House Infernal by Edward Lee (28 page)

"Well this most certainly is a surprise," Mrs. Newlwyn
enthused. She and Betta scurried for place settings and
broiler pans.

"Yeah, the TV dinners weren't exactly cutting it for
me," Dan added while he and Venetia arranged everything in the freezer.

Driscoll smiled sarcastically. "Come on, Dan. A
Catholic trooper like you?"

"Let's just say that I dig the fact that Venetia's father
isn't as tight as the New Hampshire Diocese."

"I'm glad you dig that fact, Dan. And thank you for volunteering to dig the flower beds tomorrow."

Dan glared over his shoulder. "When did I volunteer
for that, Father?"

"Why, just now, of course. You'll make a fine priest ...
someday."

Venetia smiled at their banter. But she also found herself wondering if she was getting paranoid, especially after noticing Captain Berns taking strained glances at her
earlier. Maybe it was just incidental, she thought, and Dan, too. She thought she'd caught him taking similar glances
several times, but now he didn't seem to. I'm either paranoid or just a little too high on myself.

John was setting the table for everyone, and Venetia was
sure he was eyeing Betta quite a bit more than incidentally.

Or maybe I'm just jealous of Betta's body, she joked to herself. I wonder if she'll be making another rendezvous with John
tonight....

Venetia got her mind off these trivial things. "Dan, I
was wondering-maybe we should've mentioned to Captain Berns about the names we found beneath the plaster
today"

Now Dan cast an awkward glance at Betta while she
stooped to get a pan out of a lower cabinet.

How do you like that guy! Venetia thought.

"Yeah, that's a good point," he answered. "The murders
took place here, and Berns is confident that the suspects
are part of a Satanic cult."

"Did he really say that?" Driscoll asked.

Both Mrs. Newlwyn and Betta stared at Dan.

"Sure did, but he doesn't think its a very serious endeavor-"

"Not like the thing Amano Tessorio was into," Venetia
added.

Driscoll gave a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

"Judging at least by what you told me, Tessorio was a
genuine hard-core Satanist, rebelling against the Church
in secret."

"These rednecks who did the murders," Dan said, "are
just lowlifes in a fake cult, delusional, a follow-the-leader
kind of thing."

"Let's hope so," Driscoll replied. "But I've got to tell
you-the whole business, I mean, this police officer I've
never heard of coming here..."

"And wanting to talk to you," Dan prodded.

"Oh, I look forward to talking to him and hearing what
he has to say about these arrests-the Diocese will definitely want to know. But ... where was I when he came?"

"Golfing." Dan frowned.

"I used to golf," John unexpectedly commented. "But
just ... the miniature kind."

'"That's probably what Father Driscoll was doing, too,"
"
Dan said, "and just isn't telling anyone. He wants us to
think he's Tiger Woods."

"Oh, Dan, please. You're more than welcome to join us
next time we tee up, but I have to warn you, we play for
ten bucks a hole. That's a bit out of your league, isn't it?"

"Not interested," Dan said. 'Setting's a sin."

These two really are a riot, Venetia thought, but a minute
later she was almost offended when Betta dropped a pot
on the floor. This time she stooped so severely, her cotton
panties became all too apparent, and Dan, John, and even
Father Driscoll all took a long look. Would you look at these
sexist pigs! Venetia thought.

Just then her cell phone rang. "It's my mother. Be right
back." She slipped out to the atrium.

"Hi, Mom. Did you-"

"I hope you all enjoy the steak and seafood."

"Believe me, Mom. It's all much appreciated. Please
thank Dad for us. But did you-"

"I'm finished with those searches you wanted."

Venetia felt very confident. "Nothing, I'll bet."

"Oh, no. It was very interesting."

Venetia's throat went dry. "You mean these people really exist?"

"Existed, honey," her mother corrected. "But I still don't
understand why you're interested in-"

"Mom, please! What did you find?"

"Father Thomas Alexander. He became a priest after returning from several combat tours in Vietnam-he even
won some medals. He wrote several books about the
modem clergy, and evidently he was quite a respected
counselor for the Richmond and New Jersey Dioceses. At
his last post, he was the special assistant to the chancellor
of the Richmond Diocesan Pastoral Center-some kind of
a big wheel, I guess."

