Quincey Morris, Supernatural Investigation: Evil Ways Part 21

Chapter 17.

The inst.i.tution's official name is Ma.s.sachusetts Correctional Facility, Cedar Junction, at Walpole, but everybody involved in corrections (on both sides of the law) in New England just calls it Walpole. Like every maximum-security prison in the world, it is a cold, gray place, made of stone, brutality, barbed wire, and despair.

FBI Special Agents Fenton and O'Donnell were shown every courtesy by the prison administration, once it was made clear that they were not at Walpole to investigate any of the many accusations of human rights violations that had been leveled by inmates over the years.

They had been waiting in Interview Room 4 for about ten minutes when they heard an iron door opening and closing nearby, then another, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps.

Vincent Israel, hands shackled to the heavy belt that was fastened around his waist, was brought in by a bored-looking CO who looked a question at Fenton, then left after receiving a nod in return.

Israel didn't look a lot like his mug shot, taken at the time of his arrest three years ago. His head was shaved now, and he had scar that ran down the right side of his face, parallel to his eye and about half an inch away. The slash that caused the scar must have missed Israel's eye very narrowly. The man's muscular arms, revealed by the short-sleeved prison shirt he wore, bore several crude tattoos that had probably been acquired after Israel's incarceration. A stylized swastika was prominent on one arm, the initials "A.B." dominating the other one. From the moment he'd entered the room, Israel's eyes had been on Colleen, whom he was staring at with the kind of intensity that a long-time dieter will give to a hot fudge sundae.

Colleen and Morris both displayed their FBI identification as soon as Israel was seated. Now Fenton, who was looking at the "A.B." tat, said, "I see you've gone and hooked up with the Aryan Brotherhood."

Israel tore his eyes off Colleen long enough to answer Fenton. "Man does what he's gotta, to survive. In here, you don't belong with somebody, then you're meat for everybody." He looked Fenton up and down, with undisguised contempt. "First week I was inside, three... African Americans jumped me, and beat the livin' s.h.i.t out of me. They took my smokes, my lighter, and my watch. Then they gang-f.u.c.ked me for about an hour, although it seemed a h.e.l.l of a lot longer. That s.h.i.t don't happen no more, now I'm with A.B." Israel had clearly wanted to say "n.i.g.g.e.rs" instead of "African Americans," but was probably unsure whether he could afford to p.i.s.s Fenton off.

Fenton gave him a broad smile and said, "I'm a little surprised those n.a.z.is would be interested in a guy named, you know... 'Israel.'"

"You think I'm a kike, because of the name?" Israel made a disgusted sound. "Ain't none of them in my family. Way I hear it, one of my ancestors was some kind of preacher in Ma.s.sachusetts, 'round the time the Puritans come over from England. His real name was probably Smith or Jones-some s.h.i.t like that. But he was such a holy roller, he changed it to Israel, maybe to prove that he'd read the Bible. And the name stuck. I ain't no f.u.c.kin' Jew, no way."

"Before we talk any more, there's some things you need to get straight," Colleen told him. "We can't get you a transfer out, or a new trial, or an appeal that your lawyer didn't try already, and get thrown out of court."

Israel looked up from her body to her face, then gave a small nod of something that might almost have been respect. Behind the walls, hope is the thing that will hurt you worse than a shank between the ribs, once it comes crashing down around you-as it always does. By refusing to offer him any false hope, Colleen was showing the only kind of honesty that Israel was prepared to accept.

"Okay, so that's what you ain't got." Israel went back to his close examination of Colleen's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "What have you got, and what do you want out of me in exchange for it?"

"We might be able to make your life in here a little better," Fenton said. "No guarantees, but if we tell the Deputy Warden that you cooperated in our investigation, and make a specific recommendation on how he might express our grat.i.tude, I think he'll take it seriously. Might be able to get you a better job. Where are you now, the laundry? I think we could help with that, if we had a reason to."

"We also have a few bucks that we're allowed to use, to pay informants," Colleen said. "We could make sure some of it gets into your commissary account. Get you some extra smokes and candy bars."

"All that? d.a.m.n!" Israel's sarcasm wasn't subtle. "And what is it you're lookin' for, in return for all that generosity?"

"We want Pardee," Fenton said. He had been watching the man's eyes as he'd said the name. Most cons are good liars, and even better at reaction concealment. But dilation and contraction of the pupils is an autonomic response, outside the control of the will, that is geared to strong emotion.

Fenton had seen Israel's pupils contract, an instant after he'd said Pardee's name.

