Evil Ways (5 page)

"I didn't mean to suggest that you hung around with serial killers, Morris. But you've had dealings with a few, I know that for certain. There was Edmund Zaleznik, for instance. Remember him? St. Louis?"

Morris replied with a noncommittal grunt.

"Zaleznik, way I understand it, was supposed to be some kind of a wizard. Hired himself out to the St. Louis mob, as sort of a collection agent. He wouldn't actually do the collecting himself, of course. But if one of the local loan sharks, or maybe a bookie, had a guy who owed a lot of money and refused to pay, they'd give the poor bastard one more chance, while mentioning that something
real
bad was going to happen if he didn't come up with the cash in, say, forty-eight hours. And if he still didn't pay, then something bad
would
happen. Something nasty, painful, and fatal. Sometimes it would involve the whole family. That was Zaleznik's job, to make it happen. That makes him a serial killer, in my book."

Morris had sat up a little straighten "A wizard, you say."

"Yeah, not first-class or anything. But certainly capable of working basic black magic. Enough to harm quite a number of people. Until somebody sent you after him."

"I wouldn't have thought the word 'wizard' gets used a lot, down there in Quantico," Morris said slowly. "Not a real scientific term, like
psychopath,
or
paranoid schizophrenic."

Fenton sat there looking at him for a bit, before finally saying, "How's that friend of yours, Libby Chastain?"

It was Morris's turn to sit and stare. Then he said, "Libby's fine
— or she was last week, when we spoke on the phone. Do you two know each other?"

"No, not personally. But we have a mutual friend: Garth Van Dreenan."

"The South African cop."

"That's the guy."

"Works for the Occult Crimes Unit over there."

"Yep. You know him?"

"We met once, a while back. Seemed like a nice enough fella." Morris snapped his fingers. "Fenton. I thought that name rang a bell. You and Garth were working those child murders, the ones where the poor kids' organs were removed while they were still alive."

"Yeah, that was our case."

"I was kind of busy at the time, but I heard later that you solved it, the two of you."

"Solved?" Fenton suddenly looked tired. "Well, there was a resolution, anyway. Maybe even some justice, I don't know."

"What the hell
are
you, Fenton? And don't keep saying 'Behavioral Science.' Guys from Quantico don't use words like 'wizard' and 'black magic' Not with a straight face, they don't." Morris shook his head impatiently. "Who are you really with? The damn X-Files?"

"The X-Files Unit does not exist, and has never existed," Fenton said, as if quoting somebody. "It is a myth, perpetrated by rumor and popular culture. The Federal Bureau of Investigation investigates crimes against the United States committed by living, breathing people, and does not acknowledge the existence of the so-called
paranormal.
"

"Okay, I gotcha," Morris told him. "Now, what's the real story?"

Fenton ran a hand over his face. "Look, Morris, until fairly recently, I was a normal FBI agent
—well, as normal as Behavioral Science gets. There are people in the Bureau, you know, who figure that, to investigate and apprehend psychopaths, you've got to be a little nutty yourself."

"Yeah, I've heard that one," Morris said. "All that 'gaze into the abyss' stuff, right?"

"'He who fights monsters must take care that he does not himself become a monster. For when you look deeply into the abyss, the abyss is also looking into you.' Old Fred Nietzsche, damn his soul."

"I can see you've given this some thought."

"Hell, yeah. Therapy and everything. And, you know, I never thought I'd find myself quoting that racist bastard George Wallace, but he did say one thing once that I kinda like: 'I got me a piece of paper says I'm not crazy
—what've you got?'"

"Okay, you're not crazy," Morris said. "Duly stipulated."

"Well, last year they assigned me to work this series of child murders. The signature was pretty distinct, and as soon as the perp appeared to have crossed state lines, the Bureau was sent in. Or, more precisely, I was, since my partner had retired and I was working solo for a while."

Morris nodded. "Prepubescent kids, abducted, murdered outdoors near water, organs removed before death. Garth told me about it, that time I met him."

"Okay, so you know there were definitely ritualistic elements to the crimes. I was doing my job as best I could, liaising with local law, working up a profile, all that. But then the newspapers got hold of it. You can imagine the stories."

"Hell, I even remember one of them: 'Cannibal Killer Strikes Again.'"

"Fuck, yeah. Even though there was no evidence that any of the organs were consumed by the perp. But that kind of crap got people excited, especially in the states were the kids had been killed. So they started bugging their reps in Congress, which means pressure on the Bureau."

"Pressure on Behavioral Science, you mean."

"You got it. So my boss had this bright idea of calling in a 'consultant' from overseas."

"And that was Garth. All the way from South Africa."

"And over my objections. I'd never even heard of this Occult Crimes Unit, and didn't see what good a fucking consultant was going to do the investigation, anyway. But my boss wanted to be seen doing something above and beyond the usual investigative routine, and maybe shut the damn politicians up for a while."

