Evil Dark (13 page)

  "I'm your partner, dammit, you should've–"

  I held up a hand that stopped him mid-sentence. "Karl, let me ask you something. Say we needed some info on a case from a real hard-ass vampire, the kind who thinks the only thing humans are good for is lunch, OK? In a situation like that, would you consider – would you at least
think about
– asking me to wait in the car while you went and talked to the dude?"

  Karl looked at me for what I guessed was a slow count of three. Then he nodded, faced front, and turned the ignition key.

  "So, where we goin'?" he asked.

  "Time to go see a wizard about a rug."

 

The establishment calling itself Magic Carpets, Mystic Rugs was located on the western edge of downtown, on the last commercially zoned street before the residential section began. The place was located a few doors down from 3 Witches' Bakery, which is where we found a parking space. I'd never been inside the place, but remembered hearing their commercial jingle on the radio – "Nothin' says lovin' like something from the coven." I was glad they were closed. It's hard to resist a bakery, and I eat enough junk food as it is.

  There were a couple of those newspaper vending boxes in front of 3 Witches – the kind where you put in your fifty cents and pull out a paper. The vendors said it worked on the honor system, but I think it was more a recognition that nobody would want more than a single copy of one of those rags.

  The
Times-Tribune
's headline was about our latest political scandal:

 

JUDGE INDICTED IN

REFORM-SCHOOL SCAM

 

  In the adjoining machine, that new tabloid, the
People's Voice
, was using three-inch tall letters to announce:

 

VATICAN TO AMERICA: GO TO HELL!

 

  I thought I knew what that was about. Some bigwig cardinal over in Rome had said, where a reporter could hear him, that he'd be just as happy if North America sank into the sea, taking the population with it.

  I don't take a lot of interest in religious politics – and if you think that term's an oxymoron, welcome to the twentyfirst century. But even I knew that the big guys in Rome have a love-hate relationship with North America, especially the USA. On the one hand, we're a big, affluent country with lots of Catholics – and a percentage of the money being dropped into all those collection plates every Sunday finds its way into the Vatican's coffers. Without America, they'd probably go broke.

  But American Catholics don't always toe the party line real well. The Church says contraception's a sin, except for the rhythm method. You can always tell couples who use that approach, by the way – they usually have twelve kids. But the stats show that in the USA, Catholics use artificial birth control about as often as the rest of the population, which I'm sure pisses off the pope no end. And there are some Catholic priests who care more about social justice than the law, like the Brannigan brothers, who were always getting arrested a few years back for protesting the war in Transylvania.

  So I wasn't exactly amazed to hear that there's some frustration in Rome about us, and only a little surprised that some cardinal would be indiscreet about it. But it wasn't what I'd call a big news story. The
Times-Tribune
had carried it last week, on page 12, I think. If the
People's Voice
thought they were going to make money attacking the Vatican in heavily Catholic Scranton, they were in for a hard lesson in both faith and economics.

  In the rug store's big windows, I could see displayed – behind what looked like triple-thick safety glass – seven or eight gorgeous Oriental rugs. Their total price tag would probably beat what I'd paid for my house.

  Karl was looking, too. "Wonder if any of 'em actually fly?" he said.

  "Probably costs extra."

  We had barely taken three steps into the brightly lit showroom when a trim, well-dressed guy in his thirties hurried over to meet us.

  "Welcome, gentlemen, to our humble establishment," he said, probably for the twentieth time that day. "What kind of beautiful carpet may I show you this evening?" He had an accent that sounded Lebanese.

  "We'd like to see Victor Castle," I said.

  He nodded a couple of times, as if I'd said something profound. "Certainly, good sirs. I shall immediately determine if he is on the premises at the present time. May I say who is enquiring?"

  I showed him my badge. "This is enquiring."

  His head bobbed a few more times. "Of course, officers. Please excuse me – I shall return momentarily."

