Evil Ways (15 page)

"It should, yes. That much evil would be hard to miss."

"The other thing is, I want to see if the place is under police surveillance."

"Why would it be? The case was thrown out, right?"

"Yeah, but cops really hate to lose
—especially a case like this, with the murdered and mutilated kid. I wouldn't be surprised if they're keeping an eye on Hardwick, hoping that he'll try to do it again, so they can pounce. Hell, the cops might even be doing it off-duty, in their spare time. They got stung pretty bad on this case, Libby. Lots of bad press."

The Red Sea of students finally parted, and Morris had the car moving again
—only to slam on his brakes a few moments later, as three young men, clearly intoxicated, crossed right in front of them. Morris tapped the horn, and one of the young men stopped, turned, and gave them the finger, before moving on.

"I don't suppose you could cast some kind of impromptu spell that would make that jerk's finger fall off," Morris said. "Or maybe his dick."

"No, sorry. White magic, remember? Can't hurt people with it, even those who deserve it. However…" She rolled her window down, watching the young men's progress, and waited. After three or four seconds, she stuck her head out, and in a voice that seemed to fill the street, yelled,
"Fuck you, you dickless fucking asshole!"

The young man who had flipped them off was almost across the street by now. He turned to stare in amazement, but forgot to stop walking. He tripped over the curb and fell on his face, spilling the cup of beer he carried in the process.

Libby rolled the window back up as Morris accelerated. "There, see?" she said. "No magic involved. Well, hardly any. Just good timing. Feel better now?"

"Yes, considerably."

Libby turned in her seat to look back the way they had come.

"What?" Morris said. "He's not running after us, is he?"

Facing forward again, she said, "No. I was just looking to see if I could spot Hannah."

"You won't."

"Then how do we know she's really there?"

"She's there."

"You sound very certain, Quincey."

"I've worked with Hannah before."

"And done more than work, I gather."

"Pots and kettles, Libby."

"Ouch. Well, I deserved that, I suppose. Will it help if I say that I was quite drunk at the time?"

"There's nothing to help, Libby. What happened, happened. With you and with me, both. Ancient history."

They had gone another block when Morris asked, "With you, did she do that thing with her tongue that
—"

"This is it. Left here, Quincey. It should be, yes, fourth house on the right."

They continued down the street slowly, but not so slow as to be obvious to any watchers. Morris was looking for people sitting in parked cars within sight of Hardwick's house, while Libby closed her eyes and took slow, deep breaths, letting her finely trained witch sense hear and see and smell for her.

Libby sucked in her breath and sat up very straight. "Goddess, stay between us and all evil," she intoned softly.

"What? What's wrong, Libby?" Morris kept the car moving as he scanned the environment for some threat that Libby might have perceived. "What just happened?"

When she spoke, Libby's voice shook. "I was prepared to sense some dark power from that place, but not a great deal of it, really. After all, Hardwick isn't an adept, as far as we know."

Morris kept turning to look at her, giving just enough attention to the road to avoid crashing.

"Yeah, so?"

"Quincey, the power coming out of that house is far beyond anything someone like Hardwick should be generating. It's huge, and black, and malevolent."

Morris drove for three blocks without speaking, then said, "Well, I reckon one of us ought to say it, and it might as well be me:
what the
fuck?"

"I think," Libby said, sitting back, "that we have been misinformed."

In fact, they had not been misinformed. The strong vibes of black magic that Libby Chastain was sensing did not emanate from Tristan Hardwick. Rather, they came from the man who, ten minutes earlier, had knocked on Hardwick's door.

Tristan Hardwick had recently had his lightweight wooden front door replaced with a stout metal one that contained a peephole. He'd realized that the family of his young victim, and the family's friends, might not be as willing as Judge Nathan to consider the matter closed. Hardwick didn't want to have anybody kicking his door down, nor did he want to open it to some vigilante one night, and receive a blast of buckshot in the chest for his trouble.

But the man Hardwick could see through the peephole did not appear to be carrying a weapon, and he looked nothing like the family of the late Tommy Doyle. If the visitor was a salesman, or worse, another reporter, Hardwick would get rid of him quickly.

Opening the door, Hardwick said, "Yes?" He thought his brusqueness might be intimidating to the man on his porch. In this he was mistaken.

"Se
ñor Hardwick?"

"Yeah, that's me. What do you want?"

"My name is Roderico Baca. I have been sent to you by a man we both know as 'Pardee.'"

After a few seconds' thought, Hardwick said, "All right," and stepped back to allow the man entry.

But his visitor remained standing at the threshold. "Are you inviting me inside?" he asked, formally.

"Yeah sure, whatever. Come in."

