Evil Dark (36 page)

  I gaped in shock – which is just what I was expected to do. Behind me, the bathroom door clicked open, but I registered the sound just a second too late. I tried to turn, but a strong hand grabbed my gun wrist and an instant later I felt the sting as a needle went into my neck. I struggled for a moment longer, but then I was falling, and the dope worked so fast I never even knew when I hit the floor.

 

The first thing I realized was that I was cold – not freezingto-death cold, but enough to be uncomfortable. The second thing I noticed was that my ass hurt.

  Eventually, I gathered enough of my wits about me to figure out that I was cold because I was in an unheated building with my sports coat off, and my ass hurt because I was sitting on a concrete floor, and probably had been for a while.

  Both of those things had to do with the fact that my back was against some kind of wooden pillar with my hands bound behind me. I could feel metal around my wrists, and realized I was handcuffed – probably with my own cuffs. Motherfuckers.

  My legs were tied together at the ankles with rope. I squinted for a closer look and saw that the rope was triple-strand nylon – not rare, but not the kind you buy at Sears, either. I've learned a lot about rope in my job.

  I thought about the ME's report on the second witch burning. I don't have a photographic memory, but sometimes stuff sticks in my head, whether I want it there or not.

  Funny, the things you remember – and at the oddest times, too.

  Having nothing else to do – unless you count panicking, which I figured I'd save until later – I checked out my surroundings.

  I could see because of the double fluorescent light in the ceiling, which flickered as if it was on its last legs. The room was about twelve feet square. My view through the single window was blocked by a dirty white Venetian blind, but a little sunlight leaked through, so I knew it was still daytime.

  The red brick walls were chipped and pitted, the mortar crumbling here and there. In one corner was a battered gray file cabinet. Ten feet or so in front of me was a severely functional desk, the kind you'd find in high school homerooms back when I was in school. It had seen better days, too, and so had the vinyl-covered desk chair behind it.

  Clearly, this was an office of some kind, or had been. It was what you might expect to find in an old auto repair shop – or maybe a warehouse. I shuddered, and it wasn't because of the cold. The word
warehouse
had some pretty bad associations for me these days.

  There was a plain wooden door to my left, and I happened to be looking in that direction when it opened. A young guy wearing a black turtleneck stuck his head in, looked at me and said, "Good."

  He stepped back out, but left the door ajar, so I had no trouble hearing him say, "Mister Wilson – he's awake, sir."

  Father Duvall had said that the head honcho of the Church of the True Cross, bigger even than Bishop Navarra, was a rich nut named Patton Wilson. I figured I was about to find out just how nutty he was.

 

I heard footsteps approaching rapidly, and then a man strode into the room and closed the door behind him. He didn't look crazy – but then, they hardly ever do.

  Patton Wilson was probably in his sixties, but there was nothing old about the way he moved around. His iron-gray hair was thick, with a moustache to match. He had a tan, but it was the kind you get from a lot of time spent outdoors, not a bottle. His head was large, and his face took up a lot of territory, but the dark eyes were small and mean, like two raisins in a bowl of rice pudding. He had big hands.

  "Sergeant Markowski, I presume." His voice fit the rest of him. It was deep and loud – louder than he needed to be in such a small space.

  "You ought to know," I said, "unless you're in the habit of having random guys abducted and brought here."

  "They said you were over-fond of your own wit," he said. "Pity that they were right."

  He dropped his lean frame into the desk chair and rolled it forward until he was sitting behind the desk, hands clasped in front of him.

  "Choose your next witticism carefully, Mister Markowski," he said sternly. "It may be your last."

  Then he threw his head back and laughed. Looks like I wasn't the only one around here over-fond of his own wit.

  When the laughter was done he looked at me and said, "I trust you recognize the reference."

  "Sure – it's from
Goldfanger,"
I said. "But that stuff's wasted on me. My partner's the real James Bond nut."

  "Oh, yes, Detective Renfer. Pity I won't get to meet him as well."

