Текст книги "Evil Dark"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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  "I got out of the house earlier than usual tonight. Christine and I have some shit going on, and I didn't feel like dealing with it right now, so I left before she got up."

  "Is she OK?" I sometimes wonder if Karl has some kind of a thing for Christine. I hope he doesn't, although I couldn't have said why, exactly.

  "It's complicated, but, yeah, she's OK. I'll tell you about it sometime. Maybe you can even give me some advice, since you're uniquely qualified. But now you need to hear about the conversation I just–"

  That was far as I got when McGuire came out of his office and yelled, "Markowski, Renfer – you got one." He didn't need to yell, since we were the only ones here, but I think it's just habit with him now.

  I swiveled the chair around and stood up. "We've already got two cases going, boss," I said carefully. "If you count the snuff film thing, that is."

  "And now you'll have three. You see anybody else around here to catch it?"

  Karl was on his feet by now. "What and where, boss?"

  "Looks like a dead werewolf in Nay Aug Park. Your buddy Scanlon is on the scene and asked for somebody from what he likes to call the spook squad."

  "The park's a pretty big place," Karl said. "Got any info about where the scene is?"

  "Yeah," McGuire said. "The tree house."

  There's this company that goes around the country building enormous tree houses in parks and other public green spaces. They charge a lot, but the city was able to get a matching grant from some Federal agency a few years back, and I have to admit the final product was impressive.

  It's basically just a big, open platform with a roof on it, but the thing is built in the middle of an immense oak tree. The trunk shoots up right through the middle of the thing, and the designers put holes in the roof where the branches go. The tree house overlooks Nay Aug Gorge and the Roaring Brook, which runs through the middle of it. If you were crazy enough to jump over the railing, you'd have a 150-foot drop straight down before you hit the water, and that creek isn't nearly deep enough to dive into with any hope for survival. The tree house is as steady as the Sphinx, but it might not be the best place to visit if you're nervous about heights.

  There's been a couple of suicides over the years – lovelorn teenagers looking to make a romantic final exit. I'd seen the aftermath of one of those idiotic gestures when I worked Homicide, and the result didn't look romantic at all.

  That hasn't been a problem in a long time, though, ever since they closed the park after sunset. If you're some emo determined to make a dramatic exit, I suppose you could sneak in there some night. But the odds are you'd run into a werewolf, and the results of that encounter might make the remains of a jumper look positively dainty by comparison.

  The city lets the weres have the use of the park at night as a public service – both to the weres and the rest of the city's population. Wolves need to run, it's in their nature.

  Back when the city council was composed of sentient beings, they realized that it would be better for everybody concerned if the weres had a big, open space to do their collective thing, instead of doing it in their backyards. Less risk to the neighbors that way – and to the weres as well. Every human knows about silver bullets, and although the cartridges tend to be pricey, they're not exactly hard to find. I'm pretty sure that I saw some for sale in Vlad-Mart last week.

  To get to the park tree house, you walk up a gently sloping ramp that makes a sharp right turn about halfway up. I'm sure there's some principle of engineering that explains that, although nobody has ever bothered to enlighten me.

  It was the usual homicide scene: flashing red and blue lights, yellow crime scene tape, obnoxious yelling reporters – and Scanlon. He was waiting for us at the base of the ramp, along with a couple of uniforms that I knew.

  "I would've been inclined to call you guys anyway," Scanlon said, "considering that this place is Were Central after dark. But once I laid eyes on the vic, I was pretty damn sure it was something you'd be interested in."

  "Where's the body – up there?" I nodded toward the tree house.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Then let's go have a look," I said.

  Scanlon took the lead up the narrow ramp, with me behind him, followed by Karl.

  "Who called it in?" I said to Scanlon's back.

  Without stopping, he said over his shoulder, "Anonymous call to 911. They've traced it to within the park, but the number isn't getting us anywhere. Probably a disposable phone."

  I wondered if Christine had been the operator to take the call, and if she'd known it would bring her old man to the scene. Then I decided that I'd better stop thinking about Christine.

  There was more crime scene tape across the entrance to the tree house. Scanlon produced a pocket knife and cut it loose. Must have been a sharp blade – it went through the plastic tape without a snag.