"Uh-huh. And you're telling me all this why, exactly?"

"Because during the course of that investigation, I saw some stuff that shook my assumptions about the way the world is, about what kind of shit really goes on, sometimes."

"Black magic, you mean," Morris said.

"Yeah, and the other kind, too
—white magic, the kind your girlfriend practices."

"Libby's not my girlfriend. We work together, that's all."

"Whatever. Thing is, that case changed the way I look at the world. And when it was over, I took a chance, a big one. Wrote up a confidential, 'Eyes Only' report for my boss, and told what
really
happened. It was pretty different from the official report I'd already turned in."

"I can imagine," Morris said. "Is Jack Crawford still in charge over there?"

"Nah, he died a few years ago. Heart attack. I work for Sue Whitlavich now."

"Really? I've heard of her. Read her book on serial killers when it first came out. Seems like a real smart lady."

"Like a whip. And a good thing, too. All those brains means she's more open-minded than a lot of people at the Bureau, even some in Behavioral Science. So, she read my confidential report, called me in, and we had a long talk."

"And the fact that you've still got your shield means that she didn't decide you were crazy."

"It means more than that, Morris. It means whenever the Bureau stumbles across something real hinky, they give it to Behavioral Sci. And Sue usually gives it to me. And she doesn't ask.too many questions, long as I get results."

"Sounds like we're finally getting to the heart of the matter," Morris said. "So you're here, in L.A., and in my room, and you're in a big hurry, because…"

"Because somebody's killing kids again. Only this time, it's worse."

Gunther Krause slipped into the abandoned house through the back door a few minutes before sunrise. There were stories that the undead could take the form of mist that could be directed anywhere they wished to go. If that were true, Krause had yet to figure out how to manage it, which was a pity. It would have made his existence much easier.

Still, he had little cause for complaint. He had been using this place as his daylight refuge for two months now, and it had served him very
well. The structure had been condemned as unsafe, so no one came here, even stupidly adventurous children.

Krause would not have minded a visit from some children
—but only after dark, when he was able to receive them properly.

As he made his way through the decrepit living room, Krause glanced down at his shirtfront.
Damn, bloodstains again. And I thought I was being so careful tonight. Well, looks like a new shirt for Gunther. Maybe I'll take it from my next meal, before I open him up to feed.

Krause was four paces from the basement door when he suddenly realized he was lying on the floor. A moment later, the pain hit him
— a searing, merciless agony at the base of his spine that only one thing could have caused.
Silver.

He heard them then, the sounds of boot heels crossing the uneven wooden floor. A few seconds later, the owner of the boots came into view. Krause didn't really need to breathe anymore, but he gasped, nonetheless. He had in an instant taken in the black hair, the pallor, the scar along an otherwise beautiful, if hard, face. The woman's shirt and pants were black, to match the boots. In one hand she held the still smoking, silenced .25 automatic that she had used to fire a silver bullet into his spine.

Through teeth clenched tight in pain, Krause managed, "They say you don't… exist. A legend… a myth, no more."

The woman let a tiny smile appear on her face. "And now you know better," she said, in a beautiful soprano voice that sounded like angels singing. "Pity you won't get the chance to spread the word."

"Who… who sent you?"

"The family of your second victim. The second in this town, anyway. You didn't disguise your work quite as well as you thought. They figured out that it was one of you leeches who killed him."

Her boots tapped out another slow rhythm on the floorboards as she walked over to the nearby window. Miraculously, its shade was still intact. She moved it aside a few inches and glanced outside. "Sun's almost up," she said, conversationally, and walked back to where the wounded vampire lay.

"What are you… waiting for?" Krause moaned. "Finish it."

"In due time," she said. "Which will be very soon, now."

"Just… because your first shot… missed…"

She laughed with what sounded like genuine amusement. "Missed? Oh, dear gracious me, no. That bullet went exactly where I wanted it."

"Why maim… not kill?"

"Because I wanted to spend a few minutes having this little chat with you, Gunther. You don't mind if I call you Gunther, do you?"

A few minutes later, she sauntered back to the window and peered out again. "Ah, sunrise!" she said. "Looks like it should be a beautiful day."

She turned back toward Gunther Krause again, and for a moment there was something in her face that would have frightened half the demons in hell. Then she reached down slowly and grasped the bottom of the window shade.

"Any last words?" she asked pleasantly.

"Fuck you… you twisted fucking… cunt."

Hannah Widmark, known in some circles as Widowmaker, smiled broadly. "Well, those will serve, I suppose."

She yanked the bottom of the shade down hard, then released it.

She stood there for a full minute longer, watching impassively and listening to the screams.

Then she left, her boots crunching as they walked over the gray ashes that lay strewn across the floor in the shape of a man.

