Текст книги "Evil Dark"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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  "Were all of them filmed in the same place?" I asked.

  "We think so," she said. "Although the lights are focused on the protective circle, there are some shots, pans mostly, that give a quick glimpse of one of the walls."

  "Red brick," Greer said. "We took screen caps from each video and compared them for the same basic shot in each one – a head-on view of the victim in his chair before the fun begins. The configurations of the bricks in the background are identical. That means–"

  Karl interrupted him. "It means that the camera angle is exactly the same each time. It has to be. And if the camera hasn't been moved from one murder to the next, that's another point in favor of the location being the same each time."

  I let my gaze drift toward the coffee maker and thought about pouring myself a cup, but fortunately sanity prevailed. Instead, I looked back at Thorwald. "That doesn't necessarily mean the killing ground is in Scranton."

  "That's true, technically," Thorwald said.

  "Yeah, but…" Karl said, and let his voice trail off.

  "But," she said, "the only vic that we have an ID for is from here. This Hudzinski guy. We've got screen caps of all the victims' faces, enlarged and enhanced. We've sent them to all the field offices. None of the agents there recognized anybody, and we can hardly expect them to go door to door in their local areas, asking 'Do you recognize any of these people?' Not exactly an optimum use of Bureau resources."

  She actually said that – "optimum use of Bureau resources" – and with a straight face, too.

  Karl leaned forward in his chair. "You're talking about eight vics minimum – two per video, right?

  "So what?" Greer asked.

  "So they can't all be local," Karl said. "This is Scranton, not New York. Eight guys go missing over the course of–" He looked at Thorwald. "–what, a year?"

  "We figure it's been going on about ten months," she said.

  "Eight guys in ten months," Karl said. "Uh-uh. Not in Scranton. That many missing person reports is gonna get somebody's attention downstairs, eventually. And we'd have heard about it by now, too."

  "Unless the guys were homeless," Greer said. "It's getting so that serial killers like homeless people almost as much as they target hookers."

  I thought about that for a moment, then said, "No, can't be – not all eight of 'em, anyway. Scranton's not that big a town. The homeless population isn't large. I'm talking about people living in packing crates and under bridges, shit like that."

  "Anyway," Karl said, "nobody around here, no matter how bad off they are, is gonna start living under a bridge."

  "How come?" Greer asked him.

  "Trolls," Karl said.

  "Let's get back to the matter at hand," Thorwald said. "The victims represent one of the points of contact between the killers and the… public, for lack of a better term. Once we identify a victim, we can work backwards, like with any other kidnapping case. Search the vic's home for any intel about where he was supposed to be the day he disappeared, try to find out who he'd been seen with before he went missing – the usual routine."

  "Scranton's not the only legal jurisdiction around here," I said. "There's lots of small towns and townships – not to mention Wilkes-Barre, which is only twenty minutes away. Some guy gets grabbed in one of those places, and the missing persons report won't pass through Scranton PD."

  "You FBI guys keep track of all that info, don't you?" Karl said.

  "Yeah, all police and sheriff's departments nationwide send their crime stats to Washington," Thorwald said. "The Bureau publishes the compilation every year in the Uniform Crime Report."

  "That's what I thought," I said. "So, maybe ET should phone home."

  She shook her head. "There's a time lag between when the raw data reaches the Bureau and when it's collated."

  "How big a time lag?"

  "Put it this way," she said. "The Uniform Crime Report for two years ago was just published last month."

  "Shit," I said.

  "Yeah, but wait a second," Karl said. He looked at me. "Don't the Staties get copied on all missing persons reports from local departments?"

  "That's a damn good question." I turned to the Feebies. "Think you can get an answer for us, like maybe tomorrow?"

  "Hey," Greer said, "we're not here to do your–"

  Thorwald stopped him by putting her hand on his knee. I wondered if it gave him a thrill. It would've given me one. "Sergeant Markowski probably means that the people in Harrisburg will respond more readily to a request from the Bureau than one emanating from the Scranton PD." She raised an eyebrow at me. "Yes?"

  "Couldn't have put it better myself," I said. I glanced at my watch. "Sorry to cut this short, but our shift's over, and we need to get out of here at least a half-hour before six."

  As Karl and I stood up, Greer said, "Didn't take you for a clock watcher, Markowski. I heard you were a real noseto-the-grindstone kind of guy."

  I didn't say anything, since arguing with assholes is a waste of time, but I saw that Thorwald was looking at me thoughtfully. "What happens at six?" she asked.

