Quincey Morris, Supernatural Investigation: Evil Ways Part 23

"He pretty much has to, Dale. He'll probably ask us to sign a waiver of some kind, but then he'll do it. It's no skin off his nose, anyway."

"Yeah okay, you're probably right. Look, once you're in there, I'll talk to the guard like we planned, try to keep him occupied, but if somebody insists on getting in that room that I can't keep out..."

"Argue with them. Loudly, and for as long as you can. That'll give me a warning and buy me some time, as well."

"I'll do my best, but you may not have long to, uh, you know, get dressed."

"I won't have a lot of dressing to do-no way I'm getting naked for this chump."

"Then, how, uh..."

She laughed, a little. "Stay as sweet as you are, Dale. Look, if I wear a skirt like this one, official business and all, bare legs are a no-no. I've gotta wear pantyhose underneath it, right?"

"Yeah I guess. Never thought about that. But I can see you've got 'em on now."

"No you can't, 'cause I don't."

"Huh?"

"Remember that stop we made at Rite-Aid last night, after dinner? I said I needed to pick up a few things, and you wandered off to look at the paperbacks."

"Yeah, I didn't want to follow you around, figured you were buying some kind of... female stuff."

"You're right, I was. I bought two things. Well three, if you count the pack of Juicy Fruit. I picked up a tube of KY Jelly, and I hope you're not going to ask me what for."

"No, ma'am, I am not."

"Good. Well, the other thing I picked up was a set of nylon thigh-highs. That's what I've got on now. No pantyhose."

"I see."

"No panties, either. That's why I won't have much dressing to do, afterward."

"Uh, Colleen...?"

"Too much information?"

"f.u.c.kin' A."

"I can't believe that I didn't notice that the full moon occurs during Walpurgis Night this year," Libby said. "If nothing else, the Sisterhood should have caught it."

"Maybe they did," Frank said. "Could be that's why some of them have been killed, and you almost were, Libby."

"It's like a perfect storm of the occult," Morris said gloomily. "Either one of those alone can be bad-I mean, werewolves transform under the full moon for a reason, and murder rates go up, worldwide-but on Walpurgis Night..."

"Yeah, I hear you," Frank said. "The Witch's Sabbath." Frank reached for the pack of Lucky Strikes. "Feasting, dancing, initiations, and a whole lot of crazy s.e.x, topped off by a visit from Old Nick himself." Lighting up his smoke, he dropped the spent match into the ashtray, which was starting to get pretty full. "At least, that's the legend."

"You believe that last part?" Morris asked. "About Satan showing up?"

"No, I don't." Frank said. "Most of the authoritative writings say that Satan doesn't come to this plane of existence. Minor demons, sure. They'll show up, if invoked properly. Even major players like Lucifuge Rofocale or Baal sometimes, if you know how to call them, and you're willing to take the risk. But the big guy?" Frank shook his head. "He doesn't visit, even on holidays. Which is probably just as well."

"Why's that?" Hannah asked. Although saying little, she appeared to have been following the conversation closely.

"If Satan were ever brought to Earth," Frank said, "who would have the power to send him back?"

The others contemplated that in silence for a while, until Morris said, "Were you just pointing out this confluence of events as an interesting phenomenon, Frank, or do you know anything specific?"

"I've heard something," Frank said, "although it's not real specific. But an event's been planned for Walpurgis Night this year, some kind of big deal, and it's supposed to take place in North America. There have been stirrings for months among people who follow the Left-Hand Path. n.o.body seems to know much, but all of them have heard something, it seems like. And, most likely, those who know the most have the least to say."

"I'm afraid that doesn't really help us too much Frank," Libby said.

"Well, there is one name that's cropped up a couple of times in different places. I don't know if it means anything, or even if it refers to a real person. Any of you guys ever hear of somebody called Pardee?"

Libby Chastain gave a little gasp, but the loudest response to Frank's uttering of that name was the sound made when Hannah Widmark's still-full beer gla.s.s. .h.i.t the floor behind the bar and shattered into a million pieces.

Hannah thinks all the fuss over this Y2K business is a lot of nonsense, hyped either by hucksters with something to sell, or the kinds of professional doomsayers who are forever seeing the Apocalypse around the next corner. But Martin is a little concerned, especially about the computers.