  The naked man lay on his side, what was left of his mouth frozen into a snarl. Weres have to undress before transforming, or they'd just have to fight their way out of the clothes with teeth and claws once the change is complete. And as everybody knows by now, a werewolf returns to human form post-mortem. So if you kill a were, you end up with a dead, naked human – like the one we were looking at now.

  I heard Karl draw in his breath sharply – a good trick when you no longer need to breathe. He was reacting to the pool of blood under the corpse's head. There wasn't much of it, though, compared to some other crime scenes I've been at. Bullet wounds to the head often bring instantaneous death, and corpses don't bleed much. But there was another, larger pool of blood a few feet beyond the corpse.

  "What do you make of the other blood pool?" I asked Scanlon.

  "Don't know yet," he said. "It's not consistent with the head wound. Maybe the vic managed to hurt the killer before dying."

  "With a bullet in his brain?"

  "I mean before the perp got a shot off. Maybe some human idiot got into the park, the were attacked him, and the guy was defending himself. Could happen."

  "Not unless the shooter was a goat," Karl said.

  Scanlon and I looked at him. Karl was kneeling next to the second blood pool, and I saw that his index finger was dark from where he'd dipped it in the blood for a sniff, and maybe a taste.

  "This is goat blood," he said, looking up at us. "Not human, not were. Just your basic old-McDonald-had-afarm goat."

  "There's an expert opinion for you," I said to Scanlon.

  "I don't doubt it," he said. "But that raises an interesting question, the same one that I often find myself asking at murder scenes."

  "You mean 'What the fuck?'" I said.

  "That's the one."

  Karl was looking closely at the section of railing that overlooked the gorge. He wasn't using a flashlight, but then I guess he didn't need one.

  "There's a couple of blood drops here," he said, "and the smell of goat is pretty strong." He turned to look at Scanlon. "I'm betting that if you send some guys down into the gorge tomorrow, you'll find a dead goat, probably with its throat cut. Even if it went into the creek, it won't have traveled far downstream. Water's pretty shallow, this time of year."

  "You're on a roll, man," I said. "Care to tell us what you think it all means?" I was beginning to get an idea myself, but Karl deserved a chance to shine, especially in front of Scanlon, who'd voiced his doubts about vampire cops to me once, over a beer.

  "I think it was a set-up," Karl said. "The perp led the goat up here, killed it – and waited. He knew that weres were gonna be in the park, and they have a powerful sense of smell, better even than… some other kinds of supes." I think he'd been about to say "vampires," but thought better of it.

  "He knew the blood smell would bring a werewolf up here, sooner or later," Scanlon said. "And it would probably be strong enough to mask the shooter's scent, as well."

  "Sure," Karl said. "And there's only one way for the wolf to get here – right up that ramp. Talk about shooting fish in a barrel."

  "So the wolf comes bounding up the ramp," I said, "and the killer's waiting, maybe sitting or lying down. Just him and his piece, loaded with silver."

  "That's what I'm thinking," Karl said. "So the guy shoots the wolf, who dies and transforms back to human. Then the killer heaves the goat over the railing, steps over both blood pools real careful like, then walks down – and out."

  "Why not do the same with the vic?" Scanlon said. "That way, he might not be found for days, even weeks. Which would give the perp lots of time to set up an alibi, or even leave town."

  We stood there in silence until I broke it by saying, "He didn't throw the body over, because he wanted it to be found. He wanted us to know that somebody killed a werewolf here tonight."

  "Why the fuck would anybody do that?" Scanlon asked.

  "As a step in bringing on Helter Skelter." They both looked at me as if I'd grown a second head. I took a deep breath and let it out. "I had a conversation earlier today with a guy. I haven't had time to tell you about it, but it's time I did."

It was Karl's turn to drive, but he didn't start the car when I slipped into the seat next to him. Instead, he turned and looked at me.

  "If somebody hadn't offed a werewolf tonight, were you ever gonna tell me about the little talk you had with Pettigrew?"

  "I started to tell you about it as soon as I got to the squad room tonight, remember? Then McGuire gave us this thing to deal with. I could've mentioned it in the car on the way over, but it's a short trip and I knew I wouldn't have the chance to finish before we got to the park. And I wanted to make sure you got the whole story at once, not just a piece of it."