  "Sunrise."

As we walked toward the parking lot, Karl asked me, "Do you suppose there's a special course at the FBI Academy called 'How to Be a Federal Douche Bag'?"

  "Wouldn't surprise me," I said. "And if there is, I'm betting that Greer aced it. Probably the only 'A' he ever earned." I reached into a pocket for my keys. "His partner's not too bad, though. For a Feebie."

  Karl looked at me. "You think she's hot?"

  "I didn't say that. I just meant that she doesn't seem to be a revolving asshole like her buddy."

  "Revolving?"

  "From whatever angle the object is viewed," I said.

  "She likes you, though," Karl said.

  "Yeah, right," I said. "And where did that revelation come from, O wise man?"

  "Her heartbeat. It speeded up a little every time she talked to you."

  I didn't bother to ask him how he knew that. He'd just say, "It's a vamp thing – you wouldn't understand."

  "I probably just remind her of her ex-husband," I said. "And not in a good way, either."

  He shrugged. "Believe what you want."

  "Think you could use some vampire Influence on Greer, maybe get him to stop being such a prick?"

  "I'm a vampire," Karl said. "Not a miracle worker."

  I watched him unlock his ride. It's the same Ford Exorcist he's been driving the last couple of years, except now it's got tinted windows – in case he's late getting home from work some morning.

  It was Wednesday morning, and tonight would be our night off. I wouldn't have minded working, anyway, but McGuire will only authorize overtime if we're chasing a hot lead. And right now we had no leads – hot, cold, or room temperature.

  "See you Thursday," Karl said.

  "Dark and early." Karl slipped behind the wheel and I headed for my own car. The Toyota Lycan's got a new windshield – Karl shot out the old one while saving my life, a while back – but otherwise it's as old and dented as its owner. But it hasn't got any rust on it, and neither do I – so far.

Ten minutes later I walked into the kitchen, where a vampire sat at the table reading the morning paper. Vamps don't usually hang around my kitchen much, but this one lived here.

  "Hey," I said.

  "Hey, Daddy," Christine said. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd see you before I went downstairs."

  "Downstairs" means the basement, where she spends the day wrapped up in a sleeping bag. I've fixed it up a little down there since she came to stay with me. No need for the place to look like a tomb, even if it sort of is one.

  "Yeah, I'm running late," I said. "I was talking to some FBI assholes. It was so much fun, I didn't notice what time it was getting to be."

  "What's up with the Feds?" she asked. "Some werewolf knock over a bank, or something?"

  "No, it's a lot worse than that," I said. "I'll tell you about it tonight, but there's something I wanted to ask you about before you crash – who's replaced Vollman as the local Supefather?"

  She gave me a brief smile. "'Supefather' – that's cute. Well, I haven't met him yet, but I hear the new guy is a wizard named Victor Castle."

  I gave her half a smile of my own. "Castle? Seriously?"

  "That's what he calls himself. I hear his birth name was Castellino, or something, but I guess that isn't dramatic enough. He's supposed to be pretty smart, even if he does seem to lack a sense of irony."

  "He and I need to have a conversation, I think. Where's he hang out – do you know?"

  She folded the Times-Tribune and stood up. I saw she was wearing her usual bedtime outfit – gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt that mocked a certain milk ad by asking, in red letters, "Got blood?"

  "I have no idea," she said. "But I'll ask around tonight, if you want. Maybe make a few calls."

  "I'd appreciate it. Thanks."

  She gave me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. "See you at sundown."

  We'd agreed that saying "Good morning" as she went to sleep sounded stupid, so I said, "Goodnight, baby."

  I made some breakfast, ate it, and went to bed. That night, I hung out with Christine for a few hours until she left for her job as a 911 dispatcher. Then I did some laundry, put the trash out at the curb, and cleaned Quincey's cage. Quincey's my hamster, and a good listener. I told him about the Feebies and the nasty case they'd brought us, and he seemed interested. But maybe he just likes the sound of my voice. I'm glad somebody does.

  I killed a few more hours reading a book about a group of scientists who accidentally opened a portal to Hell. Some thoroughly bad shit ensued, as you might expect. The author claimed it was fiction, and I hoped he was right. We had too many people around with access to Hell as it was.

On Thursday night I got to the squad room around 7.30pm. I was going through my emails when Karl came in and sat at his desk, which is pushed up against mine so they face each other. I looked up, and said, "Hi," and went back to my computer screen. Part of my mind must have noticed that Karl hadn't booted up his own computer because I raised my eyes again and found him looking at me, a strange expression on his face.