"Pardee?" Israel pretended to consider his list of friends and acquaintances. "Nope, don't think I know the name."

"We hear otherwise," Colleen told him.

"That right?" Israel said to her chest.

"We've been told, by somebody who would know, that Pardee's the guy got you involved in all this occult bulls.h.i.t," Fenton said. "That he's the one, put you up to s.n.a.t.c.hing that kid, and cutting him open."

"That wasn't me, man." Israel didn't even bother to act indignant. Protesting his innocence was probably just a reflex by now. "The cops got the wrong man, and their evidence at the trial wasn't worth s.h.i.t."

"The jury thought otherwise, though, didn't they?" Colleen said. "Took them less than three hours to come back with a verdict, too. Guilty on all counts: kidnapping, felony a.s.sault, and aggravated murder in the first."

Israel gave an exaggerated shrug, which caused his shackles to jingle briefly. "What can I tell you? I'm innocent."

"So you didn't s.n.a.t.c.h the kid, you didn't kill the kid, and you never heard of anybody named 'Pardee,'" Colleen said.

Israel grinned at her. "That's a big ten-four, honey. But say 's.n.a.t.c.h' again for me, will you? I love it when chicks talk dirty."

"Too bad," Fenton said, and pushed his chair back. "Because if you don't know anything about Pardee, then you've got nothing of interest to us."

Colleen, playing along, began to gather together the papers she had laid out in front of her.

"Aw, shucks," Israel said. "Now I'll never get that job in the library. And just think of all them candy bars I'm gonna miss out on."

Instead of standing up, Fenton said, "I think I hear you saying you don't care for our offer."

Israel shrugged again.

"Just for the sake of discussion," Colleen said, "if we were able to come up with something you found interesting, what could we get for it?"

"Well, for instance, if I did remember this guy, Pardee," Israel said, "I'd tell you everything I know about him."

"Including where he is now?" Colleen asked.

"Get real, lady," Israel said. "I been in here going on three years. Don't know for sure where anybody is now. Except my mom. She writes once in a while, and her return address ain't changed."

"If you don't now where Pardee is now..." Fenton let the sentence trail off.

"I might be able to tell you about a real nice deal that this Pardee fell into. Where somebody with a whole pile of money was willing to spend some of it on Pardee and his magic tricks. Something that sweet, a guy wouldn't be in a hurry to walk away from it. There's a good chance he'd still be with this rich guy. I might know the name."

"Uh-huh. All right," Fenton said. "Say we thought this was interesting enough to go to some trouble over. A better job and more commissary money doesn't do it for you. So what do you want?"

"Despite what you hear about prison," Israel said to Fenton, "it's possible for a man to find some of life's little luxuries in here, if he's got money, or the right connections, or maybe if he does favors for the right people. Booze? Yeah, sure, there's booze. I mean apart from stuff like raisin jack, that you can make yourself. Not impossible to get yourself on the outside of a pint of mediocre Scotch, brought in from outside. Weed, same thing. Stuff from the pharmacy, yeah, that's around. Even c.o.ke, if you know a friendly guard who's maybe gettin' behind in his car payments. But there's one thing ain't available behind the walls. California, maybe, but not in this state." Israel turned and looked at Colleen again, and now the hunger in his eyes was almost palpable. "p.u.s.s.y," he said. "That's the one thing I can't get in here."

"Watch your mouth, a.s.shole," Colleen snapped. "The same juice that lets us get you a better job also gets you a month in the Hole, if we want it that way. Maybe two months."

Israel gave her a crooked smile. "Threaten me all you want, honey. It just gives me a hard-on to hear you talk about juicy holes."

Then he turned back to Fenton. "You wanna find Pardee, I'll tell you how. Give you everything I know about him. But first, you get me a woman. And until you find a way to juice that, we got no more to talk about."

Israel turned toward the door and called out, "Sir? I'm all done in here, now."

As the CO who had brought him in reappeared, Israel looked back at Fenton and Colleen with a nasty grin. "You folks be sure and come on back, whenever you're ready to continue our conversation." Then he gave Colleen a wink, and allowed the guard to lead him out of the room.

Once they were alone, Fenton looked at Colleen. "Well, s.h.i.t. Think he means it?"

"Take it from the woman he's gonna be thinking about when he jerks off tonight," she said, and shuddered. "He means it, all right."

