Текст книги "Evil Dark"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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  Karl turned to me. "Isn't there a spell on all police vehicles designed to repel magic?"

  "Yes, there was," Castle said, as if he'd been the one Karl asked. "Very competent journeyman work. I dismantled it while waiting for you to return."

  "Who the fuck said you could do that?" Karl said. "Now we're helpless against magic!"

  Castle gave him a tight smile. "If you'll pardon a little professional hubris, Detective, as long as you are with me, you will never be helpless against magic." He shrugged those well-tailored shoulders. "In any case, I will replace the protective spell when I leave. In fact, I worked out a variation that will make the spell even stronger than before. It helped pass the time while I waited."

  As long as Castle was feeling generous with his magic, I toyed with the idea of asking him to give the car a bigger engine, plush carpeting, and a kick-ass stereo system. But then Karl would want an ejection seat and machine guns under the headlights, just like James Bond. Fuck it – McGuire would probably consider the whole thing a bribe and report us to Internal Affairs.

  "OK, fine, whatever," I said. "You're here now – so what's on your mind?"

  "Recent events," he said, "have taken a turn that disturbs me greatly."

  "What events are we talking about here?" I asked.

  "In addition to the recent witch burnings, you mean? Well, there was that tragic business in Nay Aug Park the other night."

  "You know about that, huh?" I said.

  "Such a bizarre event could hardly remain a secret for very long, to one with my resources. Besides," he said, and gave a brief laugh, "the story was in today's Times-Tribune."

  That's what I get for not reading the paper every day.

  "Yeah, that was some fucked-up shit, all right," Karl said, earning him another thoughtful look from Castle that made me glad Karl carried a badge.

  "What was not in the paper just yet," Castle said, "was the news that two vampires, a husband and wife, were staked in their home sometime today."

  That must have been the case Meroni had referred to, the one keeping the forensics techs busy.

  "You probably know more about that than we do," I said. "It's not our case, and I just caught a mention of it in passing from another officer."

  "And now," Castle said, "I find you officers at the scene of an alleged vampiric murder of a human."

  "That's private police business!" Karl snapped. "You've got no right to that until it's released by the department."

  Castle turned his head slightly so that he was looking at Karl directly. He studied Karl in silence for a second or two, then said quietly, "Benimm dich, du Grünschnabel. Solche Unverschämtheit passt einfach nicht für Neuankömmlinge."

  Castle and Karl had locked eyes, but Karl looked away first. I didn't know what Castle had said – I recognize German, but don't speak it – but it sure got Karl to chill out.

  "Regardless of whether you should know about this case, you obviously do," I said. "So I might as well break a few regulations of my own and fill you in on what we know. Your use of 'alleged' to describe this vampire attack is a good choice of words, as it turns out."

  I told Castle what we had observed in Howard's bedroom, as well as what we suspected. I laid out for him what we were going to tell the doc who would perform Howard's autopsy.

  When I finished, Castle was quiet, staring out the side window as if the solutions to all his problems were out there in the night somewhere. When he spoke his voice was pensive.

  "We have witches being killed by humans…" He looked at me. "I gather that's the working assumption?"

  When I nodded, he went on. "Then a werewolf murdered by persons, or beings, unknown. Two vampires, staked in broad daylight."

  "Which is the best time, if you're going to do that kind of thing," I said.

  "Yes, to be sure," he said absently. "And now we have what on the surface appears to be a human murdered by a vampire, although that conclusion may not stand up to close examination."

  He glanced at Karl, who seemed fascinated by the knobs on the radio, then looked at me. "What in the name of all the gods is going on here, Sergeant?"

  "We have a theory about that," I said, being sure to give some of the credit to Karl.

  "Would you care to share it?" Castle asked.

  "It boils down to two words, I told him. "Helter Skelter."

Castle blinked a couple of times. "Helter Skelter. Wasn't that an old movie about that murderous lunatic, Charles Manson?"

  "Yeah, and before that it was a song by the Beatles," I said, "but now it's a crackpot idea, and somebody around these parts seems to think its time has come."

  I told him what I'd learned from Pettigrew. When I was done Castle just sat there, looking stunned.

  "Race war?" he said. "Between supernaturals and humans? That has got to be the most ridiculously absurd notion I've ever heard of."

  "It's up there on my list, too," I said. "But somebody seems to believe in it. And he's trying to make it a reality. Or they are."

  Castle looked at me. "They?"

  "I can't believe that one guy is doing all of this," I said. "It's either a bunch of loonies who all believe the same thing, or one guy with enough money to hire a lot of help."