  "What?" I said.

  "I was talking to a CI of mine last night." Confidential informant is the official name for a snitch – somebody who'll pass on information in return for a favor, a few bucks, or just a chance to bank some good will with the cops.

  "You were working last night?" I said. "McGuire didn't OK any overtime, that I know of."

  "I wasn't working," Karl said. "I just ran into him over at Scavino's."

  Scavino's is a bar that attracts what you might call a mixed clientele. Humans, mostly, but some supes go there because nobody hassles them. Ed Scavino sees to that. He's married to a werewolf, which makes him tolerant by necessity, if not disposition.

  "Yeah, OK," I said. "So, you were talking to this guy, and…?"

  "And he told me about a whisper that's been making the rounds lately." Karl hesitated a second, which isn't like him. Then I found out why. "Word is, Sharkey's back."

  I give myself a little credit for my reaction – or lack of one. I didn't move a muscle for a good two or three seconds, except for my eyelids, which I couldn't stop from blinking rapidly. That happens when I'm scared.

  "Sharkey's dead," I said.

  "Yeah, I know," Karl said. "At least, I thought I did. But there was never a positive ID on his body, you know that. After the explosion, then the fire, what could you expect? The forensics guys didn't have a lot to work with."

  "He was seen going into that building, just before it blew. Nobody ever saw him come out." I don't know who I was trying to convince, Karl or myself.

  "Yeah – but, shit, getting in and out of places without being seen was Sharkey's specialty. He was like a fucking ninja, or something. That's why he got paid so much."

  "Being a dhampir probably helps with that," I said.

  "Yeah, probably."

  Sharkey killed for money, but calling him a hit man was like saying that Rembrandt was a painter. Sharkey was death on two feet. Half human, half vampire, and all lethal. To nobody's surprise, he was known as "the Shark," but I think they'd have called him that even if his name was Smith or Jones.

  About eighteen months ago, a gang of vamp punks had kidnapped the daughter of Joe Guaneri, a mob boss in nearby Pittston. He'd paid the ransom, but the vamps killed the girl, anyway. Her body was found drained dry.

  Even though the vamps didn't turn her, the family had buried the girl with a wooden stake through her chest, and stuffed the mouth of her decapitated head with garlic. I figured the funeral was one of those closed casket ceremonies.

  Guaneri had plenty of his own soldiers to call on for payback, but none of them had any experience against vamps. So he'd hired Sharkey, instead. Guess he wanted to get more than even.

  The vamp gang had taken over an abandoned public school building in Carbondale and made it their HQ. Even had a squad of armed humans to guard the place during the day. Being a dhampir, Sharkey could have gone in there at any time, day or night, but he'd waited until after sundown to make his move. Maybe he'd been told to be sure the vamps could see what was coming.

  Nobody knows if that bomb belonged to the vamps, or if Sharkey brought it in himself. I wouldn't have bet either way. On the one hand, a bomb wasn't really Sharkey's style – too impersonal, not enough time for the victims to scream. On the other hand, the explosion had not only leveled the building – it had taken out two civilians walking by outside. That sounded like the Shark – he was never real careful about collateral damage.

  Karl was right. Nobody had ever made a positive ID on Sharkey's body, or on any of the others. The forensics people estimated that twenty to twenty-five pounds of C-4 explosive had gone off inside that building. From what I hear, the biggest body part they found would still have fit easily inside a shoebox.

  That would've killed Sharkey, all right. Dhampirs have the strengths of a vampire, like speed, strength, and the power of Influence. But they have the weaknesses of a human. A bullet in the chest will kill a dhampir just like it would you or me. So will an explosion, like the one that leveled the old Roosevelt school. It had sure taken care of the vampires.

  When Sharkey wasn't seen or heard from after the blast, everybody figured he'd died inside the demolished school. Maybe we liked the idea because it was comforting. The peasants in Transylvania must've felt the same way when they heard Dracula was dead.

  But Dracula keeps rising from the grave – in the movie versions, anyway.

  "Have you given any thought to the possibility that your CI might be full of shit?" I asked Karl.

  "Sure," he said. "But he's been pretty reliable in the past."

  "He didn't say he'd seen Sharkey himself, though, did he?"

  "No, he was just telling me what was in the rumor mill."

  "Well, we've both been in this business long enough to know what rumors are worth. Remember the one that said a bunch of cannibals were eating people up around Lake Wallenpaupack?"