  After a couple of moments he nodded. "OK, I remember you sitting down next to me when you came in. And then McGuire comes out of his office, and it's Who else am I gonna give it to?"

  His impression of McGuire was really terrible, but I thought this wasn't a good time to mention it.

  "OK, that answers one question, Stan, but here's another one. How come you went to see that fuckface Pettigrew without me?"

  "It's like I started to tell you back at the squad," I said. "I've got a problem with Christine and I don't know how I want to deal with it yet. So I got out of the house before she was up."

  "Yeah, all right, you wanted to leave early and avoid Christine. But that doesn't explain Pettigrew, Stan. You could've taken in a movie, or maybe stopped off for coffee someplace. Nothing says you had to go see Mister Master Race by yourself."

  "You just showed why I did it."

  Karl blinked a few times. "What the fuck does that mean?"

  "The 'master race' thing. Going to see Pettigrew was a spur of the moment decision, OK? But it did occur to me that having a conversation with him would probably go smoother without the two of you growling at each other like a couple of pit bulls."

  "I'm your partner, dammit, you should've–"

  I held up a hand that stopped him mid-sentence. "Karl, let me ask you something. Say we needed some info on a case from a real hard-ass vampire, the kind who thinks the only thing humans are good for is lunch, OK? In a situation like that, would you consider – would you at least think about – asking me to wait in the car while you went and talked to the dude?"

  Karl looked at me for what I guessed was a slow count of three. Then he nodded, faced front, and turned the ignition key.

  "So, where we goin'?" he asked.

  "Time to go see a wizard about a rug."

The establishment calling itself Magic Carpets, Mystic Rugs was located on the western edge of downtown, on the last commercially zoned street before the residential section began. The place was located a few doors down from 3 Witches' Bakery, which is where we found a parking space. I'd never been inside the place, but remembered hearing their commercial jingle on the radio – "Nothin' says lovin' like something from the coven." I was glad they were closed. It's hard to resist a bakery, and I eat enough junk food as it is.

  There were a couple of those newspaper vending boxes in front of 3 Witches – the kind where you put in your fifty cents and pull out a paper. The vendors said it worked on the honor system, but I think it was more a recognition that nobody would want more than a single copy of one of those rags.

  The Times-Tribune's headline was about our latest political scandal:

JUDGE INDICTED IN

REFORM-SCHOOL SCAM

  In the adjoining machine, that new tabloid, the People's Voice, was using three-inch tall letters to announce:

VATICAN TO AMERICA: GO TO HELL!

  I thought I knew what that was about. Some bigwig cardinal over in Rome had said, where a reporter could hear him, that he'd be just as happy if North America sank into the sea, taking the population with it.

  I don't take a lot of interest in religious politics – and if you think that term's an oxymoron, welcome to the twentyfirst century. But even I knew that the big guys in Rome have a love-hate relationship with North America, especially the USA. On the one hand, we're a big, affluent country with lots of Catholics – and a percentage of the money being dropped into all those collection plates every Sunday finds its way into the Vatican's coffers. Without America, they'd probably go broke.

  But American Catholics don't always toe the party line real well. The Church says contraception's a sin, except for the rhythm method. You can always tell couples who use that approach, by the way – they usually have twelve kids. But the stats show that in the USA, Catholics use artificial birth control about as often as the rest of the population, which I'm sure pisses off the pope no end. And there are some Catholic priests who care more about social justice than the law, like the Brannigan brothers, who were always getting arrested a few years back for protesting the war in Transylvania.

  So I wasn't exactly amazed to hear that there's some frustration in Rome about us, and only a little surprised that some cardinal would be indiscreet about it. But it wasn't what I'd call a big news story. The Times-Tribune had carried it last week, on page 12, I think. If the People's Voice thought they were going to make money attacking the Vatican in heavily Catholic Scranton, they were in for a hard lesson in both faith and economics.

  In the rug store's big windows, I could see displayed – behind what looked like triple-thick safety glass – seven or eight gorgeous Oriental rugs. Their total price tag would probably beat what I'd paid for my house.

  Karl was looking, too. "Wonder if any of 'em actually fly?" he said.

  "Probably costs extra."

  We had barely taken three steps into the brightly lit showroom when a trim, well-dressed guy in his thirties hurried over to meet us.

