Quincey Morris, Supernatural Investigation: Evil Ways Part 5

"That's not what I'm getting at. You said the hearts were floating in a clear liquid. Any idea what that was?"

"Sure-it was alcohol. You could smell it, even with the jars closed. Not surprising, a lot of labs..." Morris's voice trailed off and then he said, "Oh, f.u.c.k."

Fenton nodded, but not as if he was taking any pleasure in Morris's discomfiture. "The fire would have set the alcohol in those jars to burning, and that stuff gives you a hot flame, as you may know. My guess is all we'd find would be some scratched gla.s.s and a bunch of cinders. The lab people might be able to establish that it had once been human tissue, but that's about it. Identifying what kind of tissue-not real likely. And as for DNA-forget it. All we'd get for our trouble would be proof that Fortner had some kind of human tissue in his bas.e.m.e.nt. Maybe he was doing research, and bought the stuff from a medical supply house. We'd never be able to prove otherwise. Thanks to you and your little box of matches."

Morris swore without raising his voice, and some of the colorful Texas imagery made Fenton blink. Finally, the FBI man held up a hand, palm out like a traffic cop.

"Hold up," he said to Morris. "Look, we're not gonna just let this go. I believe that you saw what you told me you saw in Fortner's place. Now that we know what he's been involved in, we'll start looking into his background, a.s.sociates, all that. There's a chance we'll find a lead, something we can follow all the way to an indictment. And we'll be watching the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, twenty-four seven. He goes out hunting again, we'll catch him in the act, and stop him before he can hurt another kid."

There was a long silence before Morris said, "Then why are we talking?"

"Because it's not just Fortner. It can't be. Nine days ago, two kids disappeared-one in Omaha, the other one from some little town in Pennsylvania, Exeter or something. Their bodies were found the next morning, organs removed the same way as the others."

"I see," Morris said.

"Two abductions, two murders, same day. Something like fifteen hundred miles apart. And, by the way, we have some pretty good evidence that your buddy Fortner was in L.A. during that time."

Fenton leaned forward. "It's happening all over the country, Morris. Kids being taken, cut open, organs removed, then dumped someplace."

"Dumped near water?"

"In some cases, yeah. But water's not a common factor, the way it was with the five killings we had last year. It doesn't look like muti magic this time. But something is going on, something real bad."

"You're probably right, but I'll ask my question again: why are we talking?"

"Because I want you to stop it."

Coeur d'Alene, Idaho Pardee entered his master's study to find Grobius staring moodily out the immense picture window. "It's snowing again," the old man said, as if it were Pardee's fault. Grobius had been failing at an increased rate the last year or so, despite his doctors' best efforts and Pardee's magic.

"It does that, this time of year." Pardee was careful not to sound sarcastic. "You wanted isolation, and that usually means an area with severe weather, of one sort or another. There is a reason why isolated areas are isolated, after all."

"Well, it better not snow on the thirtieth. Some of them will be coming in by air, you said, and I don't know what effect bad weather will have on their ability to navigate. And I don't want it spoiling the ritual, either, by blocking the moon."

"I understand, of course. And I can a.s.sure you that it will not snow on Walpurgis Night. Not here, at any rate."

"And you know that how? Been consulting your crystal ball again?"

Pardee, like most professionals, did not appreciate badinage on the subject of his work. But he was careful to keep any irritation out of his voice when he said, "I have never used such a device, nor has any genuine pract.i.tioner of the Art. Such baubles are the toys of Gypsy con artists, nothing more."

"Then on what basis are you predicting that it won't snow?"

"I am not predicting it will not snow. I am guaranteeing it."

"You can do that, can you? Control the weather?"

Pardee nodded slowly. "Within a limited area, and only for relatively brief periods of time. But I can certainly hold the elements in check long enough for our project to succeed."

"That's rea.s.suring," Grobius said. "Hanging on this long, not to mention all the work and money that have gone into it. And the lives. If it were all for nothing, just because of some f.u.c.king low pressure area... When are these precise conditions-the moon and so on- going to occur again?"

"I'd have to look it up," Pardee said. "But I think it's safe to say that it won't be within a reasonable time frame."

"Meaning there's no way I could live long enough, even with your magic and the wonders of modern science." The old man made a disgusted sound. "I suppose I'd be lucky to last until April of next year."

"That's quite possibly true. Which is why I intend to succeed the first time. I know how much this matters to you."

"Yes, it does. But why does it matter to you? Is it just the money?"

"The money's important, of course." Pardee said. "I enjoy the things money can buy, as much as anyone. But this is also the chance to do something that has never been done before. Oh, in the movies and cheap fiction, it happens all the time. But in reality, it has never been possible. Those who have tried have either simply failed, or both failed and died. Until now, that is. Quite a momentous occasion, or, rather, it will be."

