Quincey Morris, Supernatural Investigation: Evil Ways Part 22

"Interesting," Colleen said. "But, to get into one of those private interrogation rooms, as opposed to a public visiting area, you've either got to have a law enforcement ID, or pa.s.s a federal background check. What do you suppose will happen when they run your hypothetical working girl's prints?"

"Jesus, Colleen, your way, there's about a zillion things that can go wrong. And the worst one, and I mean this, is the effect it's going to have on you. You're not a working girl, Colleen. Or a p.o.r.n star. Having s.e.x with a stranger just because you want something from him... that's gonna change you, inside where it really counts. It's not worth it."

"It just might do that," she said. "If I were really there."

"Say what?"

"I've studied Zen meditation techniques most of my adult life, Dale. I know all kinds of ways to manipulate my consciousness. Mentally, I'll hardly be there at all. I'll keep just enough Mind focused on the here and now to do what has to be done." She gave him a lopsided smile. "It won't require very much, trust me. And an hour later, it'll be like a dim memory of something that happened to somebody I used to know a long time ago. I'll be all right."

"Colleen, Jesus, you can't just-"

"Dale, I want you to do something for me."

His face became wary. "What?"

"Open up your laptop."

He gave her a suspicious look, but went over to the closet shelf where he had stored his computer, took it down, and returned with it to his seat.

He opened it up and said, "Okay, now what?"

"Access the NCIC database."

A couple of minutes went by before he said, "Okay, I'm in."

"Now go to 'Reports of Crimes by Local Jurisdictions,' or whatever it's called."

"Yeah, that's what they call it. Okay."

"For timeframe, choose 'Prior forty-eight hours.'"

"Got it. Colleen-"

"You're indulging me, remember? Select category 'Homicide.'"

"Done."

"Sort by 'Age of Victim.'"

"Okay."

"Select 'Juvenile.'"

"Colleen come on, you don't have to-"

"Are you going to work with me, or not, Dale?"

"Yeah, yeah, all right. 'Juvenile.' Got it."

"Eliminate 'Gang-Related.'"

"Done."

"Eliminate 'Domestic Abuse.'"

"Done."

"How many does that leave?"

"Um, twenty-four."

"Cross-reference with 'Abduction.'"

"Got it."

"How many now?"

"Eight."

"Ante-mortem removal of bodily organs would be cla.s.sified under 'Torture,' wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Cross-reference with 'Torture.'"

"Done. Before you ask-three. Three cases."

"Give the case summaries a quick scan. You know what to look for."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

When he finally looked up from the keyboard, his face told her what she wanted to know.

"Remember the term they used to use in the Con. Law cla.s.s at Quantico, Dale? Res ipsa loquitur?"

"'The thing speaks for itself.' Yeah, I remember."

There was silence in the room then. They could hear the growl of rush hour traffic in the street below.

Finally, Fenton said, in a near monotone, "We are gonna lose our jobs over this, you know."

"Only if we get caught, Dale. Only if we get caught."

"All right, let me start by telling you what I don't know," Frank said, "and that covers a lot of territory. First of all, I have no idea who's behind the organized murder and mutilation of these poor kids- although I wish I did." As he said those last few words, something changed in Frank's face. It was nothing dramatic, but it might suggest to you, if you knew what to look for, that Frank had not always been the owner of a sleepy little bar in Cleveland, Ohio. Quincey Morris knew what to look for. It told him that Frank had once been, and might still be, someone you really don't want to get on the bad side of.

"And I'm afraid I don't know who's trying to kill you, Libby, or why." Frank took another long drag of his cigarette, and his face had resumed its normal, melancholy expression. "But I have heard a few bits and pieces that might bear on your problem-both aspects of it." He looked directly at Libby. "Have you considered that you may not be the only one who's being targeted? Could be, you know, they're after you not because of who you are, but what you are."

Libby seemed to think about that, then shook her head in puzzlement. "I'm not following you, Frank, sorry. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night, what with one thing and another, and I'm probably not as sharp as I should be."

"It's my fault for being cryptic, Libby," Frank said. "What I'm getting at is, I've heard that two white witches have been murdered over the last ten days or so. Maybe you were intended to be number three."

Libby's face lost a lot of its color, in a hurry. "Who? Did you get names? Who died, Frank?"

"I never heard any names, Libby, sorry. One was in Cincinnati, I know that... the other one was someplace out west-Oregon, or maybe Was.h.i.+ngton."

Libby drained the remains of her vodka in one gulp. "Do you think I could have another one of these, Frank? I'm happy to pay for it."

Frank took her empty and returned shortly with another frosted gla.s.s. "No charge, Libby. Consider it medicinal, and don't worry about it. I'm tight with the owner."

Libby didn't touch her fresh drink immediately. "I can't think of any Sisters who live in Cinci." She spoke softly, almost as if talking to herself. "We don't all know each other, of course. It's not like we have yearly conventions, or anything. "She took a sip of vodka before saying, "I do know two or three who live in the Pacific Northwest, but that covers a lot of territory, so..." She looked at Frank and said, "As it happens, the Sisterhood is having a kind of... conference call tonight. I'll be sure to give them the news, and hear what they have to say."

Morris leaned forward and, talking past Hannah said, "Have you considered that 'as it happens,' may not be the case at all, Libby? What if the reason for the confab is to discuss the fact that somebody is apparently having members of the Circle murdered?"

Libby nodded slowly, her face pinched with worry. "Quite right, I hadn't considered that. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I'm sure that's exactly the reason for the 'confab,' as you call it, Quincey."

Hannah glanced at Libby, than said to Frank, "Why would someone want to kill white witches? They don't hurt people-they can't. It's part of their code."