  "Welcome, gentlemen, to our humble establishment," he said, probably for the twentieth time that day. "What kind of beautiful carpet may I show you this evening?" He had an accent that sounded Lebanese.

  "We'd like to see Victor Castle," I said.

  He nodded a couple of times, as if I'd said something profound. "Certainly, good sirs. I shall immediately determine if he is on the premises at the present time. May I say who is enquiring?"

  I showed him my badge. "This is enquiring."

  His head bobbed a few more times. "Of course, officers. Please excuse me – I shall return momentarily."

  He vanished through a curtained door behind an antique-looking counter and a second later I heard his voice, with no accent whatsoever, yell, "Hey Chico – tell the boss that a couple of cops are lookin' for him!"

  I glanced at Karl. "What d'you think – Lebanon?"

  "By way of Swoyersville, haina?"

  Abdul-from-Swoyersville never reappeared from the back of the store. Instead, the curtains parted and a man I assumed was Victor Castle – born Castellino – strode into the showroom area.

  He was a little below average height and was wearing the vest and pants of a three-piece suit. I assumed the jacket was still in the back. The outfit was clearly expensive, but it didn't stop the beginnings of a gut from protruding under the vest's lowest button. He had thick black hair, although some of it had been replaced by a pink bald spot that reflected the glare from the ceiling lights. If he was supposed to be such a big-deal wizard, I wondered why he hadn't worked a little magic on his own appearance.

  Karl and I showed him our badges while I gave him our names. He stared at Karl for a few seconds, and I realized he could tell that my partner was undead. Then he shifted his gaze to me and said, "The reason why I haven't used my magical skills to make myself tall, lean, and hirsute, Sergeant, is that while I have a number of vices, physical vanity is not among them."

  I blinked at that. "I didn't think there was a spell, in white magic anyway, that allowed mind-reading."

  The smile he gave me didn't reach his green eyes. "You are correct, Sergeant. In fact, I'm not even sure that black magic can confer that ability, although I am much less knowledgeable of that variety. But I did follow your gaze as I entered. Your eyes traveled the length of my form, doubtless estimating my height. Then your gaze lingered for a moment at my lower stomach and traveled upward again – not looking into my eyes but at the top of my head, which I expect appears quite shiny in this harsh light. Then you wondered why, with my much-touted magical powers, I had not employed them to correct my… physical imperfections. Correct?"

  I nodded slowly. "If you really did all that without magic, then it's pretty damn amazing."

  Karl murmured in my ear, "I thought it was quite elementary."

  Castle gestured to my right. "As you can see, we have some comfortable armchairs, from which our customers sometimes view our wares. Perhaps we might sit down?"

  He walked us over to where three upholstered chairs sat in a rough semicircle. When Karl and I were seated, Castle took the third chair and turned it toward us before sitting down. Each of these chairs probably weighed close to two hundred pounds, yet Castle had handled his the way I might move a metal folding chair. Magic or muscle? No way to know.

  Castle spread his hands for a moment and said, "So, then?"

  "I understand you're Ernst Vollman's successor," I said, "as… leader… of the local supernatural community."

  "Ah, yes, Vollman," Castle said. "A very interesting man. He will be missed. I understand you were both present when he died?"

  "Yes," I said. I had no intention of discussing with this guy the night that Ernst Vollman and his son Richard had both come to the end of their long lives. Vollman had died fighting, and the son, who was also known as Sligo, had died one of the ugliest deaths I'd ever seen.

  When I didn't say anything more, Castle shrugged and said, "In answer to your question, it's fair to say that I enjoy a certain amount of respect from what you call the local supernatural community. Leader?" Another shrug. "I'm more of an ombudsman, really, called upon sometimes to settle disputes between factions, or individuals. Now, how may I be of assistance to the police this evening?"

  "There are a couple of matters I'd like to discuss," I said. "One involves the fact that somebody is going around burning witches."

  Castle's pleasant expression, which I assume was the one he wore out of habit, became grim. "Yes, I am aware of these atrocities. Two women, who had done harm to no one, subjected to such an agonizing death. It's like something out of the Middle Ages."

  I wondered if Castle's knowledge of the Middle Ages came entirely from books, or if he'd been there personally. Sometimes these wizards are older than they look.

  "Two – so far," Karl said. "And we don't want the number of victims to get any larger."