Only then did the man step into Hardwick's living room. Hardwick closed the door behind him and went over to where a couch, loveseat, and chair were arranged around a widescreen TV set. Standing in front of the couch, Hardwick made a gesture that encompassed the other two pieces of furniture.

"Please, sit down. Can I get you a drink?"

"Thank you, Se
ñor, but no. Please, have one yourself, if you wish."

"Yeah, I think I will. Excuse me a minute."

From the kitchen, where he kept his booze, Hardwick could see that the man had settled upon the loveseat and sat down.
Strange-lookin' dude.
The man's coal-black hair hung down straight to rest on his shoulders. He wore what looked to Hardwick, an inveterate reader of
GQ,
like $2,000 worth of gray suit over his thin frame. The ensemble was completed by shiny black shoes, a tie that looked like it belonged in the Museum of Modern Art, and a shirt so white that it was almost hard to look at. Shirt and tie were separated by a gold collar pin, something Hardwick had heard of but never seen before, even in the pages of
Gentleman's Quarterly.
The face above it was composed and thoughtful-looking, the way monks often look in the movies.

Hardwick, bearing a double Scotch, took a seat on the couch. "So, mister
—I'm sorry, I'm lousy with names, always have been."

His visitor did not seem put out. "Baca." he said, "Roderico Baca." He gave his first name the Spanish pronunciation, the first syllable sounding like "road" instead of "rod."

"Right, got it. So, what does Pardee want from me, Mister Baca? Does he have another… assignment?" Hardwick didn't know how much this guy knew, or how far Pardee trusted him.

"No, Se
ñor. Pardee feels that you have done more than enough. You will not be asked to abduct and murder any more children."

Hardwick almost flinched. He had never used such blunt language in thinking about the job, either before, during, or after. He had thought of "sacrifices," "harvesting organs," "getting material for the ritual," but never the terms his visitor had just used.

Hardwick cleared his throat and said, "All right, fine. So, what brought you all the way out here to see me? I assume you were with Pardee in Idaho, and that's quite a trip."

Baca smiled without showing any teeth. "In fact, I was in Santa Fe, New Mexico, when I heard from Pardee. So I have, indeed, come a long way. But my main purpose was not to call upon you."

"Oh?"

"Si.
There are some other visitors to this fair city, Se
ñor Hardwick. Unlike myself, they
did
journey here specifically to… converse with you."

"Me? Oh, you mean about the, um
—"

"The abduction, mutilation, and murder of a small child, one Thomas Doyle. Exactly. These people came here from Chicago earlier today. When Pardee determined where they were going, he sent me here, to prepare a suitable welcome for them."

"You got here first? From New Mexico?" Hardwick was frowning. "What'd you do, charter a private plane?"

"Not precisely, Se
ñor Hardwick. But I did provide my own transportation." This time, Baca did reveal his teeth, and Hardwick found himself fervently wishing that he might never see that particular smile again.

"Whatever," Hardwick said. "Well, if you're going to deal with these people
—how many are we talking about?"

"Two, Se
ñor. A man and a woman."

"Dangerous?"

Baca made a small dismissive gesture. "In their own way, perhaps. But they should pose no great difficulty for me."

"Okay, fine. So why are you here? Do you need some help?"

Baca's laughter seemed to contain much genuine amusement, mixed with a heavy dose of disdain. "No, Se
ñor, but thank you," he said, when the laughter faded. "I will have to manage with my own humble abilities."

Hardwick, stung by the man's contempt, said, "Well, then, what did Pardee send some Latino sorcerer over here for? Just to bust my balls?"

Even to a journeyman of the black arts like Hardwick, the fury that came off Roderico Baca was like a live thing.

"Latino!"
He practically spat the word. "I am not
Latino,
Se
ñor. My blood has not been polluted by centuries of intermarriage with the savages indigenous to South America. No, Señor, no. My family came to this country from Spain when I was seventeen years old. The Bacas can trace their ancestry back to King Philip the Second, one of the greatest rulers our nation has ever seen."

Hardwick caught movement in his peripheral vision, and turned his head in time to see the small bonsai tree behind the couch, which had been healthy and thriving a few minutes ago, wither and die before his eyes. He raised his hands from his lap, palms outward, like a man trying to stop an attacker
—which is exactly what he was doing at that moment. "I meant no offense, I swear," he said. "It's just an expression, is all. Most people in this country who…" Hardwick searched desperately for a way to avoid saying "Latino" again, "speak Spanish as their native tongue have come here from South America. We Anglos rarely have the honor of meeting someone of pure Spanish blood."

After continuing the stare for a handful of heartbeats, Baca said, "Very well, Se
ñor Hardwick. I accept your apology. I believe that you intended no insult."