"Pity is has to remain a secret. You could be named to the Wizards' Hall of Fame, or some such."

"I suspect it would be more like the Hall of Infamy. But that's all right. I have no concerns that my name will be forgotten."

"By those who matter, you mean," Grobius said.

"Exactly. Those who really matter will know."

Andrea McKinnon struggled to balance her heavy briefcase and two thick files of legal depositions while fitting her key into the lock of her front door. She finally managed, without spilling her work all over the front porch. She stepped inside, and kicked the door shut behind her.

She could have used magic either to get the door open, or to transport the paperwork from her trunk, or both. But she didn't like to use her power in public unless absolutely necessary. It tended to upset people, most of whom still thought that there was only one kind of witchcraft-the evil kind. Andrea supposed that she could have been doing more to educate the public about white witchcraft, but Lawrence, Kansas was smack dab in the middle of the Bible Belt, and the last thing she needed was a bunch of crazed fundamentalists howling outside her house at all hours.

Even worse, one of them might try to kill her, interpreting the scriptural admonition "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live" in an all too literal fas.h.i.+on. It had happened in Oklahoma, a few years ago. One of her Sisters in the G.o.ddess had been "outed" as a witch by the local paper, and soon a nutcase, off his medication and hopped up with the need to do something wonderful for Jesus, had thrown a pail of gasoline on her and then tried to set it alight. Fortunately for all concerned, the plastic disposable lighter the nutcase had flicked into flame and tossed toward the gasoline-soaked woman had gone out as soon as it was thrown, which such devices are designed to do.

Shrugging out of her raincoat, Andrea shook her head at the idea of it. Jesus of Nazareth had been, by all reliable accounts, a man of love and peace. The antics some of his followers got up to must sadden him greatly, even now.

She was measuring Maxwell House into her coffee maker when she heard the sounds coming from her living room.

A burglar? In this neighborhood?

Well, anything was possible. Meth had caught on among certain elements of the Lawrence undercla.s.s, and the resulting small army of addicts was gradually spreading, even into the suburbs, seeking money or anything that could be turned into ready cash.

But the wards on the house should have kept them out. As soon as they tried to get in, they should have felt an overpowering desire to go someplace else.

Worry about that later. For now, deal with the threat, whatever it was.

From a drawer next to the cutlery she removed the wand she kept there for emergencies, which this clearly seemed to be. It had been charged with a general-purpose spell that would give Andrea a wide variety of options, once she knew what she was dealing with.

Although she could not harm people with it, magic did allow her to protect herself, and a variety of non-lethal responses were possible. She could, for instance, freeze the intruder in place for the time it would take the police to arrive. But before calling 911, better be sure that this wasn't another squirrel that had gotten in to wreak havoc.

Andrea McKinnon walked softly to the doorway that led to her living room. The sounds were coming from her right, so she turned that way immediately on entering.

A man was going through her desk, presumably looking for money or valuables. He was tall and heavyset, and wore gla.s.ses.

"Hold it right there!" She was uttering the first words that would allow her to launch the freezing-in-place spell when the other man stepped up behind her and looped the wire garrote around her neck.

There was no prolonged struggle, like something out of one of the G.o.dfather movies. Unlike the cord garrotes employed by fictional Mafia a.s.sa.s.sins, piano wire is quick, if messy, and the killer had chosen it precisely for that reason. He wanted the witch to have no chance to work some hocus-pocus on him, or his partner. Wire doesn't just constrict the victim's flesh-it cuts.

The killer was strong and skillful. Within four seconds, the piano wire had sliced through Andrea's throat to sever her windpipe, as well as both her carotid artery and jugular vein.

As soon as the blood began to spurt, the killer, whose name was Kittridge, released his grip on the garrote's handles and let the woman, already unconscious, fall forward to the floor. Within a couple of minutes she would die-either from choking or bleeding out, and Kittridge didn't care which.

The other man, who had a youngish face and prematurely white hair, stepped out from behind the desk and approached the still form, careful to avoid the spreading pool of blood. His name was Winter.

"Nice work," he said to Kittridge. "She didn't call the cops, did she?"

"Nope, didn't use the phone at all. Guess she thought her little stick, here"-he nudged the fallen wand with the tip of one expensive shoe-"was all the help she needed."

"Well, the b.i.t.c.h guessed wrong, didn't she? But we better clear out of here, anyway. Where's the next one?"

"New York. Pardee texted me a few minutes ago. O'Neill and his partner haven't reported in. Chastain must have got the best of them, somehow, so she's our problem now."

Winter snorted. "Should have sent us in the first place. O'Neill's a p.u.s.s.y."

"Well, he's probably a dead one. Or, if not, he will be, once Pardee gets hold of him. Come on, let's go."

As it happened, they were closing the kitchen door behind them precisely at the moment that Andrea McKinnon's heart stopped beating.

