Quincey Morris, Supernatural Investigation: Evil Ways Part 6

"It's like you said yourself, just because his tools are gone doesn't mean he's not dangerous. You want to spend the next couple of years looking over your shoulder? That a.s.sumes Fortner doesn't come for you sooner, of course."

The look that Morris turned on Fenton was one of pure hatred, but his voice was mild when he said, "I don't suppose calling you eight different kinds of motherf.u.c.ker would change anything, would it?"

"Nope," Fenton said. "But you go ahead, if it'll make you feel better."

Morris was considering doing just that when the knock sounded on his door.

He looked at Fenton. "You want to get that, or shall I?"

Fenton shrugged. "It's your room."

Morris went to the door and opened it. The woman standing in the hall had auburn hair, an upturned nose, and freckles, and she looked for all the world like a female leprechaun in a business suit-an effect that was spoiled when she flashed her credentials and said, "Special Agent Colleen O'Donnell, FBI. You would be Mister Morris?"

"The very same." Morris stepped back to allow her entrance. After closing the door, he looked at the woman more closely. "Sorry, but have we maybe met before? There's something... familiar about you."

She gave him a second, more careful look before saying, "I don't think so, Mister Morris," then turned to confer with her partner. Morris was watching her curiously, when suddenly it hit him. It wasn't Colleen O'Donnell herself who was familiar; it was the aura surrounding her. Morris had been trained to sensitivity in such things, and the vibe that the female agent gave off was the same one that Morris had sensed many times when in the company of Libby Chastain.

Fenton's partner was a white witch.

Morris closed the door on the two FBI agents, after making a reluctant promise to stay in touch. He hadn't said anything about recognizing Special Agent O'Donnell as a member of what Libby Chastain called The Sisterhood. Fenton hadn't given any indication that he knew, and if he didn't know, it wasn't Morris's business to tell him. Still, having a white witch as a partner would have its advantages, as Morris himself had reason to know.

His exertions of the night before had left him sweaty and a bit grimy. Morris needed a shower. Besides, he often did some of his best thinking under warm water.

A few minutes later, Morris was reaching for the shower tap when a female voice behind him said, "h.e.l.lo, Quincey."

He spun around, arms moving into the defensive posture that his sensei had taught him was best when you did not know the exact nature of the threat you were facing.

Libby Chastain was standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

Except it wasn't Libby, not quite. Morris found that he could see through her translucent form to the bedroom beyond. Morris put his arms down. He knew what Libby was doing; he had seen this manifestation before.

"This must be pretty important if you're using spirit transference to find me, Libby." He reached for a nearby bath towel. "Uh, you mind if I..."

"Not at all, please do." Libby's image smiled a little. "I'm sorry to show up at an, um, inopportune moment. This seems to be a day for having showers interrupted."

"What's wrong?" Morris finished tucking the towel around his waist.

"Some people tried to kill me a few hours ago. At home."

"My G.o.d! Are you, I mean, is your body..."

"I'm all right, apart from being frightened half to death." Libby briefly described the attack upon her, and what she had done about it.

"What about the bodies?" Morris asked. "You can't leave them there indefinitely, and the NYPD might not buy your explanation of events."

"Already gone. I worked a discorporation spell, then transported them to the East River, where they were materialized again. Now when water is found in their lungs, it won't seem surprising."

"If the bad guys, whoever they are, could break in once, they can do it again," Morris said. "You've got to get out of there, Libby."

"I already have. I checked into a hotel a little while ago. My corpus is lying on the bed while we talk. The door is triple-locked and warded, as well. It should be safe enough."

Morris ran a hand through his hair. "You know, you could have called, Libby. Saved yourself a lot of time and effort."

"I did, twice, and got your voicemail each time. I a.s.sume you haven't checked your messages for a while."

"No, sorry. It's been kind of a busy morning for me, too." Morris told her about the Fortner job, and his subsequent visit from the FBI.

Libby's expression, already sober, took on a grim cast. "Children. Again."

"Yeah, and this time it's some kind of coordinated effort. That, or somebody has figured out how to be in two places, physically, at the same time. I never heard of any magic, black or white, being able to accomplish that."