  He vanished through a curtained door behind an antique-looking counter and a second later I heard his voice, with no accent whatsoever, yell, "Hey Chico – tell the boss that a couple of cops are lookin' for him!"

  I glanced at Karl. "What d'you think – Lebanon?"

  "By way of Swoyersville, haina?"

  Abdul-from-Swoyersville never reappeared from the back of the store. Instead, the curtains parted and a man I assumed was Victor Castle – born Castellino – strode into the showroom area.

  He was a little below average height and was wearing the vest and pants of a three-piece suit. I assumed the jacket was still in the back. The outfit was clearly expensive, but it didn't stop the beginnings of a gut from protruding under the vest's lowest button. He had thick black hair, although some of it had been replaced by a pink bald spot that reflected the glare from the ceiling lights. If he was supposed to be such a big-deal wizard, I wondered why he hadn't worked a little magic on his own appearance.

  Karl and I showed him our badges while I gave him our names. He stared at Karl for a few seconds, and I realized he could tell that my partner was undead. Then he shifted his gaze to me and said, "The reason why I haven't used my magical skills to make myself tall, lean, and hirsute, Sergeant, is that while I have a number of vices, physical vanity is not among them."

  I blinked at that. "I didn't think there was a spell, in white magic anyway, that allowed mind-reading."

  The smile he gave me didn't reach his green eyes. "You are correct, Sergeant. In fact, I'm not even sure that black magic can confer that ability, although I am much less knowledgeable of that variety. But I did follow your gaze as I entered. Your eyes traveled the length of my form, doubtless estimating my height. Then your gaze lingered for a moment at my lower stomach and traveled upward again – not looking into my eyes but at the top of my head, which I expect appears quite shiny in this harsh light. Then you wondered why, with my much-touted magical powers, I had not employed them to correct my… physical imperfections. Correct?"

  I nodded slowly. "If you really did all that without magic, then it's pretty damn amazing."

  Karl murmured in my ear, "I thought it was quite elementary."

  Castle gestured to my right. "As you can see, we have some comfortable armchairs, from which our customers sometimes view our wares. Perhaps we might sit down?"

  He walked us over to where three upholstered chairs sat in a rough semicircle. When Karl and I were seated, Castle took the third chair and turned it toward us before sitting down. Each of these chairs probably weighed close to two hundred pounds, yet Castle had handled his the way I might move a metal folding chair. Magic or muscle? No way to know.

  Castle spread his hands for a moment and said, "So, then?"

  "I understand you're Ernst Vollman's successor," I said, "as… leader… of the local supernatural community."

  "Ah, yes, Vollman," Castle said. "A very interesting man. He will be missed. I understand you were both present when he died?"

  "Yes," I said. I had no intention of discussing with this guy the night that Ernst Vollman and his son Richard had both come to the end of their long lives. Vollman had died fighting, and the son, who was also known as Sligo, had died one of the ugliest deaths I'd ever seen.

  When I didn't say anything more, Castle shrugged and said, "In answer to your question, it's fair to say that I enjoy a certain amount of respect from what you call the local supernatural community. Leader?" Another shrug. "I'm more of an ombudsman, really, called upon sometimes to settle disputes between factions, or individuals. Now, how may I be of assistance to the police this evening?"

  "There are a couple of matters I'd like to discuss," I said. "One involves the fact that somebody is going around burning witches."

  Castle's pleasant expression, which I assume was the one he wore out of habit, became grim. "Yes, I am aware of these atrocities. Two women, who had done harm to no one, subjected to such an agonizing death. It's like something out of the Middle Ages."

  I wondered if Castle's knowledge of the Middle Ages came entirely from books, or if he'd been there personally. Sometimes these wizards are older than they look.

  "Two – so far," Karl said. "And we don't want the number of victims to get any larger."

  "A goal we share, Detective," Castle said. "Believe me."

  "If we knew why those particular women were chosen, it might help us figure out who's been doing the choosing," I said. "Are you aware of any common factor, other than both being practitioners?"

