Текст книги "Evil Dark"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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  Her partner was a guy named Greer, who had big shoulders, brown hair, and a wide mustache that probably had J. Edgar Hoover spinning in his grave. He moved like an athlete, and I thought he might be one of the many former college jocks who find their way into law enforcement once it sinks in that they're not quite good enough for the pros.

  When the room was quiet, Thorwald said, "I regret that I had to subject all of you to that revolting exhibition of sadism and murder. If it's any consolation, I've seen more than one veteran FBI agent lose his lunch either during or immediately after a showing of this… supernatural snuff film."

  Snuff films are an urban legend, probably started by the same kind of tight-ass public moralists who used to rant about comic books destroying the nation's moral fiber. But the myth made its way into popular culture, and stayed there. There's been plenty of counterfeit ones made over the years, with sleazeballs using special makeup effects to rip off the pervs who think torture and murder are fun. These days, you can see stuff like that at your local multiplex. It's all fake, but I still wouldn't want to know anybody who was a fan. If I'm going to hang out with ghouls, I prefer the real kind – they can't help what they are.

  There have been some serial killers who took video of their victims to jerk off over between kills, but that was for their own private use. If by "snuff film" you mean a commercially available product depicting actual murder, then there's no such thing.

  Or rather, there wasn't. Until now.

  "I wanted you all to see that video," Thorwald said, "because it's important that you understand what we're up against, and what the stakes are. Copies of that DVD have surfaced within the last month in New York, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh and, uh–" She turned to her partner.

  "Baltimore," he said.

  "—and Baltimore," she went on. "But the Bureau has been interested in this case for longer than a month. Quite a bit longer."

  Thorwald took a step forward. "You know that expression, 'I've got good news and bad news'? Well, I'm afraid I don't have any good news to offer you today. Instead, I bring bad news, and worse news. Brian?"

  I could almost see the two of them rehearsing this act in their hotel room last night. The whole thing had a stagy quality that was getting on my nerves. Of course, after what I'd just witnessed, my nerves were pretty damn edgy already.

  "The bad news," Greer said, "Is that what you just saw isn't the first video depicting this kind of torture-murder. I mean, one apparently carried out by a demon that's been conjured and then allowed to 'possess' an innocent party."

  That must've been the dark-haired man we'd just seen. He hadn't done all those awful things to the blond guy – the demon who'd taken him over had done them, using his body as an instrument.

  "In fact, it's the fourth one," Greer said. "Same M.O. every time, with the same… gruesome result. All that varies is the technique, and the victim."

  The technique varied. I guess that's why whoever was running the show had put out a selection of torture devices for the hellspawn to use. Nothing like variety.

  Thorwald took over again. "The going price for one of these videos in the illicit-smut underground is one thousand dollars. To give you some perspective, you can buy one of a four yearold girl being raped for about three hundred." A look of disgust passed over her face, the first genuine expression I'd seen there. "Presumably, each one of the DVDs has sold well enough to keep those producing them in business. The economies of scale are pretty good, from their perspective. Once you've recorded the master, you can burn copies for less than a buck apiece. There's no way to know how many have been put into circulation. And no reason to think these people are going to stop doing it. That, as I said, is the bad news. But, as far as you officers are concerned, there is worse news." She paused for effect, and I wondered if she'd learned that at the FBI Academy, or in some college speech class. Maybe she'd been on the debate team – she was the type.

  "We have been unable to establish the location where these atrocities were made," Thorwald said. "As with the one you just saw, what's visible onscreen doesn't give us much to go on. However, based on new information, we now have reason to believe that at least one of these DVDs was shot right here in Scranton."

Then she stood there, looking at us. I don't know what kind of a reaction she expected. If she was looking for gasps of surprise, she was talking to the wrong crowd. Most of us hadn't gasped since we found out the awful truth about Santa Claus.

  Finally, Carmela Aquilina – one of the two female detectives on the Supe Squad – said, "If you're waiting for someone to feed you the next line, then I'll do it. What's this 'new information'?"

  "One of the victims has been identified," Thorwald said. "A Bureau agent, who viewed the videos, recognized his cousin, who lives – lived – in Scranton. The cousin's name was Edward Hudzinski."

