Quincey Morris, Supernatural Investigation: Evil Ways Part 7

"Hey listen," he said, and put a hand on her shoulder.

When the elevator door opened at the lobby a few seconds later, it revealed a middle-aged couple with a small dog on a leash.

Hannah slipped past them with a polite, "Excuse me."

But instead of entering the elevator, the two of them stood and gaped at the man who was slumped in one corner, moaning softly.

"My G.o.d, what happened to him?" the husband asked.

"He fell down and broke his arm," Hannah said over her shoulder. Then she walked onward and out, into the dark.

Libby Chastain, now back in her own body, sat down at the hotel room's desk and opened her laptop.

Not all of Libby's communications involved out-of-body experiences.

She glanced at her watch and made a quick calculation. Garth Van Dreenan, of the South African Occult Crimes Unit, should be at work now. He didn't like to take personal phone calls while on the job, but had no objection to digital communication. She opened up her Yahoo Instant Messenger, selected a name from her long buddy list, and clicked to open a dialogue box.

Libbywitch: Hi, Garth. Are you there?

After ten or fifteen seconds, she received a response.

Occultcop: Elizabeth! How nice to hear from you.

Libbywitch: How've you been?

Occultcop: Surprisingly good. I have met someone. A woman, I mean.

Libbywitch: Cool! Are the two of you dating?

Occultcop: That is not the term we use here, but I would say that we are seeing each other.

Libbywitch: I'm glad for you. You deserve someone to love you, & vice versa.

Occultcop: Thank you. But you never get in touch simply for social reasons, Elizabeth. So, now that the pleasantries have been exchanged, perhaps you should tell me what is really concerning you.

Libbywitch: You see right through me. And you're not the first one today.

Occultcop: ??

Libbywitch: Sorry, never mind. I guess I was just postponing an unpleasant subject.

Occultcop: It will likely not become more pleasant with the pa.s.sage of time.

Libbywitch: You're quite right. Quincey's been dragged into something, and I'm trying to help. Garth, someone is killing kids again. And taking their organs. While still alive.

Occultcop: Jesus Gott.

Libbywitch: And it gets worse. There appears to be more than one killer.

Occultcop: Well, we know that the late Cecelia Mbwato and Mister Snake Perkins-may they both be burning in h.e.l.l as we speak-worked as a team to commit their butchery. So this is not, unfortunately, unprecedented.

Libbywitch: Yes, but that's not what I meant. It seems that there are different killers, operating in various parts of the country at the same time. Or so the FBI thinks.

Occultcop: But the modus operandi is the same?

Libbywitch: As far as I know, yes.

Occultcop: When did the killings start?

Libbywitch: Quincey says about two months ago.

The line was silent for over a minute.

Libbywitch: Garth? Are you still there?

Occultcop: Yes. Sorry. Thinking.

Libbywitch: Anything useful emerge?

Occultcop: Perhaps. But I must ask you to indulge me in what an ancient philosopher would call dialectic.

Libbywitch: All right, Socrates, fire away.

Occultcop: Very well. We have a series of murders. For what purpose were they committed?

Libbywitch: You know the answer as well as I do: to take some of the victims' organs.

Occultcop: Ante mortem, correct?

Libbywitch: Yes, the poor kids were still alive, according to the autopsy reports.

Occultcop: And why would a person or persons do this? What would be the purpose to be served by these barbarous acts?

Libbywitch: For use in a black magic ritual. The organs of children are very powerful talismans among those who follow the Left-Hand Path.

Occultcop: How many organs, in all, have been taken?

Libbywitch: I don't know. I suppose I'd have to see all the autopsy reports and add up the numbers. Quincey said that he had personally seen a series of jars containing eight hearts. What does the total matter, anyway?

Occultcop: Bear with me, if you will. So we have multiple murders, committed by multiple perpetrators, all acting in concert, or so it would seem.

Libbywitch: Yes, it looks that way.

Occultcop: Why would any group of people want that many powerful objects?

Libbywitch: To put together some kind of spell or ritual, and one requiring that much magical power is most likely going to involve something very big, and very nasty.

Occultcop: Such as what?

Libbywitch: I can't begin to imagine. The mind boggles.

Occultcop: Very well, put that aside for now. There is also the matter of timing.

Libbywitch: What about it?

Occultcop: This coordinated effort began, you said, two months ago.

Libbywitch: Yes, that's when the FBI started getting reports of bodies being found.

Occultcop: And the killings continue still, ja?

Libbywitch: I think Quincey said the FBI told him the most recent victim discovered was last week.

Occultcop: If these murders had the same starting point, is it not reasonable to posit the same end point, as well?

Libbywitch: Come again?

Occultcop: When people work together, it means they have a common goal. Eventually, they expect to reach it.

Libbywitch: And since they started together, more or less, their goal represents a shared time, place, and purpose.