  "If you had to bet it was one or the other," Castle said, "where would your money go?"

  "At this stage, I'd keep my money in my pocket," I told him. "We don't have enough information yet."

  Castle pondered this for a few seconds, then said, "If we lack data, perhaps logic will get us somewhere. Isn't there an expression you detectives use – cui bono?"

  "Who benefits? Yeah, we use that one sometimes."

  "So who stands to benefit if this so-called race war were to take place?"

  "Nobody," I said, "unless some dude's been stockpiling wooden stakes and silver bullets."

  "Detective Renfer," Castle said, "as one who might be said to have a dual perspective on such matters, who do you think would emerge victorious, in a worldwide race war?"

  Karl started when Castle spoke to him, but he answered quickly enough. "Humans," he said. "It would take time, and the cost in human blood would be high, but I'm pretty sure the humans would win in the end."

  "I'm not disagreeing with your conclusion," Castle said, "but I'd be interested to know what led you to it."

  Karl shrugged. "Numbers, for one thing. Although the census data is bullshit, it's still clear that humans outnumber supernaturals – ten to one, twenty to one, who knows? But it's a big difference."

  "I would agree with that," Castle said, "even though I don't know the exact proportion myself. Anything else?"

  "Supernaturals have weaknesses – some of them do, anyway."

  Karl had said "some of them", not "some of us".

  "Vampires are stronger and faster than humans," Karl went on, "and they have other advantages, like using Influence. But during daylight hours, a vampire is as helpless as a corpse – because that's what he is."

  "And werewolves are just like humans, most of the time," I said. "They can only transform in moonlight, and then if they run into a silver bullet, they're toast."

  Castle nodded, as if we were the two brightest pupils in class. "And what about magic practitioners?"

  I looked at Karl, who said, "Some witches and wizards are real powerful – but nobody's all-powerful. Magic is limited by time and space and a bunch of other stuff I don't really understand."

  "And practitioners aren't invulnerable, either," I said. "Especially if they're taken by surprise. What's happened to those poor witches is proof of that."

  "Right on both counts, unfortunately," Castle said.

  "I'm pretty sure we'd win, but the supes, uh, supernaturals would do a lot of damage first," I said. "Humans would survive, but I'm not positive that human society would."

  Castle nodded. "A costly victory, to be sure."

  "So the bottom line," I said, "is that in a war between humans and supernaturals, there'd be no real winner."

  "Yes, Sergeant," Castle said. "That conclusion is both true, and irrelevant."

  I stared at him. "Where do you get 'irrelevant'?"

  "I mean, it doesn't matter whether a race war would be a good idea. The important thing is whether someone thinks it's a good idea."

  "OK, now I'm confused," Karl said.

  I waited for Castle to explain, although I was pretty sure that I'd grasped his meaning.

  "It's like invading Russia," Castle said, "which military experts have said for centuries is a truly bad idea. The country is simply too vast for an invading army to subdue quickly, and the Russian winter makes an extended campaign impossible."

  "Makes sense to me," Karl said with a shrug, and I just nodded.

  "And yet that obvious fact didn't stop Napoleon from trying it in 1812, or Hitler in 1940. And each time, it cost the lives of a great many people – on both sides."

  Karl nodded slowly. "It really doesn't matter if a race war is a bad idea, as long as some dumb-ass somewhere thinks it's a good idea."

  "Exactly," Castle said. "Which brings me back to the original question: Cui bono? Or maybe I should rephrase it as: Cui cogitat bono?"

  "Who thinks to benefit?" I said. I'd had four years of Latin in high school, and when the nuns teach you something, it tends to stay with you a long time. Terror and pain will do that.

  Karl just shook his head. "So what you two professors are getting at is – what nut, or group of nuts, is crazy enough to try starting Helter Skelter here in Scranton?"

  "Admirably put, Detective," Castle said.

  There was silence in the car until I said, "I don't know how much weight I want to put on this, but the Catholic Church comes to mind. After all, they've declared all supernaturals to be 'anathema'."

  "I know," Castle said. "Such nonsense."

  "Nonsense?" Karl said. "Then why can't I go to church anymore, huh? How come the sight of a cross makes me want to puke my guts out?"

  "I have given much thought to that question over the years," Castle said, "and have concluded that vampires' aversion to religious symbols is psychological, more than anything else. Popular culture has told you, over and over, that vampires fear the cross. Therefore, once you became a vampire, you felt fear and revulsion when in the presence of a cross, or other religious symbol. You believed you were supposed to, therefore you did."