  The "cannibals" had turned out to be a homeless family, living in a tent and getting by on whatever they could catch. They had eaten squirrels, fish, rabbits, and a couple of feral cats, but no people, as far as we could tell.

  "Yeah, I know," Karl said, and shrugged. "You're right – the guy was probably full of shit."

  "Exactly," I said. We were like two kids whistling as we walked past the old haunted house. As long as you sounded happy, nothing bad could get you.

  It works pretty well, since there's usually nothing inside the "haunted house" to hurt you, anyway.

  But sometimes the ghosts are real, and whistling does no damn good at all.

• • • •

Pretend that there's a file folder somewhere, a big, thick one, labeled Real Bad Ideas. There's at least three things I can think of that belong in there – inviting a werewolf for a moonlight stroll, telling a witch she's got a fat ass, and pissing off an ogre.

  Especially that last one.

  Despite what you read in the fairy tales, most ogres are fairly mellow creatures. They're not green and cute, like that guy in the movies – Dreck, or whatever his name is, but they're not usually criminal types, either. Mostly they're just big, strong, and dumb, like the one Steinbeck wrote about in Of Elves and Men. But all the same, it doesn't pay to get one mad.

  I figured somebody had done just that, since the inside of Leary's Bar looked like something you'd find in Berlin at the end of World War II – just after the Russians had passed through. Six tables were smashed, along with ten or twelve chairs. The big mirror was just a memory. One of the ceiling lights had been hit so hard by something – or someone – that the big fluorescent bulb hung down at the end of some thick black wire, blinking and sputtering. I had no idea how many liquor bottles had been smashed, but the odor of alcohol was so strong in there that a couple of deep breaths would probably cause you to flunk a Breathalyzer test.

  If you needed additional proof of ogre outrage, there were always the three guys strewn across on the floor, who looked like they'd tried to wrestle a locomotive and come off second best. They were either unconscious, comatose, or dead.

  Then there was the girl – a barmaid, judging by her outfit. She looked to be scared about half out of her mind, and I didn't blame her, since the pissed-off ogre, back against the wall, was holding her with one massive paw wrapped around her waist, like a kid playing with a Barbie doll – and not playing real gently, either.

  A couple of uniforms were standing just inside the door, what they thought was a safe distance away. I looked over my shoulder and called to them, "Get Leary in here, will you? And find out what's keeping those damn ambulances."

  It was quiet inside what was left of the barroom. The only sounds came from the ogre, whose breathing sounded like midnight in a TB ward, and the waitress, who was crying softly.

  Keeping my voice low, I asked my partner, "Can you use Influence on him, get him calmed down?"

  "I doubt it," Karl said. "I'm not real good at that stuff yet. Anyway, there's not much of a mind there to work with, haina?"

  Karl's been my partner for just over a year and a half now, and a vampire for about three months. He's a good kid, even with the fangs.

  I nodded. My luck never runs that good, but it'd been worth a try. "You're a lot stronger than you used to be," I said. "If it comes to a rumble, can you take him?"

  Karl looked the ogre up and down. It took a while, since the guy was over seven foot from head to toe. You can find some NBA players that tall, but the ogre wasn't lean and quick, the way those guys are. He was built more along the lines of the Great Wall of China.

  "I dunno," Karl said. "Let's see if we can avoid finding out."

  Neither of us had drawn our weapons yet – we wanted to talk to the ogre, not kill him. We could take him out if we had to – probably. My Beretta's load included silver bullets, and I knew Karl's Glock held sixteen slugs tipped with cold iron – he doesn't handle silver anymore. Either round will take down an ogre, but you have to get him in a vital spot. It's kind of what hunting rhinos must be like – you know your gun can kill the beast, but you'd better make the first shot count, or you're in for a world of hurt.

  But with a supernatural creature, just as with humans, lethal force is supposed to be the last option, not the first. The badge isn't a license to kill, and that's something I keep in mind. Besides, the paperwork is horrendous.

  I heard a sound from behind me, and saw that the uniforms had brought Leary back inside. They took him over to where I was standing with Karl, about twenty-five feet from the ogre and his new girlfriend. Then they beat it back out the door. "We'll go keep an eye out for the ambulances," one of them said to me. Yeah, yeah.

  "What the hell is he still doing here?" Leary said from behind me. "I thought you guys were supposed to be the big supe experts."

  "We are," I told him, "but even experts need information. Come over here, next to me."

