Текст книги "Evil Dark"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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  Fifteen minutes later, Igor was in the back of a police department prisoner van, his wrists bound by chains of cold iron, on his way to County. Heather the waitress was sitting in the back of an open ambulance, a blanket around her, drinking coffee from a thermos. I asked one of the uniforms to take her statement, once she was feeling more composed.

  As Karl and I left the scene, a couple of uniforms were cordoning off the area with the yellow tape that reads Police Line. Do Not Cross.

  Leary stomped over, not looking any happier for Igor's arrest and departure. "What are they doing?" he yelled, pointing at the two cops.

  "Securing a crime scene until Forensics gets in there and does their work," I said. "If nothing else, they'll need to take a lot of photos. You might want to take some yourself, for the insurance people."

  "But what about my fuckin' bar?"

  I took a look through the open door of the tavern and the wreckage it contained.

  "Don't sweat it, Leary," I said. "I don't think you were gonna do much more business tonight, anyway."

  As we walked back to the car, Karl said, "Well, that ended with nobody gettin' hurt – apart from those dummies who tried to fight Igor."

  "Yeah," I said. "Maybe our luck is changing."

  After all these years on the job, I should know better than to tempt fate that way.

Doc Watson had left a message that he'd see us at 4am, and it was twelve after the hour when Karl and I arrived at his reception room. The woman behind the desk looked to be in her mid-fifties. A lot of vamps have night jobs, but I was pretty sure this one was human, more or less.

  "He's expecting us," I told her.

  The look she gave me would've done credit to Sister Yolanda, who'd made my life hell in eighth grade. Despite all the weres, zombies, and vamps I've had to deal with since then, Sister Yolanda was the one I still had nightmares about.

  "The doctor was expecting you at 4 o'clock," she said. I wondered if she had a big wooden ruler somewhere in her desk.

  I was in no mood for this shit, and I guess Karl wasn't either. He put his hands on her desk and leaned forward. The smile he gave her displayed his fangs nicely. "I'll make you a deal," he said pleasantly. "You'll tell the doc that we're here, and I'll try to forget that I haven't fed tonight and I'm real thirsty. Sound like a plan?"

  I heard the castors protest as she quickly pushed her chair back, her eyes huge.

  "Y-yes, of course. I didn't mean to – excuse me, please."

  Then she was heading for the oak door behind her at a pace that was not quite a run. She knocked twice and didn't wait for a reply from inside before entering Doc Watson's inner sanctum.

  "Where were you when I was in eighth grade?" I murmured to Karl. He looked at me, but before I could explain, the receptionist was back.

  To me she said, "Doctor Watson will see you now." She didn't look at Karl at all.

  Terence K Watson was a thin guy who wore his thick black hair brushed straight back. Combine that with the goatee and his fondness for black clothing and you've got a look that Rachel Proctor once described to me as Faustian. What she meant was the doc would have looked good as Mephistopheles in a staging of Marlowe's play. Faust himself was no fashion plate, by most accounts.

  Rachel is one of the smartest people I know, but she's wrong on that one. I've seen the real Mephistopheles, and he looks like nothing human – unless he wants to. Besides, Doc Watson isn't into stealing souls. He's in the business of saving them, or trying to.

  The doc and I go way back, and he's met Karl before, so no introductions were called for. But as we sat down, he looked at Karl and said, "I heard you'd been turned a while back, Karl, and now I see that the stories are true. If you don't mind my asking, how are you doing? It's quite an adjustment you've had to make."

  Karl thought for a few seconds before answering. Maybe he was deciding how much to say. "It's an adjustment, like you said, Doc. But it's not too bad most days – most nights, I mean. And when it is, I just remind myself that being undead beats the alternative."

  "Does it? You're sure?"

  "Yeah, pretty sure."

  Doc nodded. "Good."

  "You must treat a few vampires yourself, Doc," I said. "Since you've started offering night appointments, and all."

  He looked at me and his expression grew, if possible, more serious. "The confidentiality of my relationship with patients is absolute, Stan. It has to be – even to the point of declining to answer that question."

  "I didn't mean anything by it, Doc. Just making conversation."

  He let his long face relax in a sort of smile. "I know, Stan. But it's not the kind of small talk that I can join in."

  "We're here to ask you about somebody who isn't one of your patients," Karl said. "At least, I hope he's not."