  "A goal we share, Detective," Castle said. "Believe me."

  "If we knew why those particular women were chosen, it might help us figure out who's been doing the choosing," I said. "Are you aware of any common factor, other than both being practitioners?"

  "It's likely they knew each other," Castle said. "The community here in Scranton is not a large one. But they did not socialize together, nor were they related, either by blood or marriage."

  "Sounds like you've been doing some investigating of your own," Karl said.

  "As I told you, Detective, stopping these attacks is of great importance to us. I have no intention of sitting idly by as they continue. Not, of course," he made a pacifying gesture, "that I lack faith in the forces of law and order."

  "Of course not," I said, keeping most of the sarcasm out of my voice.

  Castle went on as if I hadn't spoken. "However, there are certain… sources of information available to me which you might not find readily accessible."

  "Other than the fact that the witches didn't know each other, what have these sources had to say?" I asked him.

  Castle studied his hands for a moment. I couldn't see the pentagram tattoo on his palm from where I sat, but I knew it was there.

  "So far, nothing of value. I find it most frustrating, especially since another of these terrible attacks could occur at any time."

  "Is it possible somebody's holding out on you?" Karl asked.

  "Oh, no, Detective. I doubt that very much. The word has gone out that any useful information about this matter will be amply rewarded. And the corollary, also."

  I frowned at him. "Corollary?"

  "Simply that if any member of the community keeps such valuable knowledge to himself, the consequences will be… severe."

  Something in Castle's face made me not want to ask what "severe" might entail.

  "You said there were two items you wished to discuss with me, Sergeant," Castle said. "May I know the other one?"

  "All right," I said. "Somebody's out there making, and selling, snuff films."

  Castle's eyebrows climbed toward what was left of his hairline, like caterpillars scaling a wall. "I thought such things were myths, invented by the religious right to justify censorship of all mass media."

  "That may have been true once," I said, "but not any longer. These are the real deal. Detective Renfer and I had to sit through one, and the FBI says there are at least three more in circulation."

  Castle looked from me to Karl and back again. He took his time about it. "I assume you are telling me about this because there's some connection to the supernatural world?"

  "You assume right," I said, and told him about the videos – as well as their Scranton connection.

  He listened with what I can only call morbid fascination, elbows on knees and fingers tented under his nose. When he'd finished he dropped his hands and sat back. "Ye gods," he said softly. "Just when I thought I understood the depths of savagery that humanity was capable of…" He shook his head, as if to drive out the images that I'd planted there.

  "The real savagery isn't being committed by humans," I said. Maybe I was feeling a little defensive. "The demon is the one who does the butcher's work."

  "Yes, I understand that," Castle said. "And I'm no fan of demons, believe me. Nasty things. But permit me a hypothetical example, Sergeant. Let's say that someone were cruel enough to toss a live infant into the tiger's cage at the zoo. Who would you hold responsible for the ensuing tragedy? Not the tiger who, after all, was merely acting like a tiger. You would, quite properly, blame the individual who put the two of them in proximity – right?"

  "OK, you've made your point," I said. "But the demon isn't being conjured and controlled by Sam the barber, or somebody. The one doing that is a wizard."

  "Quite right," Castle said. "In this matter, it would seem, there is plenty of blame to go around."

  "I'm less interested in moral discussions," I said, "than I am in nailing the fuckers who are doing this. At least one of the victims was a local boy."

  "Mister Hudzinski," Castle said.

  "That's him," Karl said.

  "We live in a highly mobile culture, as you know," Castle said. "It's entirely possible that Mister Hudzinski, although a citizen of our fair city, fell into his misfortune a long way from home."

  "If he did, we'll know it soon enough," I told him. "There are detectives digging into every detail of the guy's life, even as we speak. But for now, I'm going on the assumption that he was killed locally. And there's something else for you to think about."

  Castle raised his eyebrows politely, but said nothing.

  "If one of these videos was made locally, then they all were." I explained how the physical layout of the killing ground was the same in all four of the snuff films. "The camera angles are identical, too," I said. "The cameras are on tripods, and it doesn't look as if they're moved from one of these atrocities to the next."

  Castle thought about that. "Even if Hudzinski disappeared locally, that doesn't mean he was killed here. Most car trunks contain ample room for a body, either living or dead."

