worse one you would have had at my hands, had I been forced to remain inside this circle – but do not expect similar mercy, should I encounter you in Hell. Now, lie still."

  As he stepped toward me, there came a loud, insistent banging from behind him. He twisted his body to look, which allowed me to see past him.

  Two figures were clinging impossibly to the big windows set high in the back wall – well, it would have been impossible for humans. Vampires do that kind of thing very well.

  One of the vampires was Christine. The other one – I had to squint, to make sure my eyes weren't combining with wishful thinking to fool me – was Karl Renfer.

  An instant later, I realized why they were still outside. I snatched in a breath and yelled, as loudly as I could, "Come on in!"

  At once, the glass in both windows shattered. I saw a pair of blurred images moving in our direction, and then Christine and Karl were crouched between me and the demon-possessed commando, their fangs bared.

  "Careful," I said. "He's got a demon inside him."

  Acheron looked from Christine to Karl and took a couple of steps back. "You two seem to have some affection for that fool on the floor," he said. "Perhaps I should use one of your bodies to cut his heart out."

  "Won't work, asshole," Karl growled.

  "Yeah," Christine said. "We're already dead."

  Acheron nodded slowly. "That does pose an interesting problem."

  "Don't ponder it too long, hellspawn," Karl said. "Cops are on the way. Hear that?"

  Now that I was listening for it, I could hear the sound of sirens – a lot of sirens.

  The commando's face produced half a smile as Acheron looked down at me. "We will continue this discussion another time, Markowski." Then, looking at Karl and Christine, he said, "And perhaps I shall have a few words with each of you, as well."

  Then he turned, folded the knife, and walked rapidly toward the nearest exit.

  Christine said to me, "Should we stop him?"

  "No, let him go," I said. "Otherwise he'd just abandon the commando's body, and God only knows where he'd end up."

  The sirens were very close now. "Karl," I said, "maybe you should go out there and show your badge, before SWAT comes in shooting."

  He nodded, and started toward the main doors. Christine knelt beside me and began breaking the shackles that still held me to the chair.

  "Hey, Karl," I called after him.

  He turned. "What?"

  "It's good to see you, man. I thought you were dead."

  He gave me his sharp-toothed grin. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

• • • •

I had a bad burn on my wrist from when Acheron used the blowtorch to melt the chain. That meant I was due for a long spell in the waiting room of Mercy Hospital's ER. They do triage in that place strictly based on what kind of condition you're in, not how important you think you are. So, if you're not actually bleeding or suffering a heart attack, you can expect a long wait, even if you're a cop.

  Before I left for the hospital I had a few words with McGuire, who had arrived with the SWAT team and about six other cops, including two more detectives from the squad.

  I gave him the quick version of what had happened to me in the last thirty-six hours or so, with special emphasis on the fact that the warehouse on Stansfield Avenue was not only empty but had a dangerous spell on it.

  McGuire had been making notes. He looked up from his pad and said, "I'll get Rachel in on that. Maybe she can also call on a few of the other local witches to help disperse it."

  "No hurry – the guy who was supposed to activate the spell won't be showing up," I said. "I'm hoping that right about now he's making the acquaintance of several of Acheron's friends."

  I also mentioned that Patton Wilson was still at large, and recommended that an arrest warrant be issued ASAP.

  "I'll take care of it," McGuire said, "for all the good it's likely to do. A guy with his money is probably halfway to Australia by now."

  "Could be," I said. "Although I have a feeling he won't stay hidden very long. Mister Wilson's determined to start Helter Skelter, and he can't do that while hiding out at a sheep ranch in the outback."

  I also made a point of reminding him that Thorwald was a double agent, or whatever you'd call what she was doing. "Yeah, that one's going to be tricky," he said.

  "We can't just let this slide, boss," I said. "The bitch tried to have me killed – and for all we know, she could've hired Duffy the Vampire Slayer to get Karl, too."

  "I have no intention of letting it slide," McGuire said. "I'll be having a word with a couple of people at FBI headquarters, as well as her boss at Quantico. And if she ever shows her face in Scranton again, I'll have her brought in for questioning on a material witness warrant. I have a feeling the questions could take quite a long time."

  Christine and Karl both insisted on accompanying me to the ER, in case Acheron decided to try again.

  "I'll be glad of the company," I said, "especially because there's a lot of stuff I wanna know. But I'm not too worried about Acheron – it isn't anything personal with him. He was just going to kill me because I was here. If anything, he owes me a favor for setting him free."