Occultcop: Very good, Elizabeth, Socrates, as well as Plato, would be proud of you. Time, place, and purpose. And if you can determine one of those...

Libbywitch: It might lead us to the other two.

Occultcop: Exactly. So it seems to me that you must decide which of those three threads shows the most promise, and proceed to unravel it. Perhaps the whole garment will thus be revealed. But there is one more consideration, Elizabeth.

Libbywitch: What?

Occultcop: You had best, I think, do it quickly.

The FBI's Los Angeles field office had a.s.signed their visitors from Quantico a temporary office that was, surprisingly, both s.p.a.cious and well lit. As soon as she came through the door, Special Agent Colleen O'Donnell made a beeline for the desk where her laptop waited.

"Should have brought this with me," she said to Fenton as the computer booted up, "but I didn't figure I had diddly-squat to show you, so there was no point. Okay, here we go."

She had opened up the case file concerning the murder of Eric Benteen, aged eleven. She quickly scrolled down to the autopsy report.

"Bingo! I was right. Here-check this out."

Fenton looked over her shoulder, as she used the cursor to indicate the place she was interested in.

"Carbonic acid?" he muttered. "What the h.e.l.l's that?"

"Having spent two dreary years as a Chem major in college, I believe I can answer that question, Special Agent," she said brightly, and swiveled her chair to face him. "Carbonic acid, that is, HCO, is the residue left when CO in solid form degrades to a.s.sume its normal gaseous state."

Fenton looked at her. "Okay, Colleen, you've had your fun. You're brilliant, duly stipulated. Now will you f.u.c.king speak English?"

"If you insist, Dale. Carbonic acid, which was found in the vic's body cavity, is not a natural product of human biochemistry. Rather, it's what you get when dry ice melts."

"Dry ice." Fenton was stroking his chin.

"Uh-huh. When you started talking about how Cecelia what's-her-name was preserving the organs she took with magic African herbs, or something, it got me thinking that these killers have to preserve the organs, too-at least, until they use them in whatever obscene ritual they perform."

Fenton nodded slowly. "They're using dry ice to preserve the organs, right from where they're harvested at the scene."

"Well, we don't know if all of them are doing it. I'll have to go back and check all the autopsy protocols to find out. But it sure looks like this motherf.u.c.ker is using it."

"What would the good nuns say, if they could hear your mouth now, Colleen?"

"With any luck, they'd all have heart attacks and die on the spot. Well, except for Sister Mary Alan, who was almost human. But we digress."

"Yeah, all right." Fenton tilted his chair back to study the ceiling. "Dry ice is pretty hard to make at home, isn't it?"

"d.a.m.n near impossible. You need temperatures that the average kitchen's freezer can't begin to approach. You also need some kind of pressurized tank, and you can't get those at Wal-Mart, last I heard."

"So, somebody needs a source of dry ice. Who'd make that? Or maybe have on hand a supply that they got someplace else?"

"Let's find out," she said, and turned back to the computer.

Less than five minutes later, Colleen had created a new file, and started cutting and pasting information into it. "It's used to keep frozen stuff cold during transport, when you don't have a refrigerated truck available. Ice cream and frozen food, mostly. And here's one I didn't know about-dry ice blasting."

Fenton was reading over her shoulder again. "Cleaning residue from heavy equipment. Dry ice pellets fired under pressure takes the gunk right out. Huh."

"Yeah, the things you learn in this job. Next time I play Trivial Pursuit, I'm gonna kick a.s.s."

Fenton sat down again and waited, as patiently as he could, while Colleen worked the computer.

"Hey, looks like we caught a break," she said. "I just checked back where this poor kid's body was found. I was afraid that he was one of the vics from Chicago, or one of the other big urban areas. Take us forever to track down dry ice users there."

"I take it such was not the case," Fenton said.

"Nope. Body was found in the Adirondack Mountains, upstate New York. And there's only one town of any size for like"-she squinted at the computer screen again-"thirty, forty miles in any direction."

"What town?"

"Some hole in the wall called Plattsburgh."

Walter Grobius's Iowa compound was probably large enough to apply for statehood. If human beings lived there, it might even have succeeded. Apart from the great house that stood, more or less, in the center, the place was largely open ground, some of it overgrown and wild, surrounded by a concrete wall that would have done credit to the federal prison system.

It had amused Grobius to include a mansard roof, complete with a widow's walk, in the house's design. It is the defining characteristic of virtually every haunted house ever depicted in popular culture. He and Pardee stood there now, watching the groups of workmen as they scurried about the property. The snow of a few days earlier had melted, and a gentle breeze ruffled the coats the two men wore.

"I trust everything will be ready in time," Grobius said.

"It must be, therefore it will," Pardee told him.

"I would be tempted to remark upon your infernal confidence, but puns are a form of humor, and this is a matter for which humor is inappropriate."

"Humor yes, but not wit. Wit is appreciated in many places, even some that might surprise you."