  I noticed that a couple of the detectives threw quick glances my way, as if expecting a reaction. There's lots of Polacks living in the Scranton area, and we don't all know each other. We don't all hang out together, either, and some of us can't even dance the fucking polka – at least, I sure as hell can't. Hudzinski's name meant nothing to me. But I pitied the poor bastard, whoever he was, if he had died like the guy we'd just watched on video.

  I guess Greer figured it was his turn again. "Needless to say, we didn't take the ID on faith. Instead, we queried our Scranton field office about Mister Hudzinski. They checked with Scranton PD and found that he'd been reported missing last April. There had been no suspicious circumstances about his disappearance, so it was treated as a routine missing persons case."

  "Are you saying that the Department should have handled it differently?" That was my boss, Lieutenant McGuire. His voice, while polite, had some snap to it. Although he'll kick the ass of any cop under his command who fucks up, he doesn't like criticism from outsiders – even outsiders with Federal badges.

  "Not at all," Greer said. "Based on the information available to you, I'd say the response was entirely appropriate. But now there's this new information, so a different response seems indicated. And this unit seems the most suitable one to carry it out."

  "What is it you expect us to do?" a detective sitting down front asked.

  "The answer to that should come from Lieutenant McGuire," Thorwald said. "Agent Greer and I would not presume to tell you officers how to handle a case like this. Our work at Quantico's Behavioral Science Unit involves tracking down serial killers – of the human variety. We're not experienced in matters involving the… supernatural." She managed to keep most of the distaste she felt out of her voice.

  "We've requested temporary assignment to the Bureau's Scranton field office," Greer said. "We'll be available for consultation, and we want to monitor the investigation closely – without getting in the way, of course."

  Of course. Until the time came to make an arrest. Then the Feebies would be right there, claiming jurisdiction as well as the newspaper headlines. Well, they could have their fucking headlines. I wanted the sick bastards who were behind this video operation. As long as they went down, I didn't give a shit who put them there.

  After Thorwald and Greer left to go clean their weapons, or whatever it is that Feebies do in their free time, McGuire gave us our assignments.

  "Work your snitches, all of you," he said. "If one of these murders was committed here, the odds are good that they all were. The perps have no reason that I can see to travel all over the place, just to grab victims who're anonymous on the videos, anyway."

  "Why here, I wonder," Karl said, loud enough for McGuire to hear.

  "We'll know that when we nail the bastards," he said. "Maybe the wizard who's doing the summoning is based here. God knows there's no shortage of them in the Wyoming Valley."

  "They all do white magic only – supposedly." That was Sefchik, Aquilina's partner.

  "And we're all old enough to know what 'supposedly' is worth," McGuire said. "Besides, even those that stay on the right-hand path might have heard something about one of their brethren who's been walking on the wild side."

  "And it's not just the wizard," I said.

  McGuire looked at me. "What do you mean?"

  "There's other people involved, too. Somebody is operating the camera while the wizard is conjuring – we saw it move while he was still chanting."

  Aquilina brushed hair out of her eyes and said, "He could've done it himself, using a remote to move and focus."

  "In theory, yeah," I said. "But in practice, no way. Any wizard with experience – and it looks like this guy's got plenty – knows better then to split his attention during a conjuration. The cost of fucking up is just too damned high."

  "So to speak," Karl said. He's always finding puns in my speech that I didn't intend to put there.

  "So there's two of the fuckers, at least," Pearce said. His nose has been broken so many times, he looks like a dumb pug. He's neither one.

  "Two, and probably more," I said. "They're snatching people without being seen, then disposing of the bodies afterward. Could be that the wizard doesn't stoop to do that kind of work himself, so that means more guys are involved."

  "Good point," McGuire said. "And let's not forget the people on the retail end. Somebody's got to make copies of each video, and somebody's gotta sell them. You don't buy this kind of shit at Vlad-Mart."

  "Not yet, anyway," I muttered, just loud enough for Karl to hear me.

  "All right, everybody, hit the street," McGuire said, just as our PA, Louise the Tease, approached him with a sheet of paper. He read it, and his face got even tighter than usual.

  "Renfer, Markowski," he said, "Stick around a minute."

  Karl and I traded looks. It's like when the principal tells you to stay after school – it's never for anything good.

Once the other detectives were gone, McGuire said, "There's been another witch burning."