Howdy, this is Quincey Morris. Sorry I can't talk to you right now, but I'm off battling the forces of darkness. Or maybe I'm just taking a nap. In any case, leave a message after the beep, and I'll get back to you just as soon as I can, podner.

Libby Chastain sighed. Quincey was laying the Texan on pretty thick for someone who had graduated, with honors, from Princeton, but he had said once that some of his clients seemed to expect it. When the "beep" sounded in her ear she said, "Quincey, it's Libby. I've got a problem, a bad one. Call me as soon as you can, will you?"

Libby pocketed her phone and frowned at the two corpses that lay sprawled on her living room carpet. She was not looking forward to this next part.
Well, might as well get it over with. They're not going to get any less dead if I stand around and wait.

She knelt down next to the nearest of the two corpses, and began methodically to go through his pockets.

Ten minutes later, she was looking at the small pile of objects that she'd recovered. There was no ID on either man, which confirmed what Libby had already suspected: these two were professional killers. Along with a few personal belongings was the wand that had been tucked into a boot worn by one of her would-be assassins.

Libby had seen this kind before, the magical equivalent of a cadmium battery. It had been charged with a limited amount of magical power, which would fade with use. Anyone with some intelligence and a little aptitude could use it, properly instructed. With one of these, you could perform a wide range of mid-level spells without putting in the years of study and practice that went into becoming a practitioner of the Art. Libby hated the things, looking upon them the way a true marksman views laser gun sights: they conveyed skills that the user hadn't earned, and didn't deserve.

Someone had charged this wand, and taught one of the men how it could be employed to disable the magical defenses protecting Libby's condo. The set of lock picks she'd found in the other man's pockets showed how the pair had overcome her more mundane protections.

But who had sent them?
To her knowledge, she had no serious enemies among the magical community. The last witch to try to harm Libby had been Christine Abernathy, and Libby was quite certain that Christine would not be troubling anyone this side of hell ever again.

Until she discovered who was behind this, Libby was in serious danger. In warfare, whether mundane or magical, the aggressor usually has the advantage. Libby could not count on the next team of killers that came for her to be as careless as these two jerks had been.

Well, first things first: she had two corpses to get rid of, and she'd better get started before decomposition set in. Once the smell of rotting flesh gets in your fabrics, even magic can be hard pressed to get it out again.

She hoped Quincey would call back soon.

"More kids are being killed for their organs?" Morris asked.

"Yeah." Fenton spoke as if the word had put a bad taste in his mouth. "Started about two months ago, near as we can figure. Same M.O. as before, more or less."

"Not much chance it's the same perp from last time, is there?" Fenton shook his head. "None at all. Cecelia Mbwato was identified after the fact as the killer. She'd been operating with the assistance of a guy named, believe it or not, Snake Perkins. And both of them are as dead as two people can be."

Morris thought about what he'd found in Fortner's magic workroom. "Well, it seems I may have some good news for you," he said. He told Fenton about the jars he'd found, each containing what was almost certainly the heart of a child. "Looks like Fortner's your killer, and how's
that
for coincidence?" he said to Fenton. "You may need some specialized help when you go in to serve the arrest warrant. Even though a lot of his tools have gone up in smoke, Fortner's still powerful, which makes him dangerous. I can give you a few names of people with the right skills, if you want."

Fenton stood up and walked slowly over to one of the windows, where he peered out at the start of rush hour without much apparent interest. After a little while he turned back to the room. "That's good to know," he said, "but I've got a couple of problems with that."

"Such as?" This was not the reaction that Morris had been expecting.

"Well, there's that warrant you mentioned, for one. To get one, we've got to show the judge probable cause that something hinky's been going on in Fortner's place. "What do I say
—
Your honor, I have reliable information gained from Mister Quincey Morris when he was burglarizing the place?"

"There are ways around that, Fenton, and you know it. You could get an 'anonymous tip.' Or a 'confidential informant' could have given you the information. There's all kinds of things you can tell the damn judge."

"Yeah, and most judges recognize them for the bullshit tactics they are. But all right. Say we get a warrant to go poking around the burned-out ruins of Fortner's place. Maybe I even have you draw us a map, so that we can get to this workroom you're talking about without too much fuss. What do you figure we'd find there?"

"You'll find evidence that he's been killing children for their hearts."

"What evidence, specifically? You were in there
—you oughta know."

Morris shook his head irritably. "For Christ's sake, Fenton, I told you already. You'd find those jars containing the hearts, one in each."

Fenton was looking at him, and Morris suddenly realized he had missed something, but he didn't know what.

"Morris, did you happen to pick up any of those jars, maybe for a closer look?"

"Yeah, I did, as a matter of fact. But if you're worried about fingerprints
—"

"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, fuck."

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 glass 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 basement. 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, associates, 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 bastard, 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
mutt
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."