  "If you want to wait a few hours, I'll give him a call," I said. "I'm sure he'd love to join us – maybe even bring a few friends."

  "No, I'm afraid that won't be possible. Our FBI colleague is attending to him–" he looked at his watch, a gold Rolex "–perhaps even as we speak."

  He peered at me. "I note a distinct lack of reaction when I mentioned the FBI. So you know about our mole, do you? Well, aren't you a smart one."

  "What kind of 'attending' are we talking about?" If Thorwald was going to try for Karl while he slept, good luck with that – even if there was no more Sharkey around to blow her head off. Karl had made some improvements to the lock on his bedroom door since the last attempt. The codebreakers at NSA would have trouble cracking it now.

  "Oh, nothing that extraordinary," Wilson said. "Merely the application of a small amount of plastic explosive to the hinges of a certain door, the removal of said door, followed by the vigorous pounding of a wooden stake into a certain chest. Very simple, really."

  I understood my situation very well – there was no way I could get to Patton Wilson right this moment and do what needed to be done – but my hands apparently didn't agree. The short chain joining the cuffs rattled as they followed the impulse to wrap themselves around the bastard's throat, only to be stopped by the cuffs and the pillar behind me.

  "Please, Sergeant, no histrionics, especially over what can't be undone." He leaned forward, and a small smile made an appearance. "I am well aware that one of the reasons why that James Bond idiot is able to survive, and thwart his enemies' plans, is that his captors talk too much. Instead of putting a bullet in his head as soon as he is captured, the various villains feel obliged to keep him alive for awhile to explain themselves and perhaps gloat a little. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

  "Sure." What else was there to say?

  "I never confuse film and life, Sergeant. Nor do I consider myself a villain – indeed, I expect that, in time, the human race will come to regard me as its savior."

  Yep – nutty as my Aunt Hazel's fruitcake.

  "But putting a bullet in your head at this moment isn't convenient," Wilson said. "We have need of you, alive and in good condition, later tonight. Around midnight, to be exact."

  I can't say I was surprised. As soon as I'd realized where I was, the prospect of ending up chained to a chair in front of the cameras was never far from my mind. But that doesn't mean I enjoyed hearing the bastard say it.

  "And so," Wilson went on, "since there is time to spare and a search by my associates has satisfied me that you are not concealing a laser in your shoe, I wouldn't mind explaining how you have come to find yourself here – and why. And I confess, I am rather pleased with myself over it all."

  Wilson spread his hands, a study in candor. "So, ask me what you like. I'll tell you the truth, since you won't be repeating it to anyone – apart from Saint Peter, or, more likely, Beelzebub. I'm sure there is much that puzzles you about recent events – so ask."

  "Anything?" I said.

  "Yes, of course."

  "OK," I said. "How old were you the first time a troll fucked you up the ass?"

  He sat looking at me for a few seconds, his lips a thin tight line.

  "Assuming that your adolescent display of bravado is done with," Wilson said, "is there anything you'd really like to know, or shall I just leave you alone until we're ready for you?"

  Sitting here by myself until midnight would give me far too much time to think about Karl's fate – and my own. Even talking to Wilson was better than that.

  "How did you manage to get Sharkey?" I asked.

  "Oh, that was a simple matter," Wilson said. "After what happened to the specialist we imported from Chicago, we knew that Sharkey was watching Detective Renfer's apartment building during the day. We sent a decoy into the building through the front, carrying the same kind of long bag that I understand Mister Duffy had employed. When Sharkey broke cover to follow him, another of our people, stationed on a nearby roof with a rifle, shot him down in the street."

  "I guess congratulations are in order," I said. "Sharkey was known as being very hard to kill."

  "That was only true because no one with any intelligence had decided to kill him," Wilson said.

  "So, how did he get from the street outside Karl's to my hotel room – part of him, anyway?"

  "A van with our people in it was parked a block away. Once the shooter reported success, the van sped to where Sharkey was lying and removed the body. Decapitation took place inside the van, and the result we left as a little gift – and a distraction – for you."