Venetia could barely talk. "And he's ... dead?"

"Yes, dear, he died of a heart attack in Russell County that's southern Virginia-twelve years ago. He was fortyfive years old."

A fog seemed to swirl about Venetia's mind. Impossible.
I know I'd never heard of him before, or that other person....
"What about the other person, Mom. Ruth-"

"Ruth Bridges."

"Was she a nun?"

Maxine Barlow laughed. "Hardly. There were a lot of
court dockets and arrest notices on her. She'd been arrested a number of times in four different states for prostitution, drug possession, check-kiting, and the like.
That's why this whole thing is so strange, honey. Why
would you have me search for information about a priest
and a prostitute?"

Venetia began to feel sicker and sicker. "Never mind
that, Mom. She's dead too, I take it."

"Oh, yes, I've got her obituary right here from the St.
Petersburg Times. Ruth Bridges died of unspecified causes
at a place in central Florida called Fort De Soto Park. She
was thirty-nine years old. There's even a picture here.
She's blond and pretty but ... well, pretty in a trashy sort
of way."

Venetia felt a sharp headache coming on. "When did
she die, Mom?"

"Two days ago."

At least I don't have to carry his ass around on my back anymore, Ruth thought.

The priest walked with confidence now, on two stout,
muscular Usher legs, and the right arm, which came from
the same species, flexed awesomely beneath the tacky
gray-brown skin. It was the left arm that was the problem:
a jointless hose of pink meat.

"Look, man, I'm sorry about the arm. I did the best I
could."

"It'll be all right," the priest replied. His splotched,
three-toed feet with claws left nicks in the cement with
each step. "And I guess I should be happy with this." He
shot a quick pose with the right arm, eyeing a bicep the
size of a melon.

"What a stud. How about the other arm? Can you control it?"

"It takes concentration to fire the proper nerves," he told
her. "Anneloks have a different kind of central nervous
system-remember, they're just man-shaped worms." He slit his eyes, seemed to focus on a thought, and then the
long tube reached straight up into the air.

"That's not bad!" Ruth exclaimed.

He looked embarrassed. "I was trying to scratch my
chin. But if I keep practicing, I think the Annelok arm
may come in useful. I've seen them crack stone pillars just
by wrapping an arm around it."

Ruth's gaze scanned the dark street. "I'm glad we're
not in that shit-town place anymore-"

"Sewageton," the priest corrected. "We're in a subdivision now. We won't be going to the next chartered District
until tomorrow."

"So what are we doing now?"

"Making a pickup."

More pavement-made of crushed bones-stretched
down the long street. Streetlamps on every corner glowed
scarlet.

"Here we are." Alexander's monstrous legs strode sure
as machinery when he stepped into a transomed entrance. "Keep your fingers crossed."

The transom read THE BTK MOTEL.

At the front desk, a Human woman with a halved face
looked up. She had roofing nails in place of teeth.

"I'd like to rent Room thirteen, if possible," Alexander
said. "I like lucky numbers."

The woman nodded and whatever she said came out
garbled from her split jaw. When she gave the priest the
key, Ruth noticed that all of the fingers on both of her
hands had been whittled free of flesh.

"Why Room thirteen?" Ruth asked, following him up a
spiral staircase.

Alexander whispered, "To pick up something that's
been left for us."

"By who?" Then she reflected. "Oh, this intelligence
source."

The priest nodded.

On the landing a female Troll with a cleaning cart was
picking up chopped body parts. "Kids these days," she
complained. "They get into such mischief."

Ruth frowned at the pointed tail hanging from her
skirt.

"This is the Mengele Suite." Alexander unlocked the
door and showed her in. "Nicest room in the motel."

Ruth switched on a Femur-Lamp and immediately
looked appalled. "This is the nicest room?"

Bloody bandages comprised the wallpaper. The dresser
was a pocked metal cabinet like something she'd expect
in a doctor's office, and in the drawers were surgical instruments caked with blood. The bed was a mattress lain
atop an operating table fitted with leg- and wrist-cuffs. In
the opposite comer sat an iron chair with similar cuffs,
and a coal bed beneath the seat.

