Evil Ways (9 page)

Using the tip of her wand to trace three invisible symbols in the air, she muttered, very quickly, the words of a spell designed to reverse negative energy. The anger and malevolence of her two attackers was suddenly directed back at them in the form of a sudden, debilitating pain. Sandy's spellcraft instructor had explained, years ago, that the pain was purely psychosomatic. White magic did not allow the deliberate harming of another, but it did permit, under some circumstances,
convincing
someone that he was being harmed.

Sandy stepped clear of the man behind her just as he collapsed to the floor, moaning. A moment later, his companion across the room did the same. She then carefully laid down a freezing spell, which would hold each man motionless until the police could arrive. As soon as the two were immobilized, Sandy relieved their perception of pain, even though part of her did so reluctantly.

She called 911 to report the attack, and was assured that officers would respond posthaste. Putting the phone away, Sandy considered using a truth spell to find out who the men were, and why they had wished her harm. But in order for them to tell her, they would have to be unfrozen, and that could be dangerous. Better to let the police handle the interrogation, and try to kibitz the information from them later.

As Sandy looked at the two supine forms on her rug, she considered that she would have to credit herself with greater martial arts skills than she actually possessed when explaining to the police what had happened. But if need be, she could give the officers a little magical "push" that would encourage them to accept her story, an account that would be far more credible than "I stopped them with my little magic wand, officer" would ever be.

Sandy gave vent to a long, weary sigh. She'd been having a bad enough day before she got home, and now this. On the other hand, she could, right this second, be at the mercy of these two thugs, so things could have been worse. Besides, her headache was gone. As she heard the sound of a siren, distant but growing nearer, she prepared to lift the freezing spell, timing it to work just as the police walked through the door.

A smile finally passed over her face as she said aloud, "Beat
that,
Mister Cat."

If Plattsburgh, New York were much farther north, it would be in Canada. A pleasant little town of about 50,000, it is nestled along the shore of Lake Champlain, with Vermont visible on the other side. There are companies in Plattsburgh that use dry ice, but there are not many of them.

The foreman at Beauvais Plastics had just finished explaining to Agents Fenton and O'Donnell what they had already learned at the first three industrial firms they had visited. "So, the pellets come out this nozzle here, under high pressure, and then you clean whatever you pointin' it at. Works damn well, too."

"The dry ice isn't made until just before you're set to clean something with your machine here," Fenton said.

"Yessir, that's the way she works. No point in making up a bunch of dry ice just so it can sit in the tank. Hell, it could even explode, once the stuff starts to vaporize. This here tank is airtight, ya see? No place for the pressure to go."

"So, if someone came in asking to buy say, a couple of pounds of dry ice…" Colleen said.

Earl Trombley opened a fresh stick of Nicorette gum and popped it in his mouth before answering. "Well, I'd say a couple things. One is that I'm not authorized to sell dry ice to nobody, and I'm sure as hell not gonna give it away, neither. Number two is, even if I said okay to number one, if I pointed this here nozzle into some container, like an ice chest or whatever, the pressure'd slam the damn cooler half way across the room. Can't do it."

"I take it that nobody's asked you to try," Colleen said.

"Nope, not once. I'd remember."

Fenton and Colleen thanked Trombley and turned to leave.

"Hell, if somebody came in here lookin' for dry ice," Trombley said, "I'd send 'em to Price Chopper, or maybe Hannaford's."

They turned around again. Colleen, who was closer, said, "Excuse me?"

"You know, one of the supermarkets. They got those big displays, with the fresh seafood. Gotta keep that stuff cold, you know. Fish goes bad, everybody in the store's gonna know it pretty quick, eh?"

"And they use dry ice for that, to keep the fish fresh." That was Fenton.

"Yep. My cousin Marty, he works over at Hannaford's. Says the stuff comes in on the refrigerated truck, every week, along with the frozen food. I dunno know where they pick it up, some warehouse, I guess."

They thanked Trombley again, this time with a little more enthusiasm.

As they walked out to their car, Fenton asked, "How many supermarkets they got in this burg?"

Colleen produced her iPhone and started tapping things on the screen. After a few seconds, she said, "Um, four. But two of them look like discount places
—probably no fresh fish displays there."