  Leary's on the short side, with flaming red hair that's about half gone, bushy eyebrows, and more attitude than the Irish Republican Army. Some say he's got some leprechaun in him, and they'll get no argument from me.

  I wanted to be able to talk to Leary and keep my eye on the ogre at the same time. Never turn your back on a supe – unless he's your partner, who you'd trust with your life. Or maybe a member of your family.

  Leary was standing a few feet to my left now, so I asked him, "You get many ogres in here?"

  As soon as I said it, I realized my question sounded like the set-up to a supe joke – the dumb kind, like Lacey Brennan is always telling me. Lacey works the Supe Squad over in Wilkes-Barre. She's a good cop, and not bad-looking, either, but it's not like I have a thing for her.

  "Naw, this one's the first. I don't like havin' 'em around, but when something that size comes in and orders a drink, what was I gonna do?"

  "Serve him, I hope," I said.

  "'Course I did. Double shot of tequila. He put away that one, and eight more, in about an hour."

  "Then what?" Karl asked him. "He run out of money?"

  "Naw, I cut him off. He didn't take that too well."

  "You wouldn't sell him any more booze because he was drunk?" I asked.

  "Shit, he had to be. Nine double shots of Jose Cuervo – what would you expect?"

  "Yeah, but was he acting drunk, Leary?" I was starting to get fed up with this little jerk.

  "He was acting big and stupid, just like when he came in. I wanted to get him the fuck outta here before he started cuttin' up and caused some damage."

  I let my gaze wander around what was left of his bar. "Looks like you did a hell of a job," I said. "Leary, did you ever consider how much booze it takes to affect something that size?" It takes a lot more than nine shots of tequila to get an ogre drunk, unless he already had some on board when he came in.

  "I don't give a shit," Leary said. "I just hope the big dummy's been savin' his pennies, because I'm gonna sue him for every single one – once you guys do your job and get him the fuck out of here, that is."

  I shared a disgusted look with Karl, who asked Leary, "The waitress – what's her name?"

  "Why? You plannin' on puttin' a move on her or something? You're gonna have to get lover boy over there to turn her loose, first."

  Karl let a little bit of vamp show in his eyes as he said, "I just wanna know what to call her. Now tell me her name." Guess he was getting impatient, too.

  Leary actually took a step back. "Heather, her name's Heather. Heather Collins."

  "All right, Leary," I said. "That's all we needed. Wait outside while we finish up in here."

  He was at the door before I finished speaking.

  I lowered my voice again before I said to Karl, "Nice job. You're a scary motherfucker, I ever tell you that?"

  "Yeah, too often," Karl murmured. "You know, I might be able to do the same thing to Dumbo over there, if you want me to give it a try."

  "Better not," I said. "We don't want to spook him while he's got Heather in his fist, do we? He might forget what he's holding and squeeze real hard."

  "Yeah, you're right. Shit."

The paramedics showed up a few minutes later and wasted no time loading the three casualties onto the gurneys they'd wheeled in. If the ogre made a move on the ambulance crew, I'd have to shoot him and hope for the best. But he just watched them as they got the three limp forms ready for departure.

  Without turning my head, I asked them, "Those guys still alive?"

  "Yeah, for the time being," one of them said. "Looks like one's got a fractured skull. The other two don't seem too bad, though."

  Then they wheeled the gurneys out of the bar. I hoped that a doctor or nurse with some magical ability was working at the ER tonight. Hospitals try to keep a medical magician on hand 24/7, but people with that particular skill set are hard to find – even in Scranton, which has an awful lot of supes for its size.

  "Whadaya think, Stan?" Karl asked me. "Time to call SWAT?"

  The Sacred Weapons and Tactics unit is trained to deal with supe hostage situations. It was tempting to let them take over, but I wasn't looking forward to sarcastic comments from their team leader, Dooley. He's something of a prick.

  "Not yet," I told Karl. "Let me see what I can do, first."

  It wasn't just my pride involved in the decision – there was a tactical consideration, too. Since ogre was backed into a corner, there was no way to take him by surprise. And once he saw the SWAT guys, in their distinctive black uniforms, the big guy might panic. And panic could be pretty hard on Heather the waitress.

  I made eye contact with the ogre and spoke to him for the first time. "Hey, how ya doin?" I said. "I'm Stan, this here's Karl." I paused to give him a chance to process the information. Ogres aren't real quick, even when they haven't put away half a bottle of tequila. After a few seconds, I went on. "What's your name, pal?"