Alexander's huge feet thumped in. "It's named for
Josef Mengele. He was a Nazi doctor who experimented
on captives. He'd regularly perform surgeries without using anesthetic, particularly brain surgery. The pricier
rooms in any motel will always have a special motif to
drive the rates up."

"Is that shade-"

"Human skin? Of course." Alexander raised the window shade and looked out. "So are the lamp shades. The
mattress filling is hair, and see that curtain of beads?"

Ruth saw the strings of beads adorning the doorway to
the bathroom, but the beads were teeth.

Fuck that shit, man....

"If you think this is bad, you should see the Ivan the
Terrible Suite at the Hilton."

Ruth groaned when she looked out the window. On the
street two Broodren were dragging innards out of an old
woman with a shopping cart, cackling like monkeys. When
a Caco-Bat flew by, it looked right at Ruth and smiled.

"What are you doing?" she squealed when she saw the
priest standing on the bed. The fist on his Usher's hand
was almost as big as a bowling ball-

Thunk!

He punched a hole the size of a sewer lid in the ceiling.

"Who do you think you are, Van Halen?" Ruth gaped
at the hole. "You can't trash the room! We'll get busted."

"Don't worry about it, Ruth. We'll be long gone before
anyone finds out." The snakelike Annelok arm pointed at
her and then curled inward. "Come up here, I need your
help."

Ruth climbed uneasily onto the bed. Her eyes bulged
when he grabbed her hips and raised her head and shoulders up into the hole.

"Hey! What am I-" Her head felt swallowed by darkness. "I can't see shit, man! Bring me down!"

"Light one of the matches you got at the convenience
store and look around. We're looking for a pack of Hectographs."

Ruth railed. "How the fuck am I supposed to know
what that is?"

"It's like a deck of cards. Stop complaining for a change
and do it."

Pain in my ass. She pulled out the pack of matches, lit
one-

And screamed.

When the match light flared, she was looking at a severed
head lying on its side. It was a man, and he was smiling.

"Hey there," the head said.

"Holy shit!" she screamed down to Alexander. "Let me
down!"

"Oh, sounds like you found a Talker, huh? I know it's a
little unnerving at first-"

"Unnerving? There's a head cut off up here and it's talking to me!"

"Wow, you're really pretty," the head told her. "My
name's Pete. What's yours? Let's go out sometime."

"Let me down!" she shouted again to the priest. "The
head's name is Pete and it's asking me out!"

"Ruth, animated severed heads are all over the place in
Hell. They're like tumbleweeds in the West. Now, be nice
to the head and ask it where the Hectographs are."

Be nice ... to the head?

"Oh, I know what you're looking for," the head named
Pete told her. "Some Contumacy guys were up here a few
days ago."

"So where are these Hecto-things?" she asked, trying
not to look directly at it.

"Show me your breasts and I'll tell you."

She stared. "Fuck you! I'm not showing my boobs to a
head!"

Alexander groaned below. "Ruth, just do it. You used
to do it in Florida every night for free drinks. What's the
difference?"

Ruth sighed at the question.

"Come on," the head asked. "Please?"

Ruth pulled up her top for a few seconds, then put it
back down. 'There, now you've seen them. So where're
these things?"

The head grinned. "Give me a kiss and I'll tell you."

You fucker! Ruth grabbed the sulphur pistol and-

Bam!

The head burst to bits.

I hate it when guys lie to me.

Alexander's voice grew weary. "Ruth, can you find the
Hectographs?"

"Oh, here they are." She reached out. "T'hey were right
behind the head the whole fuckin' time."

Alexander lowered her back down.

"If you can't control your awful language, Ruth, at least
try to control your temper. We could've used that head for
more information."

"Fuck the head! And I got your damn Hecto-whatevers,
so stop bitching at me!"

The operating table bowed when Alexander sat on its
edge next to Ruth. "Hectographs, Ruth. Hell's version of
photography. Here, they use gold nitrate instead of silver
nitrate and tin salt instead of silver salt."

"Oh, pictures. Like from the drugstore!"

Alexander nodded, and rubbed his temples with the
huge hand.

"So this intelligence source of yours who you won't tell
me anything about ... she stashed this here for us?"