"That leaves Hannaford's and, what was the other one?"

"Price Chopper." She consulted her little screen again, like an oracle poring over entrails. "Looks like they're only about a quarter-mile apart. Both are near that mall we passed coming in."

"Well, then let's go shopping."

"You know," Colleen said as she turned the ignition key, "I think that's the first time I've ever heard a man say that."

As Libby'd told Morris, she had used a slight magical influence on the desk clerk who had checked her into the Holiday Inn, persuading him not to run her credit card number through the system until she was ready to check out. But even Libby could not control the way that data networks work
—and fail to work.

She had a flight to Chicago to catch, and had allowed herself three hours to get to JFK, check in, and wait in the usual long line for security screening. Since her flight left at 1:15pm, she was standing at the Holiday Inn's front desk a little after 10:00am, packed and ready to go.

The same young man who had checked her in yesterday was holding down the fort. His nametag read "Walter." When Libby handed
him her room pass card and said she was departing, he smiled, said, "Of course, Ms. Chastain," and began to work his own brand of magic on the computer keyboard. After a few seconds, he stopped typing and frowned. "It looks like I didn't get your credit card imprint when you checked in."

Libby smiled at him. "Really? You must have forgotten, that's all. Things were pretty frantic around here yesterday, weren't they? You can run it now though
—here you are." She handed over a gold Amex card and waited while Walter slid it through a scanner and then typed some more.

It only took half a minute or so for the American Express computer to tell the Holiday Inn's computer that Libby's card was legit. Walter typed a bit more, but then stopped and muttered, "Damn."

"Something wrong?" Libby wasn't worried about her credit card; she always paid on time and her credit score, the last time she'd checked, was approaching 700. But clearly, something was going on here.

Walter looked up at her apologetically. "The system just went down, Ms. Chastain. Your card was fine, nothing to worry about there. We should be up and running again in a few minutes."

"Well, since my card already went through, why don't I just get going and you can deal with the computer once it's feeling more cooperative."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Chastain, but we can't do it that way. I need you to sign both the hotel's statement and the American Express charge authorization, and I can't print those until the computer's working." He gave her a reassuring smile. "It does this, every once in a while. But the network never stays down for long. If you'd like to have a seat, I'll let you know as soon as we're ready to process your checkout. Or, if you prefer to wait in the hotel coffee shop, I can go find you as soon as we're all set here."

Libby gave him her best smile, and with just a little
push
said, "Are you sure you can't just let me leave now?"

Walter blinked a couple of times, but then said, "I'm sorry, Ms. Chastain, but I just can't do that. I could lose my job."

Damn.
"All right, then, I'll just sit over there, near the plants." Even a little magic could not always overcome vested self-interest.

Walter was telling her the truth. She would have detected the deception if he had lied to cover up his own mistake. Still, she was starting to feel uneasy. Libby wasn't sure if her credit card number was stuck somewhere in the Holiday Inn's system, or whether it had already made its way into the American Express credit card database. If the latter, it could now be accessible to authorized parties, like credit bureaus. And maybe some unauthorized parties, as well.

Eighteen blocks away, in another hotel, a laptop computer that lay open on a bed gave a series of clearly audible beeps. That was what the two men who had come to kill Libby Chastain were waiting for.

Kittridge looked at the screen, then typed in a command. The information on the screen changed, and now it contained what he wanted. "She's just used her Amex at the Holiday Inn on West Forty-Fifth," he said. "Let's go."

Winter stood up, struggled into his sport coat, and picked up the briefcase that contained their essential equipment. The rest of the luggage could stay
—there was no time to check out. If they had the chance to come back for their stuff later, fine. If not, that was okay, too; each had learned long ago not to bring anything on these trips that could not be easily replaced.

It took just over six minutes before Walter called over, "Ms. Chastain? The system's up again." As Libby rapidly approached the front desk, he gave her an apologetic smile and said, "We'll get you checked out in no time at all. Sorry for the inconvenience. In fact, I'm authorized to give you this coupon, good for twenty-five percent off the standard room rate at any of our nine hundred-plus hotels and resorts…"

The taxi bearing Winter and Kittridge came within sight of the Holiday Inn just as Libby was climbing into the back of another cab in front of the hotel. "Shit!" Kittridge said under his breath. He looked a question at his partner, who nodded agreement immediately. The two had worked together for a long time, and understood each other very well.