The Ouroboros Bar and Grill occupied the middle of a block on one of downtown Cleveland's less busy side streets. Business was slow around four o'clock in the afternoon, as Libby and Morris followed Hannah Widmark through the door. The sunny day made the interior gloom of the place seem darker than you'd expect, even for a bar.

As soon as they were inside, Hannah made a head gesture toward a nearby empty table. "Just sit and chill for a second, while I have a word with Frank. He's kinda jumpy sometimes, and he gets nervous when strangers come in."

"You mean he might run?" Morris asked quietly.

"No," Hannah told him. "That's not what I mean."

She walked over to the bar and took a seat. After a moment, the bartender wandered over. Morris couldn't see him clearly, since his eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, but Hannah's friend looked tall and thin and very pale. But there was nothing about the way he moved or stood to suggest weakness.

The bartender served Hannah a beer that she let sit on the bar in front of her. The two of them spoke quietly, and once Morris saw the man looking toward the table where he and Libby waited. Finally, Hannah turned their way and made a beckoning gesture.

They sat at the bar, one on either side of Hannah, who performed introductions. "Frank, this is Quincey and Libby. Guys, meet Frank."

Morris was a little surprised when Frank leaned over to shake hands. He found the man's grip to be very strong, but Frank didn't use it as if he had anything to prove. As they shook, which took a second or two longer than it should have, Frank looked carefully into Morris's face, then gave a little nod and released his hand.

He did the same with Libby, only he extended the handshake even longer than he had with Morris. Frank released Libby's hand gently and looked at her with open curiosity. "Hannah didn't tell me you were a witch." The man's quiet voice made it a fact, not an accusation.

Libby returned the interested look. "I won't ask how you know, because I felt something, too. Um, you should also know-"

Frank gently raised a forestalling hand. "It's okay, Libby. You're one of the good guys. I could tell that, too." He took a step back. "Now, what are you folks drinking? On the house."

Morris ordered bourbon and water. Libby said, "Vodka, please. Ice cold if you've got it, on the rocks otherwise."

Frank filled the orders promptly. He placed a frosted gla.s.s of vodka in front of Libby. "Gray Goose," he said. "I think you'll like it." Frank wasn't serving the house brand, Morris realized. Gray Goose was top-shelf. Morris took a sip of his bourbon, and could tell by the way it caressed his tongue that Frank hadn't given him the cheap stuff, either. Hannah still hadn't touched her beer.

Hannah's friend Frank looked to be in his mid-fifties. He had the kind of lived-in face you a.s.sociate with dissolute rock stars like Mick Jagger and Steven Tyler, but Morris would have bet that the lines and creases Frank bore hadn't come from years of hard partying. His forehead was broad and high, below straight brown hair that was combed back to reveal a severe widow's peak. Morris noticed that Frank's brown eyes seemed to move constantly. Morris would have bet that they noticed everything, and were surprised by nothing.

Frank took a quick look around the bar, probably to see if any of his half-dozen other customers needed a refill. Satisfied, he reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of filtered Lucky Strikes. Holding the pack up so the other three could see it, he asked, "You folks mind?"

n.o.body did, and Frank lit up, then produced a heavy gla.s.s ashtray from beneath the bar.

Frank leaned on the bar, thus keeping their conversation private, but Morris noticed that he turned his head away whenever he exhaled smoke. He could have blown it in their faces, if he'd wanted. It was his bar, and his booze, and Hannah's friends were coming to him for help and thus in no position to object. But Frank chose to blow his smoke away from them, and Morris thought he kind of liked the guy for that.

"Hannah says you folks are looking for some information," Frank said. "I don't know if I'll be able to do anything for you-I've kinda been out of the loop, the last few years. But still, I hear stuff once in a while." Frank pondered the glowing tip of his cigarette. "What is it you want to know, exactly?"

Libby and Morris took turns summarizing the two areas they'd been investigating, which had now apparently merged into one. Hannah chimed in from time to time.

Two cigarette b.u.t.ts, smoked down to the filter, were squatting in the ashtray by the time they all finished. Frank lit up his third smoke, pensively.

"Yeah," he said. "I might know something that'll help you."

Pardee had a workroom set up at Grobius's Idaho mansion, separate from the s.p.a.cious office he used for administrative and recreational purposes. Pardee's office was relatively accessible to the staff, when Pardee wanted it to be. But this room, with its boarded-over windows, had a good, stout lock on the door, to which Pardee held the only key. It was also protected by other, less obvious measures.

Even Grobius did not come here. Pardee could not, of course, forbid the man access to a room in his own house, but he had implied that any interruption while a wizard was working at his craft could have disastrous consequences for everyone in the vicinity-a claim that was not very far from the truth.