  I felt my stomach drop like a runaway elevator. "Do they have an ID?"

  "No, but if you're worried about Rachel, she's still in San Diego at that Wiccan conference. Not due back for a few more days."

  I felt better, but only a little. Rachel Proctor, the department's consulting witch, wasn't the only magic practitioner I knew, although she was the one I knew best.

  "If they don't know who she was, how do they know she was a witch?" Karl asked.

  "Looks like the same M.O. as last time," McGuire said.

  Four nights earlier, a woman had been found tied to a telephone pole in Sturgis Park – or what was left of her had been found. She'd been burned beyond recognition. But the next day, a guy named Martin Allerdyce filed a missing persons report on his wife, Brenda, who was a practicing witch. She did white magic, of course – the black kind's illegal.

  Nobody thought it would serve any useful purpose to have Allerdyce attempt an identification of the charred thing found in the park. But he did provide two items, upon request: a brush containing a good quantity of his wife's hair, and the name of her dentist.

  Both dental records and DNA analysis confirmed Brenda Allerdyce as the victim. I wasn't exactly surprised to hear that the funeral had been conducted with a closed coffin.

  One of the fire marshals said that gasoline had been used as an accelerant, and Homer Jordan at the ME's office told me that the level of free histamines in the tissues meant that Brenda Allerdyce had been alive when the fire was lit. She must've died screaming, an ugly fact that her husband was probably all too well aware of.

  And now the sick fuck responsible had done it again.

  "Where's this one?" I asked McGuire.

  He looked at me for a second before answering. "Lake Scranton," he said, and his voice contained no inflection at all.

  Next to me I heard Karl mutter, "Well, damn."

  Lake Scranton is a man-made reservoir just south-east of the city. A few months back, Karl and I, and some others, had spent a very long night in its pump house. Several people had died there, and the survivors would never be the same again. That was especially true of Karl, who'd started the night as a human and finished it well on his way to becoming a vampire.

  "Tell me it's not the pump house again," I said.

  "Not even close," McGuire said. "The vic was found tied to one of the trees along the shoreline. Somebody whose house overlooks the lake saw the flames and called the fire department."

  "Are you sure you want us on this?" I asked. "The Feebies seem to expect us all to be out beating the bushes for whoever's been making those snuff films." I can take as much horror as anybody on the job. But after watching that video tonight, I wasn't eager to look at a charred corpse, and to inhale that distinctive odor that smells so much like roast pork that I haven't eaten any in fourteen years.

  A couple of months ago, I'd spent one of my rare nights off having a few beers with Homer Jordan. He'd told me, as if I wanted to know, about some scientific paper he'd read that compared the pain involved in the various ways people die. The paper had concluded, Homer said, that burning to death was the hardest way there is to check out.

  Me, I would have said that being tortured to death by somebody who enjoyed his work would have been a contender for the number one spot, but that's kind of like debating which is the hottest corner of Hell, and those kind of arguments don't interest me.

  I suppose that the study Homer was talking about had made some kind of valuable contribution to medical research. But I wouldn't want to be married to the guy, or woman, who wrote it.

  "I don't think the FBI expects us to abandon our regular case load just to help them with this thing," McGuire said. "And if they do, then fuck 'em. Now get moving."

  We got moving.

As I drove out of the parking lot, Karl said, "Think it's those fucking witchfinders again?"

  "Well, it's not Crane and Ferris, that's for sure." The last two witch-smellers to visit Scranton had died right here in this parking lot, their necks broken by a vampire named Vollman, and good riddance.

  "I figure there's more where those two clowns came from," Karl said.

  "I'm sure," I said. "But they're supposed to check in with the local police, whenever they come into a town – just like private eyes do."

  "Supposed to, huh?"

  "Yeah, all right," I said. "But what those bastards do is legal, unfortunately. If they'd burned a witch, they wouldn't disappear – they'd call a fucking press conference."

  "Good point. So what do you figure – some lone psycho?"

  "Let's wait 'til we get there," I said. "It's a mistake to theorize in the absence of data."

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Karl turn to look at me. "You've been reading Sherlock Holmes again, Stan?"

  "Why not?" I said. "If you can memorize all the James Bond books, I can at least read some Conan Doyle once in a while."

  "I don't have 'em memorized," he said. "I'm not some geek fanboy."