"The world's run by computers these days, honey, and the people who programmed 'em didn't think ahead to the turn of the millennium. Computers, when you get down to it, are just big dumb adding machines, and if they don't know what number comes after 1999, they might just shut down."

"But haven't the people who program these things been working on the changeover for years?" Hannah asks. She's just making conversation, really. Having the family spend New Year's Eve at their cabin in the hills sounded like a fine idea to her-a nice change from the boozy parties that their friends throw and expect the Widmarks to attend. This year, they have an excuse that might amuse a few, but would offend n.o.body.

"Some have been working on it, yeah, but others didn't start taking it seriously until this year, and that just might be too late. Several of my clients have been very concerned."

As a patent attorney, Martin spends a lot of his time with inventor types, some of whom might charitably be called "eccentric," or, less charitably, "a little nuts." Martin is a good husband, a great father, and Hannah loves him utterly. A little paranoia once in a while is a small price to pay for the life they have made, together with their two children.

Marshall and Jennifer are actually quite excited about the departure from mid-winter routine. And Hannah has promised they can stay up this year and listen to the Big Moment on the radio she is bringing to the otherwise low-tech cabin-always a.s.suming the two of them can manage to remain awake that far past their usual bedtime.

Which is how the Widmark family finds itself spending the turn of the year/century/millennium in their isolated cabin. It is the last New Year's they will ever have together.

At a little past 11:00pm, Hannah is readying some popcorn for the kids to heat over the wood-burning stove, when the front door of the cabin, reinforced to keep the bears out, and double-locked besides, bursts open with a terrific crash.

As parents and children stare open-mouthed at the empty doorway, three men stride through it and into the cabin. Two are dressed in ordinary winter clothing, and there is little remarkable about them.

The third man, however, would be remarkable anywhere. He is tall and very thin, head shaved, wearing a rough robe of the kind she a.s.sociates with monks and friars.

Brave, foolish Mark does his best to defend his family. There are no firearms in the cabin-out of deference to Hannah, who hates guns- so Mark grabs up the axe they use to chop wood and charges at the man in the robe, who is clearly the leader of the invaders.

Mark has barely taken two quick paces when the robed man points his left index finger at him and shouts a single word in a language that Hannah has never heard before. Poor Mark drops like a steer in a slaughterhouse, the autopsy later revealing that his heart has simply burst within his chest.

Her husband is dead and her children are screaming in terror and Hannah Widmark, who has never in her life hurt anything bigger than a spider, and that only reluctantly, screeches like a banshee and attacks her husband's murderer with her bare hands.

She half expects to be struck dead like poor, dear Mark, but the man lets her reach him, only to sidestep her rush, then grab her around the throat with a grip like a steel trap.

"Sorry for the intrusion," he says, like a party guest apologizing for dropping an hors d'oeuvre on the rug. "But I have need of these two brats of yours. This is a most propitious night for a little celebration of my own devising."

He lifts her off her feet with strength no one his size should possess. Looking into Hannah's face with little interest, he tells her, "My name is Pardee. I just thought you'd like to know."

Then the sensation of flying through the air that seems to last forever until she crashes into the woodpile, and she vaguely feels something slash her face on one side before the world, blessedly, goes dark.

Hannah returns to consciousness to find other men on the cabin, two of whom wear paramedic uniforms and are gently lifting her onto a stretcher. She feels a thick gauze bandage tight on one side of her face. "Don't try to move, please, ma'am," one of them says. "The way you were lying, we thought at first your neck was broken. It's not, but we won't know what kind of damage you're got until you're X-rayed at the hospital. Please, just lie still, now."

Another man, this one in a State Trooper's uniform, kneels beside the stretcher. "Take it easy, ma'am. You're in good hands, now. Looks like you had some luck." He glances around the ruin of the cabin, which includes the sheet-covered form over near the fireplace. "And I guess you were due. Couple of guys from town decided they'd rather hunt this morning than nurse their hangovers. They pa.s.sed by your place here, and noticed that the front door was gone. Came in, saw... everything, and one of 'em called 911 on his cell. Otherwise, you could've been here for Christ knows how long."

"Trooper, we've got to get her out of here," one of the paramedics says.