  "That's what you think?" Karl said angrily. "Well, I think you ought to–"

  "Nine Alpha Six, this is Dispatch. Come in, please."

  I don't usually consider radio calls a blessing, but this one sure was. I grabbed the radio.

  "Dispatch, this is Markowski. Go ahead."

  "We have a report of a 666-Bravo at the Radisson hotel. Lieutenant McGuire says it's all yours. Over."

  666-Bravo was a homicide involving a supernatural. Was this stuff never going to stop? And I know McGuire's a fair boss – if he was giving this call to us, it meant the other teams on shift were busy elsewhere.

  Helter Skelter, baby. Helter Skelter.

  "Roger that, Dispatch. You got a room number for us, or should we knock on all the doors until somebody dead answers?"

  Come to think of it, having a corpse answering the door at that place might not be such a big deal.

  Ignoring my feeble attempt at sarcasm, the dispatcher said, "Affirmative, Markowski. Room number is four three one. I repeat, four three one. Do you copy?"

  "Roger that, Dispatch. We're on our way. Markowski out."

  I wished I'd let Karl take the radio call – he likes saying stuff like that. It might've cheered him up a little, too.

  Karl turned to me. "Four thirty-one at the Radisson? Isn't that–"

  "Mister Milo and his pet ghouls," I said. "It sure is."

  I turned to look at Castle. "I guess you heard. We'll have to continue this conversation later."

  Castle nodded. "Of course, Sergeant. I look forward to it." And then he was just – gone. A fucking show-off, in more ways than one.

  "Siren and lights?" Karl asked me.

  At this hour of night traffic wasn't heavy, but I know Karl loves using our "get out of the way" equipment.

  "Sure," I said. "What the hell."

  Karl pulled the portable revolving light from the glove compartment, turned it on, and stuck it on the dash between us. I started the siren screaming, checked the mirror for traffic, and got us moving.

Five police cars – three black-and-whites and two unmarked, like ours – were parked haphazardly in front of the Radisson, the light from their red and blue flashers bouncing off the elegant façade like special effects at a Plasma-matics concert. I hoped nobody on that side of the building was trying to get some sleep.

  I figured that at least one of the unmarked cars belonged to Homicide, so there was a good chance that Scanlon was already upstairs. Maybe he'd have it solved by the time we got there.

  As Karl and I strode toward the elevators, I noticed a lot of people milling around the lobby – too many for this time of night. Maybe they were waiting to see something exciting. As for me, I hoped the excitement was already over.

  Upstairs, the usual crime scene tape blocked off the hallway on both sides of room 431, but one of the uniforms who was standing around lifted it to let Karl and me through and into a suite that was already pretty crowded. Scanlon was there, all right, along with a couple of homicide dicks, Homer Jordan, and some guy in a suit who was taking pictures. He had a lot to photograph.

  Milo Milo was sprawled across the couch. He wore gray slacks and a white dress shirt covered in blood that I assumed had come from the gaping wound under his jaw. The only way to kill somebody that way is to force the blade through the lower jaw, into the facial cavity and up into the brain. Doing that took skill, strength, and one hell of a big knife.

  But the killer had saved most of his ingenuity for the two ghouls who'd served Milo as drivers, gofers, and, I suppose, bodyguards. Some bodyguards.

  "You remember their names – the ghouls?" I said quietly to Karl.

  "Nikolai and Winthrop." Under some circumstances, saying those two fancy-ass names out loud might have brought a smile to Karl's face. But not this time.

  The ghouls were posed – I can't think of a better word to describe it – in the living room's two armchairs. Each one was showing the same wound under his jaw that Mister Milo had suffered, but that's where the similarity in mayhem ended. Both ghouls were disemboweled, the slick intestines gleaming wetly in the light from the room's lamps, which were all turned on. I wondered if Milo had liked a bright room, or the killer had just wanted to light up his little exhibition.

  I thought I could see something on one of the ghouls' mouths that was too big to be a tongue. I went over to the body and bent down for a closer look. Just as I thought – it was his penis.

  I didn't bother to check the other ghoul. I knew it would be the same. He was thorough, our killer was.

  On the carpet near one of the chairs lay an open switchblade. The handle was smeared with blood, and nearby lay two pale severed fingers. I figured one of the ghouls had tried to knife-fight the killer, and come out second best.

  "Forensics been in yet?" I asked Scanlon.

  "Nah. One unit is tied up over near the university. Some werewolf mauled one of the students, from what I hear."