"No, no, none at all," Hardwick said.

Baca nodded, as if suddenly bored with the subject. "As to the reason for my visit to you, Pardee has expressed concern that the individuals who have come to Kent today may, in time, be followed by others
—persons whom I might not be present to deal with."

"Followed by others, who'll do what? Kill me?"

A Latinate shrug, which seemed to involve the man's entire body. "It is possible. But not, I think, on this occasion. I believe these two people hope to question you about what you have done
—"

"Allegedly
done. The evidence was thrown out, man."

A slight nod, the toothless smile again. "What you have
allegedly
done, and why, and for whom."

"Why? I mean if they're not cops, what the hell do they care?"

"That question remains unanswered for now, but Pardee nonetheless believes that these people may have interests that are inimical to his own."

"Inimical?
What's that mean?"

Baca shook his head derisively. "And you, a college graduate. Of course, you did attend an American state university, so little should perhaps be expected. 'Inimical' in this instance means that these people may be Pardee's enemies. Apparently he knows one of them from an earlier encounter
—a woman named Chastain, a so-called 'white witch.'"

"Doesn't matter who they are, man. I wouldn't say a fuckin' word about the Ceremony, or any of that stuff. Tell Pardee he can rely on me to keep my mouth shut."

Baca nodded solemnly, managing to convey both understanding and agreement in a few slight head movements. "I am sure that Pardee will accept your assurances."

"Of course, he will. He knows me. Now, if you don't
—"

Baca went on as if the younger man had not spoken. "Or rather he would, if so very much were not at stake."

It took the space of three heartbeats for Tristan Hardwick to work out the implications of those words. He rose from the couch quickly. He may have been intending to attack Baca, or to run for the door, or even to get down on his knees and beg. Hardwick's purpose will never be known, because a wave of Baca's power instantly shoved him back to where he had been sitting. He gathered himself to try again, but Baca made a quick gesture with his left hand, and Hardwick found that he could not move. He was frozen in place, a helpless prisoner in his own body.

Baca rose slowly and began to remove the jacket of his expensive suit. "Pardee gave me a certain amount of discretion as to the precise means by which I might ensure your silence," he said, as if discussing whether it would rain tomorrow. He unbuttoned the cuffs of the white shirt and carefully folded each back three turns, to reveal wiry but strong-looking forearms. "At first, I was inclined to make this fairly quick, since I have other matters to attend to." Baca walked slowly toward the couch, and the younger man who would have screamed then, had he been able. "But that was before you called me
Latino."

And then it began. Soon thereafter
—very soon—it became unspeakable.

"They're giving us twenty minutes," Fenton said.

"Generous of them," Colleen muttered, scanning the big downstairs room of Annie Levesque's home.

Fenton, the latex evidence gloves he wore a stark contrast to his dark skin, was carefully opening drawers and giving the contents a quick look before closing them again. "We were lucky to get that," he told Colleen. "I told the Statie in charge that we have special training in these kinds of cases, and besides, if we found anything good, his guys could take credit for it with the media."

"Sometimes I think that's all these local guys think about," Colleen said, searching underneath the cushions of Annie Levesque's overstuffed sofa. "Who gets the fucking credit."

It took them eight and a half minutes to toss the single downstairs room and find absolutely nothing to indicate why Annie Levesque had been murdering children by extracting vital organs while they were still alive. They knew there was a central, malign intelligence directing this, there had to be. The abductions and murders were going on all over the country.

The two agents walked to the wooden stairs that led to the second floor. As they started up, Fenton said, "I also pointed out to Lieutenant McAsshole that we suspected Annie of connection to some terrorist organization, and I reminded him that those kinds of people often leave booby traps lying around their dwelling spaces. That seemed to make up his mind for him."

Colleen snorted. "That's us
—cannon fodder for chickenshit cops everywhere."

The second floor contained the bathroom and two bedrooms, only one of which seemed to be in use for sleeping. Judging by the odor that permeated the bedroom, Annie Levesque hadn't changed her bedding in quite a while.

"I'll take this one," Fenton said to Colleen. "Why don't you get the room across the hall and the bathroom?"

Colleen looked at him, hand on one hip. "You're not being
gallant
or anything, are you, just to spare me the smell?"

"Gallant?
Me?" Fenton looked a little embarrassed. "Hell, one of us has gotta do it, and my sense of smell isn't that sharp, anyway. My wife's always complaining that I don't notice whenever she buys a
new brand of perfume, or something. Your nose is real sensitive, though."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"Ah, come on, I've seen you smell stuff that nobody else in the room even noticed. Remember that time in Jacksonville
—"