Kittridge leaned forward so the driver could hear him. "Listen, we've had. a change in plans. You see that cab in front in the Holiday Inn, the one that's just pulling out? I want to see where it goes. Follow it. Not too close."

The driver, a Nigerian national who had been pushing a hack for eight years, looked back over his shoulder. "What? You make a joke? 'Follow that cab,' like on TV?"

Kittridge locked eyes with the man.
"Do I look like I'm joking?"

The Nigerian blinked twice, and looked away. "No, sorry, sorry."

It was time for Winter to be Good Cop. He leaned forward and said, "Sure, no problem. We know it must sound a little weird. Look, we'll pay you double the meter, once this is done, okay? Make it worth your time."

The driver's eyebrows went up. "Double? The whole fare, including now?"

"You got it, pal," Winter said, and sat back. "Now do what the man said: follow that cab."

The driver managed to keep Libby Chastain's taxi in sight without having to ride on its bumper and draw undue attention. He was forced to run a couple of lights on the yellow to avoid losing his quarry, but he seemed immune to the angry blatts from other drivers. He was probably used to it.

The little caravan ended at JFK Airport. Libby got out in front of Terminal 4, paid her driver and carried her single bag inside, walking rapidly.

"Let us off at the same place," Kittridge said, then gave the driver the money he'd been promised. As the two killers walked into the terminal building, Winter said softly, "We can't do it in here."

"Too many people, too many cameras. But let's see where she's going. Once she gets on a plane, she's trapped until it lands, I don't care what kind of a witch she is. We'll find out where she's headed, and call Pardee."

"That means someone else'll get the job," Winter said. "Too bad. We could've used the dough."

Kittridge shrugged his big shoulders. "There's plenty of other jobs. Hell, he'll probably give us another one while I'm still on the phone with him."

"I hope so." Winter kept his voice low. "How many of these witch bitches is he after, anyway?"

"Far as I can tell
—all of 'em."

The head seafood guy at Price Chopper supermarket was named Guy Chavot, and he was only too happy to cooperate with the forces of Truth, Justice, and the American Way, which he seemed to think were embodied in the two FBI agents who sat with him in the employees' break room. Fenton and O'Donnell had each learned that FBI credentials gained respect from a civilian in direct proportion to said civilian's distance from Washington, D.C. Unfortunately, some civilians were so impressed, it made them talkative.

"Yeah, we sold some dry ice a while back. We normally get a call for it around Halloween, you know
—throw some in a basin of water and it makes a spooky-looking fog. A lot of people like to use it at kids' parties, I guess. I sell the stuff at cost. Don't make any money, but it's good customer relations, and that always pays off in the long run. The district manager, Mister de Grandin, is always saying—"

"But you've had a more recent request," Colleen said. "Something that didn't involve Halloween."

"Uh, yeah, sure. Like I was sayin' before. About, I don't know, three-four weeks ago, I sold some to Annie Levesque." He pronounced it
LeVeck.
"I think she bought, like, six-and-a-half pounds of the stuff. Well, we weigh it in kilos. Three kilos."

"Did she say what she wanted it for?" Fenton asked.

"Naw, and I didn't ask, neither. Annie's always been kind of a weird one."

Fenton and Colleen exchanged brief looks, then Fenton asked, "Weird in what way, exactly?"

"Aw, she's into all that occult stuff. Fortune telling, Tarot cards, love potions, all that kinda stuff. Must pay pretty well, though. She always seems to have enough money, and she ain't on welfare or food stamps or nothin'."

Colleen leaned forward in her chair a little. "Has she had any conflicts with people in town? Any disputes, incidents, maybe bad blood with someone?"

Chavot adjusted his glasses, although they did not appear to need adjusting. "Well, folks around here mostly give Annie a wide berth. She comes into town; nobody bothers her much. She buys stuff she needs, pays cash money, then goes back to that cabin of hers, out in Redford, someplace."

"People are afraid of this woman?" Colleen asked. "How come? Is she unpleasant, violent, unstable, what?"

