Quincey Morris, Supernatural Investigation: Evil Ways Part 11

"The other difference was something that had been added. Each envelope contained a white feather."

Fenton s.h.i.+fted in his chair, which drew Premeaux's attention. "That mean something to you?"

"Nothing important," Fenton said, but his face suggested otherwise. "It's just that a white feather is used as the symbol of a curse in some schools of voudoun."

The detective peered at him. "That right? And how'd you get to know about stuff like that?"

"I told you we work in Behavioral Science," Fenton said. "Some of the crimes we investigate have occult... aspects to them."

"Yeah, I bet they do," Premeaux said, then looked at Colleen. "And how about you, Agent O'Donnell? What was so interesting about the signatures being cut from the letters?"

"In order to curse someone in black magic, whether voudoun or some other tradition, you usually need something from the intended victim. Hair, nail clippings, clothing. Or a signature."

Premeaux nodded slowly. "Working for that Behavioral Science Unit must be even more interesting than I'd have thought."

"It has its moments," Colleen said. "So, what happened to the four kids?"

"A few days later, they took sick. Real sick. All four of them. Terrible pain in their bellies. Parents probably thought appendicitis, and there were calls to 911, followed by some fast trips to the hospital, where the docs did every d.a.m.n test they could think of. And they came up with zip. Zilch. Nada."

"The poor kids," Fenton said. "h.e.l.l, the poor parents."

"And to make things worse, none of the painkillers they tried at the hospital did any good. h.e.l.l, they were even giving those kids the drugs they use with terminal cancer patients. No effect at all. Two days later, the kids died." Premeaux glanced at his computer screen. "No, sorry, one lasted for three. Cause of death as listed as-"

"Let me guess," Fenton said quietly. "Either stroke, cardiac arrest, or they went into shock."

There was silence in the room, until Premeaux said, "And just how the f.u.c.k did you know that?"

"I didn't, but it wasn't hard to guess. I know more than I ever wanted to about death by torture," Fenton told him. "And, if there's no significant blood loss or damage to a major organ, most torture victims go out one of those three ways. It's the body's way of reacting to pain it can't stand anymore. For the lucky ones, it happens sooner, rather than later."

"I hope you won't take offense, Agent Fenton, if I tell you that's information I hope never to have to think about again."

"I don't blame you at all," Fenton said. "So, what killed those poor kids?"

"Two went into shock, one had a stroke, and the last one's heart just gave out."

The room was quiet again. Then Colleen O'Donnell said, "You know what we're going to have to do, don't you?"

"Pay a call on Annie Levesque," Premeaux said.

"And sooner," Fenton said, "rather than later."

Libby Chastain's suitcase was a big, battered square of Samsonite that had gone out of style when Ronald Reagan was president.

"Every time I travel with you," Morris said, "I keep hoping you've invested in some new luggage. The fas.h.i.+on these days is for soft bags, you know. Absorbs the b.u.mps better."

"There's stuff in here that shouldn't be absorbing any b.u.mps, at all," Libby said. "As you have reason to know."

"Smarta.s.s remark hereby withdrawn," he said, grabbing the thing off the baggage carousel. As they started toward the exit marked "Ground Transportation," Morris said, "You know, I've never asked why it doesn't offend your feminist principles for me to carry this beast for you."

"I look at it as exploiting the oppressor," she said, with a sweet smile.

Outside, as they waited their turn for a taxi, Libby asked, "So, where are we going to meet your friend, Harry?"

"There's a pub near his office where he likes to hang out. He said he'd be there most of today. At least, that what I think he said. When I called him, the connection was full of static, and then the line went dead entirely. Technology tends to flake out fast then Harry's using it. He said once that his magical aura, or something, is what does it."

Libby nodded pensively. "Yes, in his magical tradition, I can see how that would be a problem. Wizards of his type carry a lot of energy around them."

"Yeah they're not gentle souls, like you Wiccans."

"Ha!" Libby said, as a taxi pulled up in front of them. "Bring the bag, slave."

"That didn't sound very gentle."