  "Even if he is, Karl, you'll never know it." He spread his hands for a second and sat back. "Ask away. I'll tell you what I can."

  Karl and I took turns telling him about the witch burnings. When we were finished, Doc was silent for several seconds.

  "I suppose telling you that the person responsible for these crimes seems to hate witches would be an exercise in the obvious," he said.

  "Yeah, kind of," I told him.

  "Of course, that assumes the victims are chosen randomly, within the witch community," Doc said. "There's always the possibility that his grudge was against these two women in particular."

  "We've got people working that angle," Karl said. "They're looking for a common factor – clients, boyfriends, relatives, all that."

  "If they find something, it'll make my life a lot easier," I said. "But since God seems to be part of an ongoing conspiracy to make my life difficult, let's assume for now that it's a serial killer who's obsessed with witches."

  "All right, then." Doc was sitting in an expensive-looking leather swivel chair. He tilted it back as far as it would go and closed his eyes. He sat like that without speaking for fifteen seconds or so. "He's choosing witches because they symbolize something for him – something that he wants to kill, or wishes he had, but can't. It's possible that an actual witch did him dirty sometime in the past, of course. However, when the victims are female, we tend to believe that they are serving as stand-ins for a woman in the killer's past, often the mother, or a mother-figure." Doc opened his eyes and shrugged. "Trite, but true."

  "So, you figure the guy's mother was a witch?" Karl asked.

  "Maybe," Doc said, "but it's rarely that simple. By the way, I've been using 'he' because it's easier, but I don't mean to prejudice your investigation by implying that the killer is necessarily male. However, the odds favor it, since the vast majority of serial killers who have been identified were male." Doc thought for a moment. "That doesn't apply to supernaturals, of course."

  "How come?" Karl asked.

  "Because the distinctions aren't as clear. For instance, do you consider a vampire who kills people a serial killer, or just hungry?"

  "I know what I'd consider him," I said.

  "No doubt," Doc said. "But then, you've got some issues of your own with vampires, don't–" He stopped himself, then looked at Karl. "Sorry," he said. "I meant no offense."

  "None taken, Doc," Karl said. "When you're right, you're right – Stan does have issues with vampires. Although he hasn't put garlic in my locker for a couple of months now."

  Doc stared at Karl for a couple of seconds, as if he wasn't sure whether he was being kidded. Karl was telling the truth – I do have problems with vamps, but maybe not as many as I used to.

  Doc turned to me. "There's one other possibility that might apply to your killer's motivation," he said. "It could be political."

  It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. "You mean human supremacists," I said.

  Doc nodded slowly. "Exactly. I know we have some locally. Every once in a while, the Times-Tribune publishes one of their hate letters. And I think I remember reading something about a demonstration once."

  Karl looked at me. "Pettigrew's bunch," he said.

  "Could be a conversation with the HSR is in order," I told him.

  Doc Watson tilted his head a little. "HSR?"

  "The Homo Sapiens Resistance," I said. "That's the name of the national organization – although from the members I've met, calling themselves Homo sapiens may be a bit of a stretch. Cro-Magnons, maybe."

  "Was there any kind of signature left at the crime scenes?" Doc asked me. "Anything that might make a statement about who was responsible, or why?"

  "Nothing," I said. "And we went over those crime scenes pretty damn thoroughly. So did Forensics."

  "And I haven't seen any statements released to the media, either," Doc said.

  "What's your point, Doc?" Karl asked.

  "Terrorism – and that's what we're talking about here – is only effective if the people doing it let the world know why they did it. Lenin said, 'The purpose of terror is to terrify', and it's hard to terrify people if they don't know who you are."

  "Could be that the local haters haven't read Lenin – or much of anything else," I said. "We'll have a word with them, anyway. Shake their tree a little, and see if anything falls off."

  "Besides," Karl said, "it's fun."

  We'd learned what we came for, and it was time for us to go. As I stood up, I said to Doc, "I guess you've come into some money recently."

  He looked at me with narrowed eyes. "It's true – my dad died a couple of months ago and left me a good-sized share of his estate. How did you know, Stan?"

  One of the guys at the station house had told me about Doc's good fortune, but I decided to play Sherlock Holmes.

  "That painting on your wall over there is new, and it looks like an original oil, not a copy," I said. "I haven't seen that sports coat on you before, but it's made of pricey fabric and looks tailored. Instead of getting your hair cut, like usual, you've had it styled. I can only see the edge of the watch under the sleeve, but it looks like an Omega, and the cheapest one they make goes for about fifteen hundred bucks." I gave him a casual-looking shrug. "You're too smart to live beyond your means, so I figured you'd had a windfall of some kind."