Chavot waved a hand, as if clearing cigarette smoke away. "Aw, there's stories. I never paid 'em no mind. About how, years ago, some high school kids're supposed to have egged Annie's car. Ruins the finish, that does. You've gotta wash it off right away, otherwise it
—"

"What about the high school kids?" Fenton said. "She have them arrested?"

"Naw, something happened to 'em. Supposedly, within a week, all four kids took sick and died. Like I said, there's just stories. Nobody can name any of the kids if you press 'em about it."

Fenton glanced at Colleen again, before asking, "How long ago was this, supposedly?"

"I dunno. Like, ten years, or something. It's all bullshit, you know. Just stories people tell, like the ones about seeing Champy."

"Who? Champy? Champ of what?" Fenton seemed lost now.

"Ah, you know, the prehistoric sea monster that's supposed to live in Lake Champlain. Funny, though
—the only folks that ever see him
are drunks with no cameras, seems like. It's just a gag to sell T-shirts, stuff like that, to the summer tourists."

"Gotcha," Colleen said, and turned to Fenton. "Lots of lakes around the world have local legends about some kind of monster living there. Loch Ness is probably the best known, but there's gotta be a dozen of them." A smile briefly lit up her face. "All selling shirts to the tourists."

As they walked back to their rented car, Colleen said, "I guess you know that Annie Levesque scares the shit out of him, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Methinks he doth protest too much."

"A scholar, no less."

"Fuckin' A."

Once they were inside the car, Colleen said, "If there's time before we leave, I want to get one of those Champy T-shirts."

"Favorite niece or nephew?"

"Hell, no. For me. I think it'd be kinda cool to wear it to the next meeting of my… circle." She let the sentence trail off, as if she regretted starting it, but Fenton didn't seem to notice.

"Circle?" he asked. "What the hell's that? Some kind of sewing circle?"

"Close. We're into craft." Her voice was casual. "Just a bunch of crafties, sitting around, talking about different aspects of craft. Scrapbooking, decoupage, stuff like that."

"Yeah? Doesn't sound like you, somehow. I'd have figured BMX racing, skydiving, something adventurous."

"Oh, I do adventurous stuff, too." She smiled, a little. "We all have more than one facet to our lives, Dale."

"Guess you're right." As Colleen started the engine, he said, "Next stop, we oughta check out the other supermarket, just in case somebody else has been buying up dry ice lately."

"Not too likely, is it?"

"Nope, but we gotta consider all possibilities, just like they taught us at Quantico. Then, I guess we're heading downtown, what there is of it."

"Police HQ, you mean."

"Yup. You know, you're pretty smart, for somebody with freckles."

Colleen made an unladylike snorting noise. "Smart enough to know that we better find out what happened to those high school kids."

"Think all that really went down, huh?"

"Fuckin' A."

Pardee's phone started playing "Tubular Bells," the theme from
The Exorcist.
In addition to a certain amount of wit, Pardee also had a keen sense of irony.

"Yes?" Pardee could have communicated with his minions through magical means, but he did not wish to frighten them. At least, not yet.

"It's Kittridge, boss. One of Chastain's credit cards finally showed up online, but by the time we got there, she was in a cab. Took her out to JFK. We had no chance to close the deal."

"I very much hope you obtained her flight information." Pardee's voice contained no hit of menace whatever. It didn't have to.

"Sure, boss, sure. No prob. She's on United, Flight 441, nonstop to Chicago. Arrives three forty-five, local
—or it's supposed to, anyway."

"Which airport
—O'Hare or Midway?"

"O'Hare. The big one."

"You're not just guessing about that, are you? Because if you were to guess incorrectly…"

"No, boss, I checked it out, absolutely."

"Very well." Pardee thought for a moment. "I have another assignment for you."

"Great, glad to hear it."

"It's in New Jersey. A place called Avon, sometimes known as Avon-by-the-Sea. Do you know it?"

"Nah, but we'll find it, no prob. Winter's from Jersey, he probably knows where it is. If not, we'll score a map, someplace."

"All right. Your client is one Judith Maloney." He repeated the name, then provided an address, which he also said twice.

"Got it, boss."

"You didn't write any of that down, did you?"