Charlie was walking fast as he pressed the "send" b.u.t.ton on the walkie-talkie. "Lee."

"Yo."

"They're in line for a cab. Pull up to the exit just behind the taxi stand. You know the one I mean?"

"Be there in three, big man."

It was more like two minutes later when the stolen Oldsmobile they were using pulled up to the curb in front of Charlie, who wasted no time scrambling into the pa.s.senger's seat.

"They're next in line for a cab. See them-the woman with the green top and the tall guy in the suit?"

"Yeah, I got 'em now." Lee was younger than Charlie, and skinnier. His hair was swept back in a pompadour that Elvis might have envied. He had on the Wayfarer sungla.s.ses that he wore day and night, indoors and out. "I see what you mean about that guy," Lee said. "He's not local law, not with those threads."

"And if he was a Fed, he'd have a car, and another Fed to drive it."

"So what do we do, man?"

"Follow, wait for a good chance, then burn 'em."

"The guy, too?"

"He gets in the way, he gets in the way. Tough luck. You're not getting soft on me, are you?"

"s.h.i.+t no, I was just thinkin' that n.o.body's payin' us for him. He'll be a freebie."

"Sometimes in this business, you gotta make sacrifices, Lee. Okay there they go. Stay close, but not too close, huh?"

"You got it."

Quincey Morris gave the driver an address in midtown, and sat back in his seat. "I hope Harry's still there," he said to Libby. "If not, we can try his office, which is just down the block."

"I hope he knows something about that... business you're looking into," she said, mindful of the driver, who might have big ears. "It'd be nice if we had somewhere to start."

"Harry knows a lot of people, and he's got his fingers in a lot of pies."

"Sounds unsanitary, but I know what you mean. How do you two know each other, anyway?"

"We'd each been hired separately to investigate what turned out to be two ends of the same case. We met in the middle, so to speak, and decided to cooperate. Worked out pretty well."

"Let's hope it does this time, too," she said. "Maybe he'll even have some thoughts about who might have sent those two visitors I had the other day."

"Yeah, that is pretty d.a.m.n odd. I won't insult you by asking if you've been thinking about who might have the motivation to send those fellas calling on you."

"I've been thinking about little else, and it's gotten me nowhere."

"Well, it makes sense to somebody, I reckon. Sooner or later, we'll find out who."

"Then pay a visit of our own."

"You can count on that." As he spoke, there was something in Morris's eyes that made Libby very glad she was not the person he was thinking about.

They were silent for a while, until Morris told the driver, "I think that it's coming up, on the other side of the street. Just let us off anywhere along here, will you?"

Throughout the journey, they had not once looked behind them.

"Cab's lettin' 'em off, Charlie."

"I got eyes. Slow down. We don't want to pa.s.s by until they're both on foot."

"This is what the ghetto boys call a 'drive-by,' ain't it? Never did one of those before."

"We was all cherry once, kid."

"You wanna use this thing, or me?"

"What thing?"

"This wand doohickey that Pardee give us. He said it would, like, overcome her magic for a little while, long enough for us to take her out."

"f.u.c.k that, put it away," Charlie said. "A bullet in the head is a bullet in the head-I don't care if she's a witch or the f.u.c.kin' Pope."

"Yeah, man, but Pardee said-"

"f.u.c.k Pardee, too. He's got no respect, the way he talks to us, like we're f.u.c.king morons, or something. We'll show the b.a.s.t.a.r.d how to make a hit. Get your window all the way down."

From the holster under his arm, Charlie pulled a long-barreled .44 Magnum, and he could see that Lee had that rapid-firing Tech-9 of his ready. "Okay," he said tightly. "Let's drop the hammer."

She and Morris were standing at the curb, waiting for a break in the traffic, when Libby Chastain noticed the black Oldsmobile heading their way very fast, then heard the squeal of its brakes as it suddenly slowed. Inside were two men.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed her suitcase from Quincey's hand, shouted "Servate nos-iam!" then released the handle just as the car pulled up opposite them.