  "He still alive?" I asked.

  "He's a she," Scanlon said, "and, no, she's dead. Hard to keep breathing with your throat's been torn out."

  "They got anybody in custody?" Karl asked.

  "Not as far as I know."

  Helter Skelter.

  "Isn't it kind of weird," Karl said, "for the boss, here, to die quick, but the thugs get to suffer? I mean, you take out a hit on somebody, it's usually the boss you're pissed off at. If anybody's gonna get butchered, it'd be him."

  "You think it was a hit?" Scanlon said.

  "Wasn't no bunch of Girl Scouts that did this," Karl said.

  "You got a point there," Scanlon said, then turned to me. "You must know who the guy on the couch is, if you know the names of his hired help."

  "Yeah, we do. His name, and I shit you not, was Milo Milo."

  Scanlon's expression didn't change. "Is that right?" One of the homicide detectives that had come with Scanlon gave a little chuckle. Scanlon turned his head toward the guy slowly, like a tank turret taking aim.

  "Something on your mind, Smalley?"

  The detective's face reddened. "No, boss. Not a thing."

  Scanlon looked at him for a moment longer. "That's not surprising." To me he said, "OK, that's who the guy was. Now what was he?"

  "He said he was a lawyer representing the porn industry – or what he insisted on calling 'adult entertainment'."

  "What the fuck was he doing in Scranton?" Scanlon said. "I don't work Vice, but if there's a porn operation in the Wyoming Valley, nobody's ever said anything to me about it. I thought all that crap was based in Southern California."

  "Most of it is," I said. "But there's a branch that's stayed below the radar until recently, and it seems to have a Scranton connection. That's what Milo Milo over there was concerned about."

  "I'm not gonna stand here and pretend that makes sense, Stan," Scanlon said.

  "I know it doesn't – yet," I said. "Any part of this happen in the bedroom, far as you can tell?"

  "No, it looks clean."

  I made a small gesture that took in the other people in the room. "Why don't we talk in there, and stay out of everybody's hair."

  "I dunno," Scanlon said. "I mean, I like you, Stan – just not that way."

  Fucking homicide guys aren't exactly known for their sensitivity. They'd probably make jokes during a guided tour of Auschwitz.

  "Come on," I said, and headed toward the suite's bedroom. Scanlon and Karl followed me inside, and Karl closed the door.

  "This is supposed to be a big secret, and the FBI wants it kept that way. I think I oughta tell you, but I'd rather those other guys in there not hear about it. OK?"

  "Oh, damn," Scanlon said, deadpan. "And here I was planning to post it on my blog."

  "Yeah, all right," I said. "Here's what's going on."

  Karl and I took turns telling him all about the snuff films, but I didn't share my theory about Helter Skelter – not just yet.

  "So, Mister Milo out there was in town trying to find the sick bastards who're making these snuff films," Scanlon said, "before they hurt the reputation of the porn industry. If you ask me, that's kind of like a Mafia family worrying about its public image, but OK."

  "Even the Mafia does PR these days," Karl said.

  "Whatever," Scanlon said. "So, who hit him?"

  "The logical answer is – whoever's making the snuff films," I said. "Only problem with that is, Milo didn't know anything worth killing him over. Or if he did, the oily bastard didn't share it with me."

  "Hard to imagine, isn't it?" Scanlon said.

  "Maybe he shared it with Sharkey, instead," Karl said.

  Scanlon looked at him quickly. "Sharkey's dead."

  "Be nice to think so," I said. "But there's a rumor going around that he's back in town, and the pupils of Milo's eyes gave him away when I mentioned Sharkey's name."

  "Sharkey," Scanlon said. "Jesus."

  "The fact that Milo got hit must mean that he stumbled onto something useful, even if he didn't tell us about it," I said.

  "Not necessarily," Karl said. "Maybe whoever's making these fucking snuff films is just real thorough, that's all. The Columbian drug lords operate the same way, I hear. The slightest threat to their operation appears, they don't worry about how important it is – they just wipe it out."

  "That still doesn't explain why the killer, or killers, went to work on the ghouls and not Milo," Scanlon said.

  "No, it doesn't," I said. "Maybe we don't have enough information to answer that yet."

  "We don't have enough information to blow our fucking noses," Scanlon said.

  "Fuckin' A," Karl said.

  "Speaking of information, you'll send us a copy of the case file?"

  "Yeah, sure. It'll help me fool myself that I'm actually accomplishing something on this case."