  "Maybe," Christine said, "But I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for him to send flowers."

  "And if he does," Karl said, "I'd call the bomb squad, and then run like hell – so to speak."

  Once the folks at Mercy established that I wasn't going to die on them anytime soon, they sent me out to the waiting room for what figured to be a long stay. Karl, Christine, and I sat down on a couch, as far away from the other patients as we could get.

  "All right, Karl," I said. "This is where you explain to me how you were able to avoid getting a stake pounded into your chest – not that I'm complaining, you understand."

  "Not much of a trick," Karl said. "I wasn't home during the day yesterday."

  "Why not?"

  "It took us longer than I'd planned to get our commando buddy processed into the Pike County jail. By the time we were done, it was almost dawn, so Lacey let me spend the day in the trunk of her car."

  "Nice of her," I said.

  "More than nice," he said. "When I woke up, I found that she'd pressed my jacket . Even let me take a shower at her place."

  "Let you shower, huh?" Christine said with a smile. "Sounds like she's hot for you, Karl."

  "Lacey? Nah, not me – she's your dad's girlfriend."

  "Give it a rest, Karl," I said. "So, you haven't been home at all?"

  "Nope – Lacey drove me right to work. She dropped me off, then said she was going to go keep an eye on Thorwald, like you asked her to."

  "Then she got my message. Good."

  "If Thorwald blew the hinges off my bedroom door," Karl said, "I'm gonna be fuckin' pissed."

  "Just make sure she didn't leave you any little surprises while she was there," I said.

  "Booby traps, you mean?" He shrugged. "Not too many of them can harm us bloodsucking undead."

  "No?" I said. "How about a thermite bomb under your bed, with the timer set for noon tomorrow?"

  "Fire," Christine said, and shuddered.

  "You make a good point there, Stan," Karl said. "I'll check the place over before I crash."

  "Why would Thorwald bother with Karl now, Daddy?" Christine asked. "I mean, the Church is history, right? Navarra's dead, Wilson's in hiding, and any commandos still alive probably ran back to Kansas, or wherever they came from."

  "Maybe," I said. "But if Thorwald's been working for the Church, it's because of idealism, not money. And some fanatics just don't know when to quit."

  "Fuckin' A," Karl said.

  From time to time, a nurse would come to the door of the waiting area and call somebody's name. I kept hoping to hear mine.

  "You two don't know how glad I was to see you banging on the windows of that warehouse," I said. "But how'd you know to go there? The only address we had was for the decoy, over on Stansfield Avenue."

  "We have Louise to thank for that," he said. "For some of it, anyway."

  "Louise the Tease?" I said. "Our PA?"

  "That's her. I guess she doesn't want to keep doing that job the rest of her life – can't blame her for that."

  "Louise," I said. "Damn. What'd she do that got you to the right place?"

  "I guess you gave her a message for the Feebies a while back," Karl said. "Something about finding out who owns the People's Voice?"

  "Yeah, but we found out later that it's the Church, just like I figured. Commando boy told Lacey, remember?"

  "Louise didn't know that. She tried to give your message to the Feebies when they came through, but she said they went right by her, like she hadn't said anything. The way she put it to me was, 'Guess the bimbo in the tight dress wasn't worth their attention.' So she got mad."

  "Guess that makes it unanimous," I said. "Everybody's pissed at the FBI these days. So, what did she do?"

  "She checked it out for herself," Karl said, "when things were slow around the squad. Louise is persistent, especially when she has something to prove. She went from one holding company to the next, to the next. All dummy corporations."

  "And she found out that the Church owns the paper," I said.

  "No, I guess that's not on any public record. She got as far as something called 'Crossman Investments, Inc.' Couldn't find anything else about them."

  "So, how does that get you and Christine to the warehouse in time to save my butt?"

  "When you didn't show up for work, McGuire told me to find you – which I would've done, anyway. Called the Radisson, called your cell, even called the landline at your house. When that got me nowhere, I even called Christine at work and asked if she'd heard from you."

  "Which, since I hadn't, managed to scare me shitless," Christine said. "I made Karl promise to call me back as soon as he learned something."

  "It was pretty clear that something nasty had happened," he said. "The Church had either killed you, or grabbed you. I couldn't do anything about the first possibility, so I focused on the second one. Then I started thinking about warehouses. It'd be just like those fuckers to have you slaughtered in front of their cameras."