Chapter 4.

Morris looked at Fenton and said, "I think you've got me confused with somebody else. Batman, maybe. Or James Bond. Somebody like that."

Fenton shook his head, just once. "No, I'm not confused about anything, Morris. I know who you are, and I know what you do. I just want you to do it on the Bureau's behalf. We'll pay your standard rate, which is pretty d.a.m.n high for a ghostbuster, if you ask me."

"I don't believe I did. Ask, that is. But I am curious how you'd explain to the accountants back in the Hoover Building why you've got a 'ghostbuster' on the payroll."

"There's a budget for hiring consultants. As long as my boss is cool with it, I don't have to be real specific when I file the paperwork."

"And is she cool with it, your boss?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, she is. Sue's pretty open-minded for somebody with a Ph.D. from the University of Chicago."

"Maybe that means she's also good at handling disappointment. I hope so, because I'm about to hand her some."

"You don't want the job."

"You got that right, podner. I absolutely do not want this job."

"Why not? It's the kind of thing you do all the time, isn't it?"

"No, it's the kind of thing I used to do, when I was young and stupid. I'm older now, and at least a little smarter. Or so I like to think."

Morris leaned forward. "Look, Fenton, from what you've told me, you've got several black sorcerers, in different parts of the country, killing kids for their hearts."

"Not just the hearts. In some cases, other organs were taken, as well."

"All right. The point is that these organs, properly used, are going to give the witches who took them a great deal of power. h.e.l.l, that's why they're doing it."

Fenton spread his hands a little. "See? That kind of insight is exactly the reason I want you for this case."

"And it's also the reason that I want nothing to do with it. You've got these people who have taken the Left-Hand Path, and you don't know how many of 'em there are, or who they are, or even where they are. What we do know is that they're willing to kill to get what they want, and that most likely they've acquired a h.e.l.l of a lot of power, or will, soon."

"What's that mean-will, soon?"

"The organs themselves aren't powerful. They have to be used. They're like potential energy, in physics. You need a particular kind of ritual, or a series of them, to turn that potential into kinetic energy. And, considering the kind of people involved, we are talking about energy of the very worst kind."

"How bad?"

"Can't say, without more information. But bad; trust me. And dangerous. Look, Fenton, Libby and I spent part of last year on the trail of a black witch who was involved in some pretty nasty goings-on. She found out that we were looking for her, and tried to kill us. And d.a.m.n near succeeded."

Morris shook his head slowly, like the bank officer does when turning you down for a small business loan. "You wanna play Wyatt Earp and face these folks down at some supernatural OK Corral, you go right ahead, and I sincerely wish you good fortune. But I'm not Doc Holliday, and I'm not goin' with you."

"Uh-huh." Fenton straightened his tie, which did not need straightening. "Well, we've established that you're neither Batman, James Bond, nor Doc Holliday. So just who the h.e.l.l are you, Morris?"

"Just a guy with a dangerous, nasty job, who doesn't want to make it any more dangerous and nasty than it has to be."

Morris stood up. "Feel free to keep my name in your Rolodex. If something a bit less insane comes up sometime, give me a call and I'll see if I can help out. But not this time."

Fenton was still in his chair, and seemed in no hurry to go anywhere. "Well, I admire your honesty. I do. It's a quality in pretty short supply in Was.h.i.+ngton. Now let me-"

Fenton's cell phone rang. He pulled it from a pocket, checked the display, then said. "Sorry, I've got to take this."

He pushed a b.u.t.ton and held the phone to his ear. "Yeah. No, I'm still in his room, but I'm almost done. Come on up, if you want. Room 942. Okay."

Fenton put the phone away and said to Morris, "That was my partner. I figured you might as well meet her, since we're going to be doing business together."

In the voice of someone starting to lose his patience, Morris said, "I thought I made it clear-"

"You did," Fenton said. "Now I'm going to make something clear, and you might as well sit down to hear it."

Morris didn't move. After a few seconds, Fenton said softly, "I said sit... the... f.u.c.k... down."

Morris looked at him. Mixing things up with Agent Fenton wasn't going to get him anything except arrested for a.s.saulting a Federal officer. He slowly lowered himself back onto the edge of the bed.

"Thanks," Fenton said, sounding like he actually meant it. "Here's why you're going to work for the Bureau on this investigation, Morris. Not because you went all vigilante and burned down the best evidence we almost had tying anybody to these murders. Not because you're basically a decent guy who doesn't want any more kids to get cut open. Not because I'm authorized to double your usual fee, and I just did. But because you don't want somebody putting a quiet word in Fortner's ear, when he gets back, that you're the guy who burned his hacienda to the ground a few hours ago."

"You've got no proof of that."

"Fortner won't care."

After a few seconds, Morris said, softly, "No, I don't reckon he will."