  "I'll be sending you a file, too," I said. "We've got a murder that looked at first like a supernatural case, but now I'm not so sure."

  "I can hardly wait," Scanlon said.

  In the car, Karl said, "There's something about the way Milo was knifed that's been nagging at me."

  "It's pretty unusual, all right," I said.

  "That's not what I mean – it reminds me of something I heard about once, but I can't remember the details."

  "Stop thinking about it, you'll drive yourself nuts," I said. "Your subconscious will come up with the answer when it's good and ready."

  "Hope it's ready before Helter Skelter gets here."

  "Well, with any luck – what did you say?"

  Karl was looking at me strangely. "I said, 'I hope I remember before–'"

  "Helter Skelter. Damn!"

  "You can start making sense any time now, Stan."

  "That's why the killer back there mutilated the two ghouls, but not Milo. He was going for a twofer."

  "Stan–"

  "He cut up the ghouls because, once word got out, it would piss off the supe community. And somebody's been working pretty damn hard lately to rile up the supe community – and the humans, too, if that fake vampire kill we saw tonight is any indication."

  "Wait – I thought Milo was killed by the snuff film people," Karl said.

  "He was – because they're the same people."

Back at the squad, I asked Louise where the two Feebies were.

  "No idea, Stan. They haven't been in all night."

  "Did they leave you contact info?"

  "No, nothing. I asked, but…" She made a "What can you do?" gesture.

  "Yeah, I know," I said. "The pricks think they're too good for us – as usual. Where's McGuire? He's not in his office."

  "Went home an hour ago. Says he's maybe got that twenty-four-hour bug that's going around."

  "Great, just great. I guess I'll have to tell everybody about my brilliant deduction tomorrow night."

  "If you really need to tell somebody, you can tell me," she said with a smile. "I don't mind listening."

  Louise is pretty sweet, most of the time. It's hard to believe that she's Civil Service.

  "That's all right, Louise," I said. "It would take me an hour to give you the background, and I'm not sure if the payoff would be worth it for you. But thanks."

  She gave a toss of her head that sent the blonde curls bouncing. "That's OK."

  "When you see the Feebies again, ask them to do something for me, will you?"

  She pulled a pad over and grabbed a pencil. "Sure – go ahead."

  "Tell them I think it would be a good idea to find out who owns the People's Voice – I mean who really owns it, not what it says in small print on page 2."

  She wrote busily for a few seconds. "Got it, Stan – I'll tell them the next time they come in."

  "Thanks. Hey – how'd the tournament go last weekend? Did you take First again?"

  Louise is an absolute genius at Scrabble, and she's got the trophies to prove it.

  She made a face. "Nah. Second."

  "You'll get 'em next time."

  "Damn straight I will."

  Karl and I spent about an hour catching up on paperwork – or whatever we should call it these days, since no paper's involved. Then we signed out for the night. Fifteen minutes later, I was home.

  As I closed the front door behind me, I noticed there was no light on in the kitchen. Christine can see fine in the dark, but she usually leaves the light on for my sake. I flipped the switch – no Christine. Tonight had been her night off, so I knew she hadn't gone to work.

  Living room – nothing. I looked in the basement, although Christine never goes down there until she has to. Nothing. Then I checked the bathroom and upstairs. Nada.

  A cold hand had gripped my chest as soon as I saw the darkened kitchen, and with every room I looked in, it grabbed a little tighter. I checked my watch – sunrise in seven minutes.

  If she was stuck somewhere and couldn't get home before dawn, she'd have called – either to have me come get her, or at least to let me know that she was OK. But my cell phone hadn't rung all night. It occurred to me to check the house phone – we still have a landline, call me old-fashioned – and felt a surge of relief when I saw the red light blinking on the answering machine. I started toward it – and then heard the sound of a key in the front door.

  A moment later, Christine walked in. I resisted the temptation to go all fatherly and give her, "Where have you been, young lady?" She was an adult now, and besides, she's a vampire – people are probably afraid of her.

  She closed the door and said, "Hi, Daddy." To my ears she sounded a little like a teenager coming home way past curfew, but I might have been projecting my own feelings onto her.

  I took a deep breath, let it out and said, "You're cutting it pretty close tonight, baby. Sun's up in–"

  "Six minutes. I know. I hope you weren't worried."

  "What – me worry? I'm a regular Paul Newman."

  She laughed a little. "I think you mean Alfred E." She came over and gave me a hug, and when she stepped back I saw, at the corner of her mouth, a tiny smear of red.

  As she went over to put her purse on the kitchen counter I said, because I had to, "Mind if I ask where you were tonight?"