"I know, I know. Just give me a second."

He brings his face close to Hannah's. His breath, she thinks crazily, smells like bratwurst.

"Ma'am, I won't keep you from the ambulance, but can you tell me anything about who did this to... your family?"

When Hannah speaks, her voice is little more than a croak. "Some men came. One was dressed like a monk, said his name was... can't remember. He said, he said... oh my G.o.d, where are the children? Marsh, Jen, where are they? Are they all right?"

"There'll be officers at the hospital who can talk to you about that, Mrs. Widmark." Suddenly, the trooper is no longer looking her in the face. "They'll have a lot more information than I do. Try not to worry about it right now."

Then the paramedics lift Hannah's stretcher, and carry her out. They must be rattled by what they have seen behind the cabin, because they have neglected to fasten the restraining straps that are used to keep patients from falling out of the stretcher. That is why, when she hears a man's voice from behind the cabin call, "Hey, Sarge, can we cut 'em down, now?" Hannah gasps and instantly rolls out of the stretcher before the paramedics can stop her. One of them makes a grab for her and misses, and then Hannah is sprinting toward the corner of the cabin, coming face-to- face with a young trooper, his face ashen, who has just rounded the corner from the other direction. His eyes widen at the sight of her, and he says, almost desperately, 'Ma'am, ma'am, no, you don't wanna go back there! Ma'am!" He reaches for her.

Hannah, who played basketball all through college and even made Second Team All-American, instinctively fakes left and goes right. The trooper falls for the fake and in an instant Hannah is past him and tearing around the corner of the cabin and she runs three more steps then slows, then stops dead. Other troopers immediately surround her, but before one of them can cover her face with his Smoky the Bear hat, Hannah sees what has been left there behind the cabin after the bald man and his minions were finished. She sees... everything.

Hannah Widmark is still screaming when they finally get her loaded into the ambulance, and the paramedics have to hit her with two injections of Thorazine, right into the vein, before she finally stops.

Frank contemplated the mess on his floor, then looked up at the woman in black. "Are you okay, Hannah?"

"Sure," she said. "I was just getting up to go to the John, and I forgot the gla.s.s was there. Sorry about the mess, Frank."

"No big deal, don't sweat it," Frank said, and went off to get a mop.

Morris studied Hannah's face. "Did that name, Pardee, mean anything to you?"

"Nope, never heard it before. Excuse me, folks. Hannah's gotta go pee."

After Hannah had left for the ladies' room, Morris watched Frank mop the floor for a while.

"She says she never heard the name Pardee before, Frank. You believe that?"

"Sure, I do," Frank said, with a shrug. "But then, I believe in the Easter Bunny and the Great Pumpkin, and I always set out milk and cookies for the fat guy on Christmas Eve."

Morris nodded his agreement with Frank's skepticism, then looked at Libby. "Seemed like it rang a bell with you, Libby."

"Yes it did. And, unlike Hannah, I'm not disposed to lie about it."

When Libby did not continue, Morris said, "Care to share it with us?"

"Sure, but I might as well wait until Hannah gets back. What I have to tell isn't all that big a deal, but maybe it will jog her memory, a little."

Morris turned to Frank, who had just finished putting the mop away. "I don't know where this whole mess is going to lead, Frank, but it looks like we could use all the help we can get. You seem like a fella who knows a lot about the kind of thing we're dealing with here. Care to saddle up and ride with us? I'm pretty sure I can squeeze some money out of the FBI for you. If not, I'll pay you out of my own pocket."

From a nearby tap, Frank drew a gla.s.s of what looked like soda water, and drained half of it in two or three gulps. He looked from Morris to Libby and back again before he spoke.

"I used to work with some people, about ten years ago, who were worried that the turn of the millennium was going to cause all the supernatural s.h.i.+t to hit the fan. You may have noticed that it didn't, and I like to think our group had something to do with that, before the whole organization went to s.h.i.+t. But that was then." Frank sipped the remaining soda water.

"I live a pretty quiet life these days," he said. "Sure, I keep my eyes and ears open, and since I know a lot of people, I sometimes stumble across information that's useful in the struggle-which continues, as you folks well know. If I come across something interesting, I pa.s.s it on to somebody else, who might know somebody who can do something about it. But beyond that..." Frank shook his head slowly. "My daughter Jordan's in college now. I'm the only family she's got left- her mother died quite a few years ago. She's all I really care about anymore."