  Another couple of seconds went by. "Igor," he rumbled.

  I didn't let any of the humor I felt appear on my face – you learn quick, on the street, not to show what you're feeling. But Igor, jeez. Ogre parents aren't usually known for having a sense of humor – or maybe they just didn't see the irony.

  "Igor, listen," I said slowly. "Why don't you let the girl go? She doesn't look like she's having a real good time, you know?"

  Igor looked at Heather. Then he lifted her up, like she was a Barbie doll – a shrieking, terrified Barbie doll – until her hair was a couple inches from his nose and sniffed a couple of times before putting her back down, his big hand still around her waist. "She smells good," he said to me, as if that explained everything. Maybe to an ogre, it did.

  Some supes have senses of smell that will put a bloodhound to shame, but not ogres. Otherwise he'd have been able to smell the fear on her, too. To the right kind of nose it was probably a stronger scent than whatever perfume she was wearing. Maybe then he'd have let her go.

  "We can't all just stand here until tomorrow, Igor," I said in a reasonable tone. "We're all gonna get pretty hungry, for one thing."

  I hoped the suggestion would encourage Igor to ask for food. We'd get it for him, too. That's standard procedure in hostage situations. I'd order him the biggest pizza in town, including every topping known to man – along with a liberal dose of horse tranquilizer. That's standard procedure, too. Once Igor was in dreamland, maybe we could get a block and tackle set up in here to lift him out of the room.

  But instead of asking for something to eat, Igor said, "You gonna take me to jail?"

  No sense lying to him about that. Even ogres aren't that dumb. "Yeah, for a while," I said. "Until you make bail, anyway."

  Igor shook his immense head. "No! No jail. I hate jail." I guess he'd been inside before. "People there are mean."

  The idea of anybody, guard or prisoner, being mean to something Igor's size was hard to imagine, but maybe he meant they taunted him through the bars of his cell. There's guys who get off on that, taunting the powerful when they're helpless. They forget that the helplessness is usually temporary, and even ogres have memories.

  There's all kinds of cells in the supe wing of the county jail. Some of them have bars with bits of silver imbedded; others have got doors made of cold iron. They've got some ogre-proof cells, too. Those rooms have some kind of magical spell on them that prevents–

  Magic. Ogres are afraid of magic. There's some kinds of magic that it's smart to be afraid of, but ogres are notoriously skittish about any kind of spells, and those who can use them. Meaning witches.

  I brought out my phone, opened it, and acted like I was looking in the directory. "I guess you're leaving us no choice, Igor," I said. "We'll have to call in Rachel Proctor."

  The immense eyebrows came together as Igor tried to parse what I'd just said. After a couple of seconds he asked, "Who's that?"

  "She's the police department's consulting witch." That much was true, but nothing else I was about to say would be. "She doesn't care for guys who frighten girls like Heather," I said. "The last time I called her out to a scene like this, we had a werewolf who'd gone a little nuts and taken some hostages. Rachel turned the poor guy into a toad."

  Igor looked at me for a couple of seconds. "She can do that, this Rachel?"

  "Saw her do it with my own two eyes," I said. "And here's the funny thing – once we got the guy to jail and she was supposed to turn him back – it didn't work."

  The ogre's eyes opened wide. "You shittin' me?"

  "Nope, it's God's truth," I said. "Karl was there, too – he saw it."

  On cue, Karl nodded several times. "Very sad," he said. "Guy had a family, too."

  "Things didn't end up too bad," I said, lying the truth right out of town. "At least they found a home for him – in the Nay Aug Park Zoo. You go to the zoo much, Igor? You've probably seen him there. Excuse me."

  For obvious reasons, I had Rachel Proctor on speed-dial. I pressed the tiny icon next to her name and brought the phone to my ear. After a couple of seconds, I said into it, "Rachel? Hi, it's Stan Markowski. How you doing?"

  I paused to listen for a moment, then said, "Listen, Rachel, I've got a problem that might be right up your alley – or in your cauldron, as the case may be. See, there's this ogre–"

  That's as far as I got before Igor the ogre bellowed, "Wait, wait! I give up! No witches – I surround!"

  I was pretty sure he meant "surrender," although Igor was big enough to surround you all by himself, if he wanted to. Fortunately, I was right. He let Heather go, then put his hands up.

  I said into the phone, "Never mind, Rachel. The problem seems to be solved," and heard Rachel's voice say "…be back until next Monday. So wait for the beep, then leave a message."