  She turned back at once. The look she gave me wasn't angry, exactly, but I didn't think she was about to nominate me for Father of the Year, either.

  She raised one eyebrow – something I've never been able to do, but her mother always could – and said, "I thought the new policy was 'Don't ask – don't tell.' Was it only good for twenty-four hours?"

  We stood looking at each other for a little bit, then I blinked a couple of times and nodded slowly. "Yeah, you're right. I withdraw the question, and I'll try not to ask it again." I gave her half a grin. "Guess maybe I was a little worried, after all."

  Her face relaxed. "I know, and I'm sorry I put you through it. I tried to take a shortcut home. Like most shortcuts, it ended up taking longer than the regular way."

  "You could've transformed and flown home," I said.

  "Yeah, I know. If I was really pushing the dawn, I would have. But I'd hate to just leave the car, with my purse in it, parked on some street all day. So I'm saving going batty as a last resort."

  "You're the best judge," I said. "Just call me Paranoid Papa."

  She gave me a smile that looked genuine. "I don't think it's called paranoia if you're scared for someone else." Glancing toward the window she said, "Well, time for nighty-night. See you at sundown."

  She was opening the basement door when I said, "Don't get pissed off, but I need to ask you a very specific question, baby. Either answer it, or don't."

  Her expression became wary. "All right, but be quick, huh?"

  "Do you know a guy named Lester Howard?"

  "Is he warm?"

  He wasn't when I saw him, but to avoid confusing her I just said, "Yeah."

  Her brows furrowed, then she shook her head slowly. "Nope, the name doesn't ring any bells. Why?"

  "I'll tell you about it tonight. Sleep well, honey."

  "OK, then. Goodnight, Daddy." She closed the door behind her, and I could hear her footsteps on the stairs.

  I'm not going to say it's impossible for Christine to deceive me. Any parent who thinks that is a fool. But I've known her a long time – her whole life, and then some – and I believed her.

  Then I remembered that answering machine message. If it wasn't Christine, then who…?

  "Stan, hey, it's Karl. I've gotta hit the hay in a couple minutes, but on the way home it hit me why that weird knife wound in Milo rang a bell. I was at the Supernatural Law Enforcement Conference in LA last year – you got me that grant, remember? So I met this chick from Chicago, she's a detective on their Spook Squad. Spent all my free time buying her drinks and trying to get into her pants. I never did, but I remember she told me about a bunch of homicides where each one of the vics had a long blade shoved through the soft tissue under his jaw and up into the brain. Familiar, haina? She said the Chicago cops had a pretty good idea who the hitter was, they just couldn't prove it. And catch this: she said the guy would kill anybody for money, but the dude specialized in supes. I'll call her tonight and try to get a name and some more info. Catch you later, man."

When Christine got up, I told her about Lester Howard, and then about the whole Helter Skelter thing. Since these bastards were going around killing supes as well as humans, I figured she ought to know.

  When I finished, she took a last swallow from the cup of warm plasma she'd been drinking, pushed the cup to the side and said, "Race war? Seriously? These people have got to be insane."

  "I wouldn't doubt it," I said.

  "I mean, they're crazy enough for wanting it, but if they think they can actually make it happen…" She shook her head.

  "Yeah, I know. But the fact that it's a pipe dream doesn't mean they won't kill people trying to achieve it, just like Charlie Manson and his followers did, back in the day. Or Hitler, before him."

  "Hitler wanted Helter Skelter too? I never knew that."

  "No, what I mean is he had a crazy racial dream – a completely Aryan world. Ridiculous idea, but Adolf and his buddies wiped out millions trying to achieve it."

  "Yeah, OK, I get you."

  "Which is why I'd like you to be extra careful when you're out, wherever you go. These lunatics have killed at least six supes so far, two of them vampires. And they're not going to quit until somebody stops them."

  "I assume that's where you come in," she said.

  "Goddamn right I do – but it's gonna take a while, which is why I want you to be alert and cautious at all times."

  "Yes, Daddy." Usually, there's a teasing lilt to her voice when she says that. But not this time.

  "I've got a locksmith coming over tomorrow," I told her. "He's going to put better locks on the doors and install a deadbolt on the door to the basement. It'll ease my mind a little about leaving you here alone all day."

  "Fine with me," she said. "I want to rest, in peace, during the day, not rest in peace forever."

  "Do you really?"

  She frowned at me. "Huh?"

  "I mean, would you rather be undead than true dead? Karl and I had a conversation about that the other night."