  "Sorry, my mistake," I said – then asked him, "What's the last line of From Transylvania with Love?"

  Without hesitating, he quoted, "Bond pivoted, drove the wooden stake through Rosa Klebb's heart, then slowly collapsed on the blood-red floor." After a second's pause, he said, "Hey – no fair. Everybody knows that one."

  "Everybody," I said, nodding. "Yeah, you're right. My bad."

  A few minutes later we reached the turnoff for Lake Scranton. It got quiet in the car as the flashing red and blue lights up ahead reminded us why we were here.

There's a jogging trail that goes all the way around the lake, but it's not wide enough for cars. Neither are any of the gates leading to it. That's why the two black-and-white units and the ambulance were parked outside the north gate. All three had their red and blue lights going, creating an effect like a madman's vision of Hell. Considering what I figured was on the other side of that fence, the madman would have been right on the money.

  Karl and I parked and walked to the gate, which had a uniform standing next to the strip of yellow crime scene tape that blocked it. The cop was a patrolman named Dougherty. We knew each other.

  "Where is it?" I asked him.

  He pointed. "Down the path and to the right. You'll see the lights."

  "Is the ME here?"

  "Yeah. It's what's-his-name, Jordan."

  "How about Forensics?" I asked him.

  "Showed up about five minutes ago."

  "Amazing."

  Dougherty was right – the crime scene was easy to find. There was no sense in tripping over something on the way, though, so Karl went first as we followed the jogging path. He can see pretty well in the dark these days.

  There were no electrical outlets down here, but somebody – probably the forensics guys – had brought along three battery-powered lamps on tripods. A couple of other cops held big flashlights, their beams moving around restlessly but always returning to the charred thing that had once been a human being. Lights flashed erratically as somebody took photos of the scene.

  A couple of EMTs stood patiently nearby, the stretcher they'd brought leaning against a tree. I didn't envy them the job of carrying the body all the way back to the ambulance. EMTs are tough, and they see a lot of bad shit almost every day. But what they had to transport this time would probably have given Caligula nightmares.

  A guy in plain clothes stood among the uniforms, and as we got closer I recognized Scanlon from Homicide. He made lieutenant not long ago, which means he doesn't have to go to crime scenes anymore. But he still does. I wondered if he was regretting that he went to this one.

  The smell of burned flesh was strong now, and if I let myself focus on it, I'd probably puke. So I focused on Scanlon, instead.

  "Well, look who's here," he said. "The Spook Squad."

  "Two guys doesn't make a squad, Scanlon – even a guy from Homicide should know that." I looked toward the tree and what was tied to it. "They called us because this one is supposed to be similar to the witch burning we had Wednesday night."

  "Yeah, same M.O.," Scanlon said. "Such as it is. Human female, although I'm guessing on the sex, based on the remaining hair and body size. Placement of the rope is the same as last time. The knots look similar, although I'm no expert. Same accelerant, too – there's a definite gasoline smell, when you get up close."

  "I'll take your word for it," I said. "You sure she's human?"

  He shrugged. "Not too many species of supe fit the profile," Scanlon said. "A werewolf would have transformed and broken the ropes with no sweat. A fairy would have just vanished. She's too small for an ogre and too big for a troll or goblin." It sounded like he had been reading the manual.

  "How do you know it's not a vampire?" There was something in Karl's voice that I caught, even if Scanlon didn't.

  "No fangs," Scanlon said. His face, what I could see of it, was expressionless. "I had the forensics guys check, even though it's not their job." I was betting that none of them had given him an argument about it, either, although putting your face close enough to that corpse to see its teeth could be nobody's idea of a good time.

  "No reason she couldn't be a witch, though," I said. "Like the last one."

  Technically, witches and wizards are considered supernatural beings, or supes, but they're also human – most of them, anyway.

  "No, I guess not," Scanlon said. "But why somebody who can work magic would let herself be abducted, then burned alive, is more than I can figure."

  Maybe he hadn't read the manual, after all.

  "Witches don't wear magic like body armor," I said, "and they can't use it instantly, like karate. Working magic takes preparation."

  "Remember that guy, Kulick, a few months ago?" Karl asked. "He was a wizard, and a good one. But he was taken by surprise – and you saw what happened to him."

