Evil Ways (17 page)

Morris was quick enough to pick flies out of the air, even in summer, when they were frisky. A bat was no problem at all. He snapped a hand out and grabbed the thing around its oversized, furry body, pivoted, and swung his arm down hard
—in an arc that passed only a couple of inches away from the wooden back of the room's desk chair. Even Henry VIII's headsman could not have done a better, or quicker, job of decapitation.

Morris saw that the creatures were at the room's window now, so thick against the glass that the bright lights of the parking lot could not be seen beyond them. He could also hear them scratching and battering insanely at the other side of the connecting door that led to Libby's room.

Libby was still in the corner, covering her head with her hands, and sobbing. Morris wanted to go to her, but if he didn't do something about the window fast, they were going to have a lot more than two bats to worry about. In the distance, he could hear screams and yells as, he assumed, the bats paid calls on the motel's other guests.

Morris looked around the room desperately. There wasn't much to work with, since the Shady Tree did not go in for luxurious furnishings. Desk, chair, bureau, TV, bed…

Bed with… mattress.

Morris tore the bed linen away, then grabbed the queen-size mattress, and heaved it up and over, to jam as much as he could against the window. That would stop any bats that got though the glass
—for a while. In the meantime, though, Morris was stuck bracing the damn thing. If he let go, it would fall away and their protection would go with it. He looked over his shoulder toward the far corner.

"Libby!
Libby!"

She looked up at him slowly, her face white and tear-streaked.

"What can you work up? Come
on,
Libby,
magic.
You need to shore up the room, or drive off the fucking bats, or
something!
"

Libby shook her head slowly, like someone very drunk. "My gear… all in my room. Even my purse. Nothing… nothing here."

"There's gotta be
something!
Can't you improvise? I've seen you do it before. Jesus, I can't keep the fucking things out forever with this mattress. Come
on,
Libby!"

"I
hate
those things, Quincy, always have. Ever since I was a little girl when some of them… goddamn fucking bats…" She began sobbing again.

Morris could hear glass breaking on the other side of the mattress.

"Libby! Libby!! What would your Sisters do, Libby? Would they be proud of you now Libby? Would they?
Would they?"

For the first time since he had known her, Libby Chastain stared at him with loathing. That look hurt Morris worse than the bat's fangs had, but then he saw Libby Chastain wipe her hand across her face, sweep her hair out of her eyes, then start scanning the room. After a quick look around, she got to her feet and went into the bathroom. Morris had a moment's anxiety that she was going to break down again, but then she came back out, holding his toilet kit. She knelt, dumped the contents onto the floor, and started sifting through them
—slowly at first, then more rapidly.

She looked up at Morris. "Have you got a lighter with you, matches, anything?"

"No, I don't, damn it
—wait, on the bureau over there. Look in the ashtray."

The Shady Tree's management was still old fashioned enough to provide its guests with ashtrays and complimentary books of matches featuring the motel logo
—old-fashioned, or they had an unusually large amount of fire insurance.

Libby dashed over to the bureau, found the cheap glass ashtray, and grabbed the two books of matches.

Morris could hear the bats tearing at the mattress from the other side. And this was a cheap mattress, which meant it was fairly thin.

"Your aftershave's got alcohol in it, and this deodorant…" Libby's voice was so soft, he could barely hear her over the noise from the bats. She quickly scanned the ingredient list on Morris's Mennen Speed Stick. "Aluminum hydroxide, close enough. All right."

Libby used Morris's toothpaste tube to draw an eight-inch circle on the rug, reciting the words of something that Morris couldn't hear as she did so. Then she poured the contents of his bottle of aftershave inside the circle, with more inaudible incantations.

Morris could hear some of the bats
—they were inside the mattress, now.

Using her fingernails, Libby scraped small flakes of Morris's solid deodorant into the circle. Then, grasping one book of matches in the thumb and forefinger of both hands, she slowly raised it toward the ceiling, then lowered it, opened it, and placed it inside the circle.

Then she took the other book of matches, said a word three times, then lit one match, touched off the others with it, and dropped the blazing matchbook into the circle she had drawn. The other matches, and the alcohol-soaked section of carpet, caught fire immediately. A thin column of smoke began to rise. Libby spread her hands apart, closed her eyes, and began to chant something in what Morris suspected was ancient Aramaic.

And nothing happened.

The carpet smoldered within the circle, the matches and aftershave burned brightly for a few seconds before receding, and
nothing hap
pened.

After another ten or fifteen seconds of chanting, Libby stopped and opened her eyes. The screeching, flapping, and clawing of the crazed bats continued unabated, and might even be louder now. She stared at the remnants of her failed spell. Then she looked up at Morris, a stricken expression on her face. "Fuck," she said.