  "I thought cops only did stuff like that in the movies," Doc said. "That's fucking amazing, Stan."

  Since I knew that Doc had inherited some big bucks, it wasn't hard to work backwards and look for signs of affluence. But I had no intention of telling him that.

  I followed Karl to the door, then turned back. Looking at Doc with what I hoped was a straight face, I said, "It was quite elementary, my dear Watson."

Doc's building isn't in a high crime area, and I wasn't worried about the police-issue Buick we drove getting stolen or stripped. As we came outside and turned the corner, I saw that I'd been right – the car was still there, and wasn't missing anything. But something had been added, in the form of the ghoul who was leaning against the driver's door.

  I can recognize a ghoul on sight. I don't even need to smell his breath, although you can usually do that from several feet away, and it isn't pleasant. Their diet has what you might call a distinctive odor. They're all short, too. Not dwarf short, but I've never seen a ghoul who topped five foot six, and this one was no exception. He had a goatee like Doc Watson's, but where Doc looked suave and a little sinister, this flesh-muncher came across like a beatnik that had wandered through a 1950s time warp. I half expected to hear him call me "Daddy-o."

  Karl and I braced him from about six feet away, where his breath wasn't too bad. "You leaning on our ride because you got no place else to be?" I asked him. "Or do you want something?"

  He took his time straightening up, as if it was his own idea and not a strong suggestion from a representative of law and order. He stared at Karl for a couple of seconds, then turned to me.

  "You'd be Sergeant Markowski," he said.

  "Tell me something I don't know," I said. "Like who you are, and what's on your mind."

  "You may call me Nikolai, if you wish," the ghoul said. "As to my purpose, it is to tell you that an important man would like to see you."

  "If the president sent you, tell him I'm busy," I said. "I didn't vote for him, anyway."

  He gave me a tight little smile. "Not someone quite that important, perhaps. But he is – or rather he represents – a man of substance, who has an interest in your current case."

  "We usually have several cases going at once," Karl told him. "Which one does your 'man of substance' have in mind?"

  The ghoul looked at Karl again, his eyes narrowed. After a moment he said, "Interesting. I was not told that the police employed nosferatu."

  "My name's not nosferatu, it's Renfer. Detective Renfer. And I asked you a question, punk."

  Karl's a James Bond nut, but now it sounded like he'd been watching one of Clint Eastwood's old "Dirty Harry, Monster Slayer" movies.

  He didn't seem to scare Nikolai. The ghoul looked Karl up and down before turning his gaze back to me. "I refer to the case of those… unsettling… DVDs, and the persons who are making them."

  Calling those DVDs "unsettling" was like telling a Jew that the Holocaust had been an "inconvenience". I guess Nikolai hadn't been affected by those horror shows the way Karl and I had. Maybe he'd even enjoyed them.

  "What do you know about those?" I asked him.

  "I?" The ghoul touched fingertips to his chest in an exaggerated show of innocence. "I know very little. But the man who sent me knows rather more. That is why he wishes to speak to you… officers."

  "And what's his name?" Karl asked. From the tone of his voice, he was getting ready to go all Dirty Harry on this little prick – for real. I was tempted to let him.

  "I'm sure he would rather tell you that himself, in person," the ghoul said. "I have a car parked down the block. If you would accompany me…?" He reached one hand into his pants pocket, but before he could withdraw it, the barrel of my Beretta was pressing against his forehead. "Don't," I said.

  The ghoul became as still as if he'd just been exposed to a Gorgon statue. My weapon was loaded with a mix of silver and cold iron, either of which would decorate the roof of the car with Nikolai's brains. Ghouls live a long time, but they're not immortal – and they sure as shit aren't invulnerable.

  "Two things," I said. "One: we're not going anywhere with you. Tell us where your mysterious employer is, and we'll consider paying a call on him sometime. Two: unless you're just real glad to see us, I'm pretty sure that pocket you're reaching into contains a good-sized knife, probably a switchblade, which is illegal in this state. If your hand comes out holding anything but car keys, I'll give you a third eye – right between the two you have now. Understand me?"

  The little bastard's eyes were wide now, and instead of another smart-ass remark, he just said, "Uh-huh."