  George Kulick had died hard, although it had taken a while for his spirit to move on to the Great Beyond, whatever that was. Personally, I hoped the bastard was roasting in Hell.

  "But they can do defensive spells, can't they?" Scanlon said.

  "Sure, if they have a reason to." I glanced toward the charred figure tied to the tree. "And if it turns out that this vic is a witch, too, I bet every practitioner in town is going to have a defensive spell in place within a few hours of getting the news."

  "Which means this one should be the last," Scanlon said. "They'll be ready for him, next time."

  "They fucking well better be," I said.

  Homer Jordan lumbered over. He nodded to Karl and me but spoke to Scanlon. "Well, I pronounced her, Lieutenant, which shouldn't come as a surprise. Cause of death's pretty obvious, too – but I'll check the internal organs to see if she was poisoned or drugged, first."

  "What about T.O.D.?" Scanlon asked.

  Homer shrugged his big shoulders. "Time of death's a bitch with burn victims, Lieutenant. I'll do the best I can."

  "The guy who called it in said he could see flames," I said.

  "The time of the call is probably a good indication of when she died, give or take a few minutes."

  "That's good to know, thanks," Homer said. "I'll check the police report." He looked around at the dark trees. "Good thing we've had a lot of rain lately. Otherwise, the motherfucker could've started a forest fire, on top of everything else."

  As Homer walked away, one of the uniforms came over and said, "Since the doc's done with the crispy critter, can we cut her loose, now, Lieutenant? The ambulance guys wanna get out of here."

  Scanlon was in the cop's face faster than a Marine Corps drill sergeant. He didn't raise his voice, but I could hear every word he said, from fifteen feet away.

  "You're talking about a woman who died in a horror and agony that your dim little brain can't begin to comprehend, and that you should pray to God you never have to learn about first-hand. But if I ever hear you refer to any burn victim as a 'crispy critter' again, I will personally tear that badge off your chest and make you eat it. Do you understand me?"

  Even in the uncertain light, I thought I could see the cop's face start to perspire. "Jeez, Lieutenant, I was only–"

  Scanlon's voice could have frozen Lake Scranton. "I asked you if you understood me."

  "Yes, sir. I understand, sir."

  "Then cut the victim down, and help the EMTs get her on the stretcher."

  "Yes, sir."

  Scanlon walked back to Karl and me, shaking his head. I didn't say anything – I figured he'd said it all.

  "I guess your squad and mine will both be investigating this, from different angles," Scanlon said. "It would be a good thing to keep each other current on any progress – informally, of course."

  "I agree, Lieutenant." Informally meant we'd avoid official paperwork and the interdepartmental rivalries that sometimes went along with it. It's like the CIA and FBI – they're supposed to share information, but they don't, always. And when that happens, sometimes people die.

  I glanced over toward the tree, and saw the EMTs gently lowering the burned body onto the stretcher. "We probably oughta get going," I said to Karl.

  I wanted to get on the path before the EMTs did. Otherwise, we'd have to follow them, and their macabre burden, all the way to the parking lot. It would slow us down, and would mean another ten minutes or so of inhaling that sickly-sweet odor from the burned corpse. I'd smelled enough of that for one night – or a lifetime, for that matter.

  As I followed Karl and his vamp-vision through the dark, he said, over his shoulder, "Wonder if she has a family?"

  "Probably," I said. "Most people do." Whoever the victim's survivors were, I was glad it wasn't my job to inform them of her death, and how it had happened. "We'll probably have an ID in a day or two."

  "Even with the way she was burned?"

  "Somebody'll report her missing, most likely – just like the other one, Mrs, uh–"

  "Allerdyce," Karl said. "Brenda Allerdyce."

  "Once Homer has a name to work with, he won't have much problem confirming her identity. Then we can go to work. Just like real detectives."

  "Looking for stuff they had in common, all that."

  "Yeah, but we'll start with finding out whether they knew each other. The ultimate common factor."

  "Maybe Rachel can help out with that," he said. "Once she gets back."

  "Assuming she's not still mad at us," I said.

  "What do you mean us, kimosabe? I'm not the one who asked her to do the fucking necromancy."

  We were kidding around, a little – we both knew that Rachel Proctor didn't hold a grudge against either of us. Although I wouldn't blame her if she did, in my case.