The scrying was almost ready. Pardee had filled the big, intricately decorated bowl with distilled water, then added the necessary ingredients while reciting the words of the spell, which he had memorized long ago. Soon he would be able to learn where that b.i.t.c.h Chastain was now, and determine the best method of overpowering her for transport back to Idaho. And if the man Morris, or anyone else, tried to interfere-well, Pardee wanted Chastain alive, but that courtesy did not extend to anyone else of her acquaintance.

Pardee had misled Grobius, and not for the first time. The wizard did not, in fact, believe that sacrificing Chastain at the climactic moment would add anything significant to the power of the summoning spell contained in Alhazred's Book of Shadows. But after she had frustrated his attempts to have her killed, not once but twice, mind you, Pardee had decided that a quick death was more than she deserved. The c.u.n.t had just p.i.s.sed him off once too often. Besides, he owed a little something to Chastain, a debt that went back a number of years. In three days, or, more precisely, three nights, he would make payment, in full and with interest. And Pardee was always generous when it came to paying that kind of interest-crossing him always brought a high rate of return.

Pardee now needed just one more ingredient to complete the scrying spell. It didn't have to be from a human, but it must be fresh.

There were a few members of the staff whom Pardee had allowed to know the location of his sanctum, although they would never, of course, be allowed inside. He picked up his cell phone and called one of them, a small oily man named Jernigan. When the man answered, Pardee said, "That stray cat that's been hanging around the kitchen and people have been feeding-someone mentioned that it had a litter the other day." Pardee listened for a few seconds. "That's what I thought. I'll meet you outside my workroom in ten minutes. Fetch one of the kittens and bring it to me."

Chapter 18.

"Forget it!" Fenton said. "No f.u.c.kin' how, no f.u.c.kin' way! If that's not the dumbest, most depraved f.u.c.kin' idea I've ever heard, then it's for sure in the top ten, and moving up the charts fast."

He stopped pacing-which is just as well, since the typical room at a Holiday Inn affords little room for that activity-and faced Colleen, who was seated on the edge of the room's king-size bed, waiting for the storm to blow over, or at least to wind down a bit.

"I don't know if you've lost your mind or what, Colleen, but that's just insane. I forbid it!"

Colleen, who had been in her normal slouch, sat up straighter at once.

"Forbid, Dale? I'm not all that sure you're in a position to forbid anything. And stop talking like my father!"

"I'm not your father, I'm the senior agent, d.a.m.n it!"

"You were two cla.s.ses ahead of me at Quantico, which doesn't amount to one h.e.l.l of a lot of seniority, does it?"

"Doesn't matter, I was named the senior agent on this team, and you know it."

Colleen took a very deep breath, and let it out. When she spoke, most of the edge was gone from her voice.

"Dale, this isn't the way we deal with each other, you and me- yelling and pulling rank, all that c.r.a.p they did when we went through training. We're a team, Dale, aren't we? And a pretty d.a.m.n good one."

Colleen had been tempted to add a little magical push to those words, to make Fenton more receptive. But she quickly rejected the idea. This was her partner, and a man she considered her friend-not some two-bit informant on a street corner somewhere.

Fenton glared at her a moment longer, then took and released a deep breath of his own. He turned away, and dropped into the room's single easy chair. He cleared his throat and said, almost calmly, "I'm sorry I flew off the handle, Colleen. I apologize for the way I talked to you. I was p.i.s.sed off, but that's no excuse to treat my partner that way."

She inclined her head, graciously. "Accepted, Dale. Now let's just forget it happened."

"Be happy to do that," Fenton said. "But that doesn't mean I'm gonna go along with this idea of yours, which I swear is gonna be used as an example in the next Merriam-Webster's, right under the definition for 'stupid-a.s.s brainstorm.'"

"I didn't just give it to you off the top of my head, Dale. I gave it a lot of thought, during our drive back from Walpole."

"Wondered why you got so quiet. You'd have been better off talking-about anything, except this nonsense. Colleen, you can't just go back in that interrogation room and do this guy."

"It's not something I look forward to, Dale. Not even a little, tiny bit. But if you've got a better idea, believe me, I am all ears."

Fenton leaned back, resting his head on the back of the chair, and closed his eyes. After a while he said, without opening his eyes, "If you really think giving this creep what he wants is going to get us anywhere... okay, then, we bring him a hooker. A high-cla.s.s working girl in a business suit, carrying a briefcase."