  "Not to worry, though," Karl said, and I could hear the nasty smile in his voice. "If things don't work out for you, there's a real nice funeral home here in town, run by a guy named Barney Ghougle. That's not his real name, but it's what we all call him. Maybe he's a relative of yours? I bet he'd find you real tasty."

  Although ghouls eat human flesh, they are terrified by the idea that someone might do the same to them after death. That's why every ghoul I've ever known has standing instructions for cremation when they die. Go figure.

  Even in the feeble light from a nearby street lamp, I could see that the ghoul was sweating now. He said, "I – I meant no offense, I assure you."

  "Of course you didn't," I said, without moving the gun a millimeter. "Now – where does your boss hang out?"

  "Radisson hotel, room 431." It was like he couldn't get the words out fast enough.

  "And his name?" I pressed the muzzle against his skull a little harder.

  "Milo. His name is Milo."

  "Milo what?"

  "We just c-call him Mister Milo. Dunno his first name."

  I took the gun away from his forehead and stepped back. "Tell Mister Milo that we'll be around to see him sometime, and if he gives us any shit I'll make him regret it. Follow me?"

  A slight nod, as if he was still afraid to move his head. "Yessir."

  "Now blow."

  He blew.

I made no move to get into the car. Instead, I stood watching the ghoul as he rapidly walked down the street.

  After a couple of seconds, Karl looked at me. "What?"

  "I want to see what he's driving," I said. "Here's hoping he didn't park around the corner."

  I needn't have worried. About half a block away now, Nikolai was unlocking a car parked at the curb. As he pulled away, I got a better look at his ride: a big sedan that looked like an Oldsmobile, probably rented.

  "Can you get his license number?" I asked Karl. Not only do vampires see in the dark, but their distance vision is a lot better than a human's.

  Karl got up on his toes for a better look. "Pennsylvania plates PLV 198," he said.

  "Good, thanks." I reached for my car keys. "Get in."

  Inside the car, Karl looked at me again. "You've got something cookin', don't you?"

  "Despite what I told Nikolai, you know there's no way we're waiting a couple of days to follow up on a possible lead. Not for this case."

  "Yeah, that's what I figured."

  "And I wanna brace this Mister Milo when he's not expecting us, try to catch him off balance. I want every edge we can get."

  "But he'll know we're coming sometime," Karl said. "You already told his pet ghoul."

  "Yeah, but he doesn't know it yet."

  I reached for the police radio.

  "Dispatch, this is Markowski."

  "Read you loud and clear, Sergeant," the female voice said crisply.

  "Is there a patrol unit anywhere near the 700 block of Taylor Avenue?"

  "Wait one."

  She was back within ten seconds. "Roger that, Sergeant. A black-and-white is three blocks away, on Prescott. Do you want them directed to your location?"

  "Negative, but patch me through to their unit, will you?"

  "Roger. Wait one."

  It wasn't long before I was listening to a male voice saying, "This is Four Baker Nine. Over."

  "Is that you, Bradshaw? It's Markowski."

  "Yeah, it's me, Stan. What do you got?"

  "A dark green Olds heading north on Taylor from downtown, Pennsylvania license PLV 198. You have reason to believe that the driver is wanted for questioning."

  "Is he? Wanted for questioning, I mean."

  "Better you should be able to say you never knew the answer to that," I said. "But if you frisk the driver, who's a ghoul calls himself Nikolai, you'll probably find an illegal weapon, which will allow you to bring him in."

  "What kind of weapon? Is he packing?"

  "Just a switchblade, far as I know."

  "OK, Stan. But you owe Meyer and me a cold beer."

  "I'll buy you two apiece," I said. "Thanks."

  As I put the radio back in its bracket, Karl said, "So, Nikolai isn't going to be reporting to his boss anytime soon."

  "That's the idea." I started the engine.

  "He might've done it already, by phone."

  "Could be." I was watching the traffic, waiting for a gap to pull into. "But if this Mister Milo is a big enough player to have a ghoul as an errand boy, he might be too paranoid to talk business on the phone. A lot of them are, you know."

  Karl fastened his seat belt. "So, I guess I don't need to ask where we're heading now."

  "Not unless you've started eating Stupid Flakes for breakfast."

  "I don't eat breakfast anymore, Stan. Strictly speaking."

  "Just an expression." I pulled away from the curb, made an illegal U-turn, and headed for the Radisson hotel.