"Where does she go?" Libby asked. "To college, I mean."

Frank looked at her for a long moment before saying, "Someplace a long way from here. We don't see each other all that much, but we talk on the phone and exchange email all the time."

"If you guys get along so well," Morris said, "how come you don't see each other more often? Air travel makes it pretty easy, these days."

"I go and visit her once in a while," Frank said. "But I've asked her not to come here. I don't want her close by, in case something catches up with me one day, looking to settle an old score."

Libby frowned at him. "In case something catches up with you? Don't you mean someone?"

Frank gave her a sad-looking, lopsided smile. "Do I?"

The three were silent for a little while. Frank went off to check on his other customers. When he came back, Hannah had returned to her seat at the bar. Morris turned to Libby and said, "Now that we're all together again, why don't you tell us about your encounter with the mysterious Pardee."

"All right," Libby said. "It was about nine years ago. He's considerably more powerful now than he was back then. Or so I hear."

"I really wish my parents would stop interfering with my life," the young woman says. "I'm twenty-six, which means I'm old enough to make my own decisions. And I'm afraid they've sent you on a fool's errand, Miss... I'm sorry, I'm terrible with names."

"Chastain. Elizabeth Chastain. But my friends call me Libby."

"No offense, Miss Chastain, but I don't think you and I are likely to become friends."

Gabrielle Stafford turns her back on Libby, ostensibly to enjoy the magnificent view of Lake Michigan afforded by her condo's immense living room window. Although her tone is dismissive, Libby notices that she hasn't buzzed for someone to show Libby out (a term the rich use when they have one of their flunkies throw you out on your a.s.s). There are conflicting impulses at work here, Libby thinks. Good. At least she is not completely in the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's thrall-yet.

"Your parents aren't trying to interfere," Libby says. "But they're very concerned that you may have given your trust and affection to someone who... might not have your best interests at heart."

Gabrielle turns back from the window and gives Libby a withering look. "You don't need to be tactful, Miss Chastain. I know they think Lewis is only after my money, they've made that abundantly clear. As if I haven't had enough experience with gold diggers to tell the difference. No, Miss Chastain, Lewis loves me, and I love him. Very, very much. Tell my parents that. They won't take my word for it, G.o.d knows. Maybe they'll believe it if it comes from one of their... employees."

Libby ignored the snub. "I'm only working for your parents as a consultant, Miss Stafford. They're kind of concerned, because you've given a great deal of money to Mister Pardee over the last four months. That's your right, of course. Your grandmother left it to you, I understand, to do with as you wish."

"That's right, she did! And if I choose to share it with the man I love, that's my business, and none of their own. And certainly not their consultant's."

"Of course," Libby says. "As you say, it's your own money. But your folks are also concerned that your fiance has involved you in a lifestyle that may be, um, unhealthy."

"Oh, for s.h.i.+t's sake, is that what this is about? The week Lewis and I spent at Decadence, in Jamaica? It's a beautiful, exclusive resort, all the best people vacation there." She slowly looked Libby up and down. "I don't imagine you've been there, yourself?"

All right, relax, Libby tells herself. It's not her fault, not really. Of course, being in thrall to a black wizard doesn't preclude the possibility that you might also be a b.i.t.c.h.

"Since you've relieved me of the burden of tact, Miss Stafford, let's call it what it is. Decadence is a s.e.x club for what used to be called the jet set. Quite notorious in some circles."

"Our s.e.x life is our business. And if Lewis and I choose to invite others to share in it occasionally..." She waved a dismissive hand.

"Uh-huh. You got whacked on a combination of booze, pills, and c.o.ke and then let yourself get g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ged. Three men at once, one for each hole. A number of other people watched the show, including your fiance, Lewis." Libby just shakes her head. "And somebody in the audience, or maybe one of the employees, took pictures."

"I thought that was all taken care of," she says, sounding more like a whiny adolescent than a supposedly mature woman. Hearing Libby describe her activities so bluntly seems to have rattled her. "My parents paid off that terrible person before he could post those... pictures on the Internet."