Frank stubbed out the b.u.t.t he was holding and sent it to join the others. "Just because they don't make voodoo dolls, or something, doesn't mean they can't make enemies. Way I hear it, Libby's sisters often tangle with those who follow the Left-Hand Path-getting in their way, and so forth. So revenge isn't out of the question."

Frank had the deck of Luckies in his hands and was absently tapping another cigarette out when he said, "Maybe it's not even revenge, but-what's that word-preemption?"

"Stopping the Sisterhood from doing something?" Morris shook his head. "I don't know Frank, that sounds like a bit of a stretch."

Frank got his cigarette going and said, "Maybe it is. But there's something else that may be a relevant factor." He looked at each of them, in turn, before saying, "Can I a.s.sume that everybody here knows what the thirtieth of this month is-after sundown, anyway?

Morris and Libby said, almost together, "Walpurgis Night," and Hannah nodded.

"Walpurgis Night comes around every year, Frank," Morris said. "Sometimes bad stuff happens, but nothing catastrophic." He looked at Frank closely. "There's more to it, isn't there, podner?"

"Well, yeah. There is," Frank said, "especially if, like me, you keep track of the phases of the moon."

Libby was the first one to catch his meaning, and did a quick calculation in her head. "Oh, dear," she said. "Oh, goodness, gracious me."

Morris found his stomach tightening. Most people swore when they were angry or upset. Although Libby could toss obscenities around with the best of them, when she was really thrown by something, she would sometimes revert to an excessively dainty and refined mode of speech. Morris had never understood whether it was supposed to be some kind of ironic understatement, or simply something the Sisterhood had taught her.

Then his mind caught up with hers, and he suddenly knew the cause of her reaction. "The full moon,"he said. "It's going to be full during Walpurgis Night this year. Christ, that's the first time since..."

"The 1930s," Libby said, and her voice contained no emotion at all. "The year 1939, to be exact."

Pardee ground his teeth as he stared in frustration at the blank surface of the scrying pool. He should have located Chastain by now, especially since he knew where she had been as recently as twenty-four hours ago.

The b.i.t.c.h must be putting up some kind of a cloaking spell to frustrate his scrying. Defying him again.

Pardee's lips were pressed together in a thin, bloodless line. He had schooled himself long ago not to give vent to cursing, or any other overt expressions of anger, in his workroom. There were too many Powers close by, watching, waiting, eagerly hoping for an opportunity to pounce.

Well, perhaps in three days' time they would have their chance- but Pardee would not be their victim.

He tossed a lifeless ball of fur into the barrel he used for waste disposal. Chastain would relax her vigilance eventually. No one of her inferior status could keep up indefinitely the effort needed to keep him blind. She would weaken, and then Pardee would be ready to do some pouncing of his own.

He picked up his phone again. Jernigan being no fool, answered on the first ring. "I'm still in my workroom," Pardee said. "I'll meet you in the hall outside. Bring me another kitten. No, wait-bring all of them."

Chapter 19.

As he pulled into an empty slot in Visitors' Parking Lot C, Fenton said to Colleen, "You realize, if he tells you what we want to know before you come across, you could just laugh in his face and leave, and he couldn't do diddly-squat about it. And old Vince knows that, too. He's never gonna go first."

"I know that, Dale. He'll want to come first, instead."

"Jesus, Colleen..."

She touched his arm for a second. "I'm sorry, Dale. I don't mean to rub your nose in it. But try not to make more of this than it is, okay? I mean, I haven't got the track record of somebody like Jenna Jameson, but I'm not a sheltered virgin, either."

"A nice, Irish Catholic girl like you." Fenton seemed to be trying for a light touch, which he failed to achieve.

"A nice, Irish Catholic girl, who left home the day after high school graduation and never went back."

"Didn't get along with the parents, huh?"

"I wouldn't say that, exactly. I got along with Dad quite a bit better than I ever wanted to."

The silence that followed made her last utterance seem to hang in the air like an echo.

Finally Fenton managed, "Colleen, are you saying that your-"

Colleen O'Donnell opened her door, said "Come on, let's get this over with," and got out of the car.

As they walked toward the gate, Fenton tried again. "Colleen, look, what you were saying back in the-"

In an odd gesture, Colleen slipped her arm under his and held it there, as if Fenton were escorting her to the senior prom. "Leave it be, Dale. The past is dead, as they say, and I'm alive, and that's what's important. I was just trying to make the point that, although this is going to be unpleasant, so is cleaning toilets in a bus terminal. People do that, and I can do this, and I will not be emotionally or physically shattered when it's done. And if we get what we came for, that puts us a step ahead, the way I look at it."

"Yeah, okay, but what if you, uh, do the deed, and then he laughs in your face? That's just the kind of thing a b.a.s.t.a.r.d like him would do. If you're gonna put yourself through this, it shouldn't be for nothing."

"It won't be, Dale. Trust me. If he knows Pardee's whereabouts, and I believe he does, he'll tell me, and he'll tell the truth."

"How the h.e.l.l can you be so sure? You're not thinking of... doing something to him to get him to talk, are you? Because that's sure to leave traces-bruises, cuts, whatever-that he can-"

"Dale, I hate to keep interrupting you, but stop worrying. The only thing I'm going to do to him is what we've been arguing about since yesterday. Now, hush."

They were at the Official Visitors' Gate now. The guard on duty examined their ID, then called the main building, to make sure they were expected.

Once the gate guard sent them forward, and they were out of earshot, Fenton said, quietly, "I just hope the Deputy Warden buys into our little national security story and turns off the surveillance camera in that room."