The Radisson is in what used to be the old Lackawanna train station. They've kept the basic architecture of the building, but spent a lot of money on the interior to make it the best hotel in town. All modern conveniences at the Radisson.

  The fifth floor is known as "Floor V" – which means it's specially designed to accommodate guests of the undead persuasion. Each of the rooms has two layers of blackout curtains, and when you click on Do Not Disturb from inside, it triple-locks the door. Room service has a special "Midnight Menu" that's heavy on Type A and Type O, either whole blood or plasma. If you prefer your nourishment directly from the source, the hotel has certain employees who will pay a discreet visit to your room, and depart a pint or two lighter – in return for a very good tip. It's interesting that selling your body's still illegal, but taking money for your blood isn't.

  Mister Milo was on Four, which meant that whatever else he was, he wasn't a vamp.

  I gave the door to 431 the three hard raps that most cops use, although I don't know why. I guess it's supposed to send a message to those inside that somebody in the hall wants your attention, and wants it now.

  The door opened a little. It was on its chain and through the six-inch gap I could see what I was pretty sure was another ghoul looking out at me. I had my ID folder ready, and I made sure the guy inside got a good look at my badge. "We're here to see Mister Milo," I said. "Open up."

  "Well, I'll have to see–" the ghoul began.

  "No," I said. "What you have to do is close that door just long enough to drop the chain, then open it again. Because if that door isn't open three seconds from now, I'll kick it down on top of you. Do it."

  The door was new-looking and solid, and I probably couldn't have kicked it down on the best day I've ever had. But I bet Karl could've, even if he wouldn't be able to go inside afterward, without an invitation.

  The ghoul looked at me for a second, his eyes widening. I heard a voice from somewhere behind him say, calmly, "Do as the man says."

  The door closed hastily. A moment later, I heard the sound of the security chain being disengaged, then the ghoul opened up, all the way this time. I walked right at him, figuring he wouldn't want to play linebacker with me. He scrambled aside and I said over my shoulder to Karl, "Come on in."

  We were in the living room of what was obviously a suite. It contained a coffee table, big-screen TV, a desk, some overstuffed chairs and a sofa where a man had just been seated. As he stood up, I saw that Mister Milo was human, or appeared to be.

  He was below average height, which still made him taller than his ghoul gofer. He had slicked-down brown hair, a thin mustache, and a suit that probably didn't cost much more than my car when it was new.

  He walked toward us, a pleasant expression on his face, and extended a hand. I'm not usually inclined to shake with lowlifes, but this time I thought I might learn a couple of things so I went along.

  As he grasped my hand I said, "Sergeant Markowski, Scranton PD." When he let go and turned to Karl I said, "And this is Detective Karl Renfer."

  The handshake backed up my conclusion that Mister Milo was human. His skin was too warm to be a vampire, and he lacked the small patch of hair on his palm that is characteristic of weres. Of course, that didn't rule out the possibility that he was a practitioner of some kind.

  He let go of Karl's hand, stepped back, and said, "The fact that you're here means that you already know who I am."

  "I was told the name was Milo," I said. "But I don't know if that's first or last."

  He gave me a tight smile. "It's both, actually."

  "Your name's Milo Milo?" I didn't let the humor I was feeling touch my face or voice, I hope.

  "That's correct. My parents had an unfortunate affection for the novel Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. They thought it would be… amusing to name me as they did."

  "No offense," Karl said, "but I'd want to have a long talk with my parents about that when I grew up."

  "Oh, I agree with the impulse, Detective, but I never got the chance," Milo said. "When I was fifteen, our house caught fire in the middle of the night. Both Mommy and Daddy were burned to death. It was very sad." He might have been discussing something that happened to people he'd read about in a book on ancient history.

  He made a gesture toward the armchairs. "Shall we sit down, gentlemen?"

  When we were all seated, I looked toward the ghoul, who was still standing near the door. He was pissed off and trying not to show it.

  "Do you want to talk private business with him here?"

  "I trust all of my associates implicitly," Milo said; then, with barely a pause, told the ghoul, "You can go for a walk, Winthrop – but don't go too far. I'll call you when I need you."

  The ghoul left without a word, but he still didn't look happy. "You ever wonder why all ghouls have such fancyass names?" I asked Milo.

  "No, I haven't actually," he said. "But, tell me – what would your reaction be if you met one who called himself Rex, or maybe Spike?"