"Hell, no. I'm no amateur."

"Then make sure you do not act like one when you get to New Jersey. Call me when you've made the sale."

Pardee terminated the call without any social amenities, then called a number with a Chicago area code. Libby Chastain was one fish he very much did not want to escape his net. Or the gaff to follow.

"Yeah?" It was a man's voice, businesslike and impersonal.

"You know who this is, Strom."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." The voice took on a note of eagerness.

"I have more work for you."

Libby Chastain came out of the little tunnel that temporarily connected her plane with the terminal and saw Quincey Morris immediately. But before going to him, she made herself scan the other people who were waiting for disembarking passengers from her flight. It wasn't always possible to tell who wished you ill just by looking, but Libby's witch sense was finely tuned, and there was always the chance she'd pick up harmful intent in time to do something about it.

But no one seemed to be paying her any attention at all
—apart from the tall, dark-haired man in the blue suit, his beard stubble noticeable even this early in the day. She went to him then, and they exchanged a brief hug.

"Quincey, it's so good to see you," she said softly.

"It's good to be seen, Libby. At least by you."

As they walked toward the main terminal building, Morris leaned closer and said, "By the way, I spent the last half hour checking out all the people in the immediate area of your gate. I don't have your infallible instincts, but I didn't see anybody who looked like trouble."

"That's good, she said. "I've had enough trouble for a while."

"Did you check a bag?"

"I had to. Some of my gear might raise a few eyebrows if I tried to take it through one of the security checkpoints, and I have no desire to have my name end up on some watch list."

"Or witch list."

"That, too. I just hope my suitcase didn't end up in Omaha, or someplace."

They entered the terminal and followed the signs to the luggage carousels. Neither of them noticed the man, holding an open copy of
Forbes
magazine, who was seated in a position where he could watch everyone who came out from that set of gates. Once he determined where the man and the woman were heading, Charlie Strom stood up and followed, pulling a phone/walkie-talkie from his jacket pocket.

Strom was a big man, and he walked aggressively, as if there were people determined to get in his way and he was equally determined that they weren't going to succeed. Apart from the walk, the only thing distinctive about him was his hair, which was white on the sides and dark on top. On someone twenty years younger, it might have been a fashion statement, but in Strom's case it was a genetic quirk that showed up in his family every other generation or so. Being conspicuous was a bad thing in his line of work, but some perverse pride kept him from dyeing it a uniform color. Most of the people who learned what he did for a living didn't usually get much time to ponder his appearance, anyway.

Strom held the device to his ear, his big paw covering it to muffle what might come through the earpiece, and pushed the "Talk" button.

"Lee." He made his rough voice as soft as he could.

Another voice, male and a little higher than Strom's, came back almost instantly. "Yeah."

"She's heading toward the baggage claim. And she's got some guy with her."

After a moment, the voice came back. "Cop?"

"Hard to say. He's too well-dressed for CPD. Could be federal, maybe."

"Shit."

"Yeah, I know."

"Well, you weren't gonna burn her in there, anyway. Too many eyes." Another pause. "What you gonna do?"

"If he's a Fed, he won't be alone. He'll have somebody in a car waiting. I'm gonna hang back, see where they go once they pick up her bag. Stay loose, kid."

"Gotcha, Charlie."

"And be ready to move
—fast."

There is an elegant, expensive apartment building in Philadelphia's Main Line area. It boasts state-of-the-art security
—and, unlike many
such places, the boast is justified. This is why Hannah Widmark lives there. It is vital to her that her dwelling space, and its contents, be protected while she is away. When she is at home, of course, no extra protection is necessary.

In contrast to the building's ritzy façade, Hannah's apartment is stark, even Spartan. Her bed is a mattress on the floor. Her desk, which is also where she takes her meals, is a card table, with a folding metal chair behind it. There is no television, radio, or any other form of entertainment to be found there.

Despite the general sparseness, there are two areas of the apartment where money has been spent generously. One is the large steel gun case, with its electronic lock that requires a nine-digit pass code to operate. This impregnable armoire contains firearms and ammunition, laser sights and illegal sound suppressors. It also holds a number of other objects and devices not immediately recognizable as weapons
—but they are.