  "It's likely they knew each other," Castle said. "The community here in Scranton is not a large one. But they did not socialize together, nor were they related, either by blood or marriage."

  "Sounds like you've been doing some investigating of your own," Karl said.

  "As I told you, Detective, stopping these attacks is of great importance to us. I have no intention of sitting idly by as they continue. Not, of course," he made a pacifying gesture, "that I lack faith in the forces of law and order."

  "Of course not," I said, keeping most of the sarcasm out of my voice.

  Castle went on as if I hadn't spoken. "However, there are certain… sources of information available to me which you might not find readily accessible."

  "Other than the fact that the witches didn't know each other, what have these sources had to say?" I asked him.

  Castle studied his hands for a moment. I couldn't see the pentagram tattoo on his palm from where I sat, but I knew it was there.

  "So far, nothing of value. I find it most frustrating, especially since another of these terrible attacks could occur at any time."

  "Is it possible somebody's holding out on you?" Karl asked.

  "Oh, no, Detective. I doubt that very much. The word has gone out that any useful information about this matter will be amply rewarded. And the corollary, also."

  I frowned at him. "Corollary?"

  "Simply that if any member of the community keeps such valuable knowledge to himself, the consequences will be… severe."

  Something in Castle's face made me not want to ask what "severe" might entail.

  "You said there were two items you wished to discuss with me, Sergeant," Castle said. "May I know the other one?"

  "All right," I said. "Somebody's out there making, and selling, snuff films."

  Castle's eyebrows climbed toward what was left of his hairline, like caterpillars scaling a wall. "I thought such things were myths, invented by the religious right to justify censorship of all mass media."

  "That may have been true once," I said, "but not any longer. These are the real deal. Detective Renfer and I had to sit through one, and the FBI says there are at least three more in circulation."

  Castle looked from me to Karl and back again. He took his time about it. "I assume you are telling me about this because there's some connection to the supernatural world?"

  "You assume right," I said, and told him about the videos – as well as their Scranton connection.

  He listened with what I can only call morbid fascination, elbows on knees and fingers tented under his nose. When he'd finished he dropped his hands and sat back. "Ye gods," he said softly. "Just when I thought I understood the depths of savagery that humanity was capable of…" He shook his head, as if to drive out the images that I'd planted there.

  "The real savagery isn't being committed by humans," I said. Maybe I was feeling a little defensive. "The demon is the one who does the butcher's work."

  "Yes, I understand that," Castle said. "And I'm no fan of demons, believe me. Nasty things. But permit me a hypothetical example, Sergeant. Let's say that someone were cruel enough to toss a live infant into the tiger's cage at the zoo. Who would you hold responsible for the ensuing tragedy? Not the tiger who, after all, was merely acting like a tiger. You would, quite properly, blame the individual who put the two of them in proximity – right?"

  "OK, you've made your point," I said. "But the demon isn't being conjured and controlled by Sam the barber, or somebody. The one doing
that
is a wizard."

  "Quite right," Castle said. "In this matter, it would seem, there is plenty of blame to go around."

  "I'm less interested in moral discussions," I said, "than I am in nailing the fuckers who are doing this. At least one of the victims was a local boy."

  "Mister Hudzinski," Castle said.

  "That's him," Karl said.

  "We live in a highly mobile culture, as you know," Castle said. "It's entirely possible that Mister Hudzinski, although a citizen of our fair city, fell into his misfortune a long way from home."

  "If he did, we'll know it soon enough," I told him. "There are detectives digging into every detail of the guy's life, even as we speak. But for now, I'm going on the assumption that he was killed locally. And there's something else for you to think about."

  Castle raised his eyebrows politely, but said nothing.

  "If one of these videos was made locally, then they all were." I explained how the physical layout of the killing ground was the same in all four of the snuff films. "The camera angles are identical, too," I said. "The cameras are on tripods, and it doesn't look as if they're moved from one of these atrocities to the next."