  "I'd probably laugh out loud," I said.

  "That may be the reason, then." Milo, who was back on the sofa, leaned forward. "Let me get to the reason I wished to have a conversation with you officers, which is the same reason that brought me to your… charming little town."

  Snotty little prick. "Brought you here from where?" I asked him.

  "I live in Los Angeles," he said, as if it meant something. Maybe to him it did.

  "What was it you wanted to talk about?" Karl asked him.

  "These DVDs that have been circulating that show a demonically possessed man torturing and murdering another man."

  "What's that got to do with you?" I asked. "I don't suppose you're here to confess that you're responsible."

  Mister Milo gave me a tight little smile. "No, not hardly." The smile disappeared as if it had never been there at all. "I represent certain interests in the Los Angeles area who are very concerned about these videos. It is feared that eventually knowledge of them will become public, causing an outcry against an industry that is utterly innocent of any wrongdoing."

  It took me a moment to figure out what he was saying. "You represent the porn business."

  "We prefer to call it the adult entertainment industry," he said.

  "You can call it the fucking Girl Scouts, for all I care," I said. "I still don't think the term 'utterly innocent' is a good description of your business."

  "I meant innocent of involvement in these so-called 'snuff films'," Milo said. "Feel free to moralize to your heart's content, Sergeant. But the same laws that guarantee your right to wax indignant about adult entertainment also give your fellow citizens the right to choose it as their own private form of amusement – and they do, in very large numbers."

  Getting this scumbag to admit that he was a scumbag was a waste of time, and we had bigger fish to fry.

  "So, if your 'industry' has nothing to do with these snuff videos, what are you doing in Scranton – protesting your innocence? You could've just sent an email. Quicker and cheaper."

  The smile made another brief appearance. "But then I would have been denied the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Sergeant," he said, and I wondered if I could just shoot him and get away with it. Maybe if I called it "pest extermination".

  "I'm here to act as a go-between, Milo said. "A liaison, if you will, between the local authorities and my employers."

  Karl snorted. "And what fucking good do you figure that's gonna do?"

  Milo spread his hands and shrugged at the same time. I wondered if he practiced it in front of a mirror. "I hope to serve as a conduit for information, Detective. I could pass on to you anything relevant that might be discovered back on the West Coast, and I hope you officers would reciprocate by sharing with me developments in the case as they arise."

  I was about to get all hard-ass and tell this creep that the police didn't share confidential information with scumbag civilians, when my brain finally got out of first gear. So I asked him, just to see what he'd say, "And suppose we did share information about the case with you, what purpose would it serve? What would you use it for?"

  Another elegant shrug. "Well, that's impossible to say at this point, of course. But I find that all information proves useful, sooner or later – don't you?"

  He was good, I'll give him that. I figured that Milo had been lying from the cradle and only got better at it with each passing year. The fact that some porno king had sent him out here was probably a testament to his skill as a bullshit artist. He was lying like the pro he was, and I knew it.

  He was looking at Karl when he finished speaking, but for what I was about to do, I wanted him looking at me. "Milo," I said quietly.

  When he turned his innocent-looking gaze my way, I leaned forward in my chair, to bring my face as close as possible to his. Looking closely at his eyes, I said, "You hired Sharkey, didn't you?"

  He didn't blink or turn a hair. But the pupils of those brown eyes instantly dilated, and that was all I needed to see.

  I once spent some time reading a book called Deception Detection. About ninety percent of it was stuff any experienced cop knows, but the chapter on pupil dilation movement caught my interest. Pupil dilation movement (or PDM) was what the author, some PhD from Berkeley, called an "autonomic response". That means it operates outside the conscious control of the will. It's like blushing when you're embarrassed, or breaking out in a sweat when you're nervous about something.

  Not everybody blushes from shame, or sweats due to tension, but every human's pupils dilate or contract in response to sudden, strong emotion. Every damn one. That's what the guy said in his book, anyway – and he's a PhD, so I figure he knows his shit.

  As soon as I said "Sharkey", Milo's pupils had gone from the size of a dried pea to something more like a dime.

  From the corner of my eye I could see that Karl had turned his head to stare at me, but I kept looking at Mister Milo. His raised eyebrows were a study in mild surprise, and the smile made a guest appearance on his lips before he spoke.

  "Sharkey?" he said. "Don't believe I recognize the name. It sounds like the title of yet another rip-off of Jaws."