  And I bet you'd know, I thought.

  "That's stupid," Karl said, which earned him a glare from Castle. I don't know if the Supefather was pissed at being talked to that way by a cop, or by a cop who was also a fellow supe.

  "It makes no sense," Karl went on, "for them to transport a prisoner from Scranton to, say New York. There are lots of risks, haina? You could get pulled over for a busted tail light, or the guy could escape somehow. Hell, he might even die on you along the way. It's too complicated."

  "He's right," I said. "If they wanted to film their fucking torture sessions in New York, or even Altoona, it'd be a lot simpler just to grab a couple of guys in those local areas."

  Castle made a small gesture acknowledging defeat, which I thought was gracious of him. "All right," he said, "for the sake of discussion, let's posit that all of this 'torture porn' is being made locally. What do you want from me?"

  "Names," I said. "That's what I want. If this stuff is being filmed around here, there's two possibilities. One is that the wizard doing the conjuring is from outside the area and came to town fairly recently. You know of anybody like that?"

  Castle shook his big head slowly. "No one comes to mind. He wouldn't be required to check in with me upon arrival, but any practitioner who expected to remain in this community would probably have the good manners – and the good sense – to pay a courtesy call."

  "The first of these videos was made while Vollman was still alive," Karl said. "Maybe the wizard checked in with him."

  "That could be," Castle said. "But there's no way to know for certain. Vollman and I weren't close, and he didn't leave any written records that I've come across."

  "The other possibility," I said, "is that the wizard is a local boy gone bad. How about it, Castle? Anybody in your community dabbling in black magic these days?"

  "From what you've described, this individual is doing more than just dabbling," Castle said. "But in any case the answer is no. If I were aware of any such activity, I would of course have reported it to the police." He said that with a straight face, and any irony in his voice might have been my imagination. Or maybe not.

  "Or you might've just handled it yourself," Karl said. "To avoid troubling the authorities, and all that."

  The look that Castle gave Karl said, Just be glad you have that badge to hide behind, pal, or I would have your balls for breakfast. I hoped Karl would never have to deal with Castle without his status as a cop to back him up.

  What Castle said was, "I suppose there is that possibility. But if I had, we would not be having this discussion, would we?"

  We left the rug shop with Castle's promise that he would shake the supe community's tree a bit to see if any black magicians fell out, and would let us know if they did.

  As we walked to the car, I said to Karl, "You gave the Supefather a fair amount of attitude back there."

  "The guy's an asshole. Just rubs me the wrong way."

  "You weren't like that with Vollman."

  "Yeah, well," Karl said, "that was fucking then and this is fucking now."

  Yeah, back then you weren't undead, and didn't have to prove your independence to anybody – including yourself.

  I decided not to share that observation with my partner.

  "I notice you didn't say anything about the werewolf in Nay Aug Park," Karl said.

  "I'm keeping that as my ace in the hole," I said. "Although what game we're playing here, I have no clue. Besides, if Castle really is the Man, like Vollman was, he'll know about it from his own sources soon enough."

  When we returned to the car, the red light on the police radio was blinking, which meant that we'd had a call while we were in the rug shop. I got in on the passenger side and picked the radio out of its holder.

  "Dispatch, this is Markowski. A call came in for us sometime in the last half hour."

  "Wait one, Markowski."

  A couple of seconds later, a female voice in my ear said, "This is Agent Thorwald."

  I'm pretty sure I blinked at that. "This is Markowski. How is it you're on the police radio net?"

  "Lieutenant McGuire let me borrow one of the units. I've been trying to raise you for the last twenty minutes," she said, not sounding happy about it.

  "Sorry, we were engaged in a gunfight with a gang of desperate criminals."

  "Really?"

  "No, not really. What can I do for you, Agent Thorwald?"

  When she spoke again, her voice was matter-of-fact. She had controlled her temper, rather than ream my ass out for joking around with her. That earned her a point in my book. A small one.

  "You and your partner had best return to the squad area," she said. "ASAP."

  "Can I ask why?"

  "An agent from the Scranton field office brought over something that arrived there today, special delivery. It's another snuff film."

  I felt my guts contract. Some other poor bastard had died in unimaginable pain, for the amusement of a bunch of fucking sickos.