  Last summer, I'd prevailed upon Rachel to conduct a necromancy so I could talk to the spirit of a murder victim. She'd agreed, against her better judgment. Turned out her judgment was right on the money, because things had gone very wrong. But she said she didn't blame me for any of it, and even gave me some of the credit for later getting her out of the mess that I'd gotten her into in the first place. Nice lady, that Rachel.

  As we reached the gate I saw that the media had arrived in force, although the uniforms were keeping them behind a barrier of crime scene tape that split the parking lot in two. It looked like the four local networks had each sent a camera crew, and a couple of print reporters for the Scranton and Wilkes-Barre papers had shown up, too.

  As soon as they saw us, a couple of mini-spotlights came on, along with the red lights atop the video cameras. The reporters were all yelling questions at us, but Karl and I just squinted against the glare and kept walking. If I made any statements without prior authorization, McGuire would disembowel me with a spoon. Anyway, I don't like journalists, much. I know they're just doing their jobs – but then, you could probably say the same thing for the guards at Bergen-Belsen.

  As I started the car, Karl said, "About two hours to sunrise," which meant two hours before he had to be back inside his apartment's bedroom, in a sleeping bag with a blanket over it.

  "Still time to accomplish a couple of things which might actually prove helpful. I'm gonna call Doc Watson and leave a message on his machine. See if he can spare us some time tomorrow night."

  Terence K. Watson, MD, had been born in the Mississippi delta, the heart of blues country. That's where the nickname came from, although Doc says he can't even carry a tune in the shower. But he's a good psychiatrist, and he's been helpful to us in the past.

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

  "I want to talk to those two Feebies."

Thorwald and Greer were set up in the squad's break room. It isn't much – a Mister Coffee that nobody every cleans, a small urn with hot water for the tea drinkers, a beat-up table, and some chairs. There's a small refrigerator that nobody ever uses, although Karl's been talking about keeping a bottle of O-positive in there, just for laughs.

  The two Feds were looking through a pile of our old case files, although I couldn't figure what they thought they'd find. As we walked in, I said, "Got a minute?"

  Greer glanced at his partner, then said, "Sure," with a little gesture toward the vacant chairs. We sat down, and I noticed that Karl was staring at Thorwald. Maybe he was considering her as a possible volunteer blood donor. She might've read his mind because she returned the stare and said to him, "You're undead, aren't you?"

  I guess Greer wasn't as sharp as his partner, because he looked at Thorwald in surprise, then transferred the look to Karl. The surprised expression quickly turned into some thing wary. Maybe he thought Karl was going to jump across the table and go for his jugular. I figured Greer didn't have much experience with vampires – maybe neither of them did.

  Karl just nodded at Thorwald's question. There was a time when he would've tried to charm her with a smile, but nowadays his fangs tend to spoil the effect. He usually keeps them covered around strangers.

  "I didn't know that the Scranton PD was recruiting vampires," Thorwald said. She didn't have Greer's leery expression, but didn't look like she was about to ask Karl to the Sadie Hawkins Day dance, either.

  "They're not, far as I know," Karl said. "I was a cop before I was a vamp." He said it as if he was discussing tomorrow's weather.

  "He was… changed… in the line of duty," I said.

  Karl nodded and added, "It's a long story," meaning one he wasn't interested in telling now, if ever.

  "I wanted to ask you about these videos," I said.

  "What about 'em?" Greer asked.

  "You said there were four, so far," I said.

  Greer shrugged. "Yeah. So?"

  "So how do you know there's only been four?"

  There was a battery-powered clock on the wall near us, and I heard it tick seven times before Thorwald said, "You've got a point, Sergeant. There could be more of these atrocities than the four we have copies of. But our agents nationwide have been pushing their contacts and informants pretty hard, especially now that they know what to look for."

  She took a sip of what looked like cold coffee, and I gave her credit for not grimacing, even though it probably tasted like battery acid.

  "My best estimate is that there are only four, so far," she said. "But I won't discount the possibility that there are others out there."

  "And there'll probably be more soon," Greer said. "Unless we find these fuckers first."

  "You've seen all four of them," I said.

  Thorwald made a face that would have gone well with the cold coffee. "Several times each," she said. "It doesn't get any easier with repetition." Maybe she wasn't quite the hard-bitten Feebie that she acted like.