  "So, you're shooting your next video tonight… not–"

  "Tomorrow night – as Jeffrey told you?"

  "Who the fuck's Jeffrey?"

  "Oh, didn't he give you his name?" Wilson said with a smirk. "He's the young man you captured last night, at that slut witch's house."

  "You knew about that," I said.

  "Knew about it? We were
expecting
it."

  "How could you possibly know that Caro– that the witch would get a spell into action in time?"

  Wilson said, "We couldn't be certain, of course. But considering what happened to Charles – the brave young man who took his life while in your custody – we thought it likely. And if perchance the bitch was too slow with her detestable magic, then Jeffrey would have another witch to bring to justice, and we could try again another night. But it worked the first time, I'm glad to say."

  I was trying to get my mind around what he was telling me but was having trouble – maybe because I didn't want to believe it.

  "Jeffrey was a
plant
?" I said.

  "Indeed, yes. He had done some acting off-Broadway a few years ago, before he saw the light and decided to give his life to the Church. I trust his performance was moving. Whatever did you do with him, anyway? We lost track, after you left the witch's house."

  I just looked at him.

  Wilson gave me an elaborate shrug. "Well, no matter. He has served his purpose – which was to provide what the Russians used to call 'disinformation'. The filming will take place tonight, not tomorrow, and we are nowhere near Stansfield Avenue, by the way."

  "So… tomorrow night…"

  "There will be no filming at the other warehouse – which is not to say there will be no bloodshed."

  I closed my eyes.
Don't try to figure it all out – it'll drive you crazy. Just wait – he'll tell you what he means. He needs to.

  "When your fellow officers raid Stansfield Avenue tomorrow night," Wilson said, "they will find a rather nasty surprise waiting for them. Our resident wizard Malachi, the same fellow who does the summonings, has prepared a spell and put it in place."

  "So magic is only 'despicable' when somebody else is using it," I said.

  Wilson spread his hands again, like a priest giving benediction. "We all use what we must, in the service of the greater good. Tomorrow night, all Malachi need do is utter a single word, and the spell will cause the deaths of everyone inside the building. Their internal organs will swell and burst. Not a pleasant way to die – although not nearly as unpleasant as yours, of course."

  He doesn't know about the prayer team. SWAT deploys with a group of clergy from multiple faiths, and their prayers will disrupt any black magic in the vicinity.

  Maybe.

  
They've never faced a spell that somebody's had a whole day to prepare. But they can stop it.

  Probably.

  "That conception was my own," Wilson said with a tiny smile, "and it's really quite clever, if I say so myself."

  "Not only do I largely eliminate the police who have been interfering with our campaign, but the deed contributes to the campaign itself. Imagine the headlines, especially in the
People's Voice
:
POLICE MURDERED BY MAGIC
, or perhaps 
BRAVE OFFICERS STRUCK DOWN BY EVIL SPELL.
"

  Then he giggled. He actually
giggled
– like a fucking schoolgirl.

  "It should be gloooorious," Wilson said.

  "Yeah. Glorious."

  I didn't waste any energy on that
You'll never get away with this, you fiend
nonsense you see on TV. It would just make me look like more of an idiot than I already was.

  Besides, it looked like there was a good chance he
would
get away with it.

  Wilson left me alone soon after that. That's the time when, if I was 007, I'd find a way to stand on my head and open the cuffs with the lockpick I'd concealed in my left nostril. Then I'd use the plastic explosives hidden in my belt to blow the door, karate-chop the nearest guard, and grab his gun. Then I could… aw, fuck it. Thinking about James Bond just reminded me of Karl. Poor Karl – I hoped he had at least died quick. If he had, that would make one of us.

  I had plenty of time to think about the horrible death I was going to experience – there was no doubt in my mind who was going to be on the receiving end in tonight's performance – unless I found some way out. After a while, I did come up with an idea of sorts. I guessed I'd find out pretty soon just how good an idea it was.