"Nor have I. It's probably impossible, even for an expert pract.i.tioner. I a.s.sume you're not interested in a technical explanation of why that's so."

"Maybe another time." Morris frowned. "Libby, something just occurred to me-if you checked into a hotel, you had to use a credit card, didn't you? Unless you're in one of those places near Times Square that rents by the hour, cash only."

"No, I didn't think I could blend in effectively in a no-tell hotel. It's not that trying to pa.s.s as a hooker would bother me, it's looking like a cheap hooker that I find demeaning."

"So you used a credit card. They can find you that way, Libby. Won't even need magic to do it-just the skills of a good private detective."

"Not to worry. I was able to... persuade the young man at the registration desk that there was no need to run my credit card imprint until I check out. It's against company policy, of course, but he found himself willing to make an exception, just this once."

"All right, so you're probably okay for a while. But if there's a black magician involved, they'll find you, in time. You can't stay there indefinitely."

"I know. Moving from hotel to hotel will buy some time, but it doesn't solve the basic problem. I need to know who's doing this, Quincey-and why. Although if I can determine the first, the second may well explain itself. But I'm not equipped to do this on my own. I need an investigator."

"You're probably right. But, like I told you, the FBI's got me in a vice, and they're squeezing pretty hard. Otherwise, I'd be on the next plane to NYC. Wait-have you considered our old buddy, Barry Love? This sounds like something that'd be right up his alley, or down his mean street, or whatever the expression is."

"I've already called him, and his answering service says he's out of the country, date of return unknown."

"Must be tracking down 'the weird s.h.i.+t' a long way from home. d.a.m.n it." Morris gave his reflection in the bathroom mirror a good, hard look. "All right, f.u.c.k the G.o.dd.a.m.n FBI. I'll be there tomorrow and we can-"

"No, Quincey, I don't want you taking that kind of chance just because you're helping me. Somebody like this Fortner could be a dangerous enemy."

"Yeah, tell me about it. I was in the guy's house, remember? But there's no way I'm letting you-"

"I've been thinking about that while we've been talking. Why don't I join you, in L.A. or wherever you're going next? It might get me out of range of whoever's after me, and even if it doesn't, I'd feel better with you to watch my back. a.s.suming you're willing to put yourself in jeopardy."

Morris grinned at her, or rather her manifestation. "Libby, for you I'd even put myself in Wheel of Fortune."

"Always the smarta.s.s. Anyway, I might be able to help you out with your case, so it's a win-win, seems to me."

"Yeah, me, too. Be just like old times. And once we get this business settled for Fenton, we can start actively finding out who's got it in for you, and then do something about it. Speaking of Fenton, I almost forgot to tell you: I met his partner, and she's one of your Sisters."

"Really? That's very interesting."

"Her name's Colleen O'Donnell, Irish as a pint of Guinness. Do you know her?"

"Name doesn't ring a bell, but then, we're not all acquainted, Quincey."

"Good point. I don't think Fenton knows, by the way."

"Hmmm. It may be that she doesn't trust him, yet. How long have they been partners, did he say?"

"No, but your buddy Van Dreenan didn't mention her when we met him last year, did he? Seemed like he was acting as Fenton's partner at the time."

"Yes, of course. Well, I expect she'll let him know when the time is right. Unless circ.u.mstances force her hand."

"And on a job like this, I wouldn't be surprised if they do. They're following the trail using the Bureau's resources, while I work what Fenton calls 'the occult side of the street.'"

"Well, maybe we'll all meet in the middle, and find out what the heck is going on."

"Could be that we will," Morris said. "Could just be."

Fenton and O'Donnell were stuck in traffic on Wils.h.i.+re Boulevard.

Colleen shut off the engine. "May as well save some gas," she said. "Otherwise, the Director might have to request a supplemental budget appropriation just to get us back to the office."

"Buy oil stock. I do." Fenton said. After a moment, he asked, "Any news?"

"Some crime scene photos came in from Arkansas, where they found that kid on Tuesday. Or what was left of him." She moved her mouth around, as if tasting something sour. "I filed it with the other cases. They expect forensics results by the end of the week, and I can file those, too, for all the f.u.c.king good it will do."