The ensorcelled bag rose four feet into the air, broadside to the Oldsmobile. It moved with blinding speed to absorb the five fast shots from the driver,, and when the boom of the other man's Magnum sounded, the suitcase was between that weapon and Libby, too. The driver fired three more times, with the same result, and two more magnum slugs fired from the back seat also buried themselves in the bag's side.

Meanwhile, Quincey Morris had hooked an arm around Libby's waist and yanked her behind the shelter of a parked car. Then he reached for his cell phone to call 911-for all the good that would do them now.

The driver could be heard yelling, "s.h.i.+t, I told you!" as he pulled from between the seats a cloth bundle that parted to reveal a foot-long metal rod. The driver pointed the rod at Libby's bag and shouted "Macabo-no, uh, Makibo!"

Then the car exploded.

Libby knelt next to Charlie Strom who, his back broken, lay amidst the wreckage of the Oldsmobile. He was bleeding from several places, and the left side of his face and neck were horribly burned. He twisted and squirmed, like a snake that has been run over by a truck.

Using the first two fingers of her right hand, Libby began making some cryptic signs in the air. At the same time she spoke, very fast, in a language that has been dead for over 2,000 years.

Perhaps half a minute later, Strom stopped writhing on the asphalt and lay still. His good eye stared at Libby Chastain. From over her shoulder, she heard Quincey say, "This one's gone."

"I've been able to block your pain, but I can't heal you," she told Strom. "Your wounds are too extensive, and I don't have the right gear with me to even make an attempt. I'm sorry."

Charlie Strom's mouth moved, but no sound came out.

"Tell me who sent you," Libby said gently. "I need to know, so I can protect myself. Who hired you to kill me?"

The mangled lips moved again, but this time a strangled voice managed to say, "And if... I don't, I s'ppose you'll... turn the pain back... on."

Libby shook her head, although she wasn't sure if Strom could see her. "No, the spell stays in place, regardless. But, please, tell me. I won't lie to you-you're fading fast. You might not even last until the ambulance gets here. Do something decent, as your last act on this Earth."

What was left of Charlie Strom's mouth split into something that might once have been a grin. "Lady," he croaked, "I haven't got the time." Then the grin was gone, forever.

III REVELATIONS.

Chapter 9.

Redford, New York, is the kind of place for which they invented the word "boondocks." Twenty miles outside of Plattsburgh, it is a community of isolated houses, with lots of wild ground between them. It's the perfect locale for people who value their privacy.

Annie Levesque's driveway was an eighth of a mile long, unpaved, and sloped upward at an angle that must have played h.e.l.l with efforts to get it plowed out in the wintertime. Having reached the top, Detective Pete Premeaux turned off the engine of the unmarked police car, and he and his two pa.s.sengers sat looking at the place that Annie Levesque called home.

It was a smallish log house, a type common to that area. It looked mundane at first glance, but closer inspection revealed some things that were not quite right. All the windows were boarded up from the inside, although each appeared to have an unbroken gla.s.s pane in place. The smoke that came from Annie's chimney was the black, roiling kind that you a.s.sociate with a working factory, not the placid white of wood smoke. On the end of the roof opposite the chimney, looking incongruous, was a satellite dish that looked to be in better repair than the rest of the house.

The carca.s.s of a butchered deer hung from a hook on the porch, a pool of blood spread out from beneath it, about a million flies partaking of the buffet. Premeaux, Fenton, and Colleen O'Donnell got out of the car, and slowly approached the house. As they drew closer, they could see an intricate, circular symbol painted on the front door.

"I drove through Amish country in Ohio, once," Premeaux said. "That there looks kinda like one of the hex signs they all have on their barns."

"Not quite," Colleen said. "Those are designed to repel evil. This... well, this is something else."

Premeaux knocked on the heavy wooden door and it opened immediately, as if the woman had been standing behind it, waiting for them. Displaying his badge and ID card, he said, "Miss Levesque, I'm Detective Pete Premeaux from the Plattsburgh Police Department. These two folks are Special Agents from the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

She stared at him. "Questions? What kinda questions?"