"Maybe Morris can turn something up that remotely resembles a lead."

"Is this guy any good, Dale? I would have thought he was just some hustler, like that 'Ghost Whisperer' clown."

"No, whatever else he is, he's no hustler," Fenton said. "He's been linked to some pretty strange s.h.i.+t, over the years. Seems to have a knack for it. And he's got this partner, or whatever she is, some woman named Libby Chastain. She claims to be a white witch."

Colleen may have paused a little longer than necessary before she said, "Do tell. You've met her?"

"No, but that South African cop I worked with last year-Van Dreenan-he knows her. She's got some interesting... talents."

"You know, you never say much about that case," Colleen said. "Even though it sounds like it has a direct bearing on our current one."

"My report's on file," Fenton said, sounding irritated. "You can read it, if you haven't already."

"Oh, I have. And fascinating reading it makes, too. But it's got a lot of interesting... gaps."

"Cecelia Mbwato, a black female, age unknown, and Snake Perkins, a white male, age thirty-six, were engaged in a series of murders and ante-mortem mutilations of male and female children," he said rapidly, as if reciting by rote. "They removed certain of their victims' bodily organs, which were then preserved using African herbs, to be used in some alleged magical ritual."

"Yeah, all right, if you say so. But we're gonna have to talk about some of those gaps sooner or later. Seems to me-"

When she fell silent, Fenton turned and looked at her. "What?"

Colleen O'Donnell's eyes were vacant, as if the mind behind them was elsewhere. Finally, she asked, "What did you say about African herbs?"

"Lab examined some of the organs the suspects had with them. They were in some kind of a case that was thrown clear in the crash that killed them. Mbwato, at least we a.s.sume it was her, had used some weird mixture of herbs and stuff from Africa to preserve the poor kids' organs until they could do... whatever... with them."

"The organs have to be preserved, don't they? Rotting body parts are no good for any kind of black magic ritual."

"How the h.e.l.l do you know that?"

"I've been reading up on it," she said. "Thing is, I remember something odd from one of the lab reports, about a substance that was found on one of the bodies."

Fenton was still looking at her, but now his face contained a trace of something that had not appeared there in quite some time, and it looked like hope. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he said. "Get us the f.u.c.k outta here!"

"f.u.c.kin' A," she said, and reached down to turn on the siren.

Chapter 5.

"Will a check be all right?" the woman asked, a little nervously. "I wasn't expecting you tonight, or I would have had cash on hand. I know it's what you prefer."

"Cash is more convenient, but I'll take your check, Mrs. Younger," Hannah Widmark said. "It's my fault, not calling ahead."

As always, Hannah wore black, from the rolled neck of her sweater to the steel-reinforced tips of her boots. No trace of makeup covered the long scar that traversed the left side of her face, from ear to chin.

Mrs. Younger tore a check free and presented it. "Here you are," she said. "That's right, isn't it? I wouldn't want to cheat you out of any of your fee."

Hannah glanced at the check before slipping it into a pocket. "It's fine, Mrs. Younger, don't worry." Something like a smile appeared, very briefly, on the marred but still beautiful face. "n.o.body ever cheats me."

At the door to her apartment, Mrs. Younger hesitated. "There's something I need to ask you before you go," she said.

"What is it?"

"That... creature that killed Robert..."

"The vampire."

"Yes, the vampire. Did he... suffer before he died?"

"Suffer?" Hannah pursed her lips for a second, before saying, "Yes, Mrs. Younger, he suffered a great deal."

An expression appeared on the older woman's face that would have done credit to an Apache maiden of 150 years ago, about to skin a prisoner alive. "Good," she said fiercely. "Good!"

In the elevator, Hannah found herself in the company of a heavyset man in his late thirties. He wore too much cologne and appeared a little drunk.

Looking over at Hannah, he said, "Nice outfit, honey. What are you, some kind of dominatrix?"

"No." Her voice held no inflection. She did not look at him.

"So what's with the get-up, then? You a commando? That it? Or do you just go commando?" He seemed to think this was the funniest thing in the world. Hannah ignored him, until he made a very bad mistake.