Roderico Baca continued to pour his power into the mass of devil bats. Somehow, Chastain was alive
—he could still sense her life force. Well, that would not last much longer. If need be, he could really exert himself, calling thousands more bats, to be transformed into winged nightmares that would do his bidding. Hundreds of thousands, could be summoned—millions, even. Roderico Baca had studied the black
arts for many years, and knew their secrets well. His magic was powerful
—certainly stronger than anything that Wiccan bitch below would be able to muster against him.

Baca was devoting most his concentration to sustaining the spell he had cast, and the rest in planning how to extend it. He was unable to give attention to anything else.

Such as someone who might be quietly coming up behind him.

The first indication Roderico Baca had that something was amiss was also the last thing he ever knew, as his consciousness exploded in a blood-red flash, bright as the sun, before being extinguished forever.

As she came closer, Hannah Widmark racked another round of triple-ought buckshot into the shotgun's firing chamber. But that was just habit
—she knew that no follow-up shot would be necessary.

Most of Roderico Baca's head was splattered over the downslope of the hill where he had been standing as he looked upon his victims.

Hannah knew that a magical spell, whether of the black or the white variety, ceases with the death of its originator. She could see that the great mass of bats, which had virtually covered the Shady Tree Motel, was already rapidly dispersing. The creatures, back in their natural forms and inclinations, would be returning to the mundane little lives they had led before a black magician had made them instruments of terror and death.

Hannah stood looking down at the body of Roderico Baca. Suddenly, one steel-capped boot delivered a vicious kick that shattered three of Baca's ribs
—not that he was in any condition to care.

The kick had turned the corpse over, onto its back, displaying what was left of Baca's face. Hannah stared into it, feeling whatever it was
• she felt on such occasions. Then she knelt and started going through his pockets.

In a U.S. Government warehouse outside Boston, Special Agent Colleen O'Donnell wrote her Federal ID number, FBI shield number, and signature at the bottom of the form she had just filled out, and handed it to one of the clerks working the front counter.

Then she walked over to the nearby waiting area and took the chair next to Fenton. "Shouldn't be too long." she said. "He's going to jump us over a few people in the queue."

"How'd you manage that?"

"Guess he must've liked my smile."

"Um. If I was to say something like 'Or maybe it was your tits,' that'd probably be sexual harassment wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess. If I chose to treat it that way. And you know what a tight-ass I can be, sometimes."

"I better not say it, then."

"Just as well. You never can tell how people will react to stuff like that."

"Yeah."

After a minute or so, she said, "Anyway, I don't think they're that great."

"Huh?"

"My tits."

"Oh. Them."

Ten minutes later, the clerk called them over. "Okay," he said. "Looks like we've got two crates for subject Christine Abernathy. Says here, 'Clothing and household items.' Where you want 'em?"

Colleen and Fenton looked at each other. "Two crates," Fenton said. "Jeez."

She looked at the clerk, a middle-aged man with bifocals whose name tag read "Orville Lang," and said, "Is there an empty room around here, or maybe an office that nobody uses? We need to examine this stuff, and we'd prefer not to have to truck it someplace, then bring it back." She stared into the man's eyes, held them with her own, and
pushed,
just a little. "We'd really appreciate it."

Lang blinked a couple of times. "Uh, lemme check. Just a second."

"Wow," Fenton said softly. "Some smile."

Without turning to look at him, Colleen murmured, "No, I'm pretty sure it's my tits."

Lang returned and said, "Looks like Building Four's about half empty. Should give you lots of room, if you want it."

Colleen looked at Fenton with raised eyebrows, received a nod, and said to Lang, "That will do very nicely."

Half an hour later, Colleen and Fenton were in Building Four, a warehouse that was, as the clerk had promised, only about half-full with stored material. That meant there was enough open space left to play a regulation game of Arena Football.

They had the place to themselves
—just them, a borrowed crowbar, and two wooden crates containing the worldly goods of the late Christine Abernathy.

"How come we've got this stuff, and not her family?" Fenton asked.

"There was no family that anybody could find," Colleen told him. "We looked pretty thoroughly, believe me. I realize we could've just left this stuff in the house, let the bank holding the mortgage worry about it. But, I don't know…"

"You had one of your feelings," Fenton said.

"Yeah, something like that," she said with a tiny smile.

"Well, looks like that intuition of yours was on the money, again." Fenton picked up the crowbar. "Might as well get started."

Like the main building where they had started, this warehouse had a long counter running across its front. That was where Colleen and Fenton piled Christine Abernathy's stuff as it came out of the crates.

Fenton started examining the clothing, checking each garment's pockets before putting it aside.

"This is a fuckin' long shot, to say the least," he said.

"Sure it is." Colleen did not look up from the pile of books and papers she was going through. "But, at the moment, what else've we got?"

"I think the answer to that would be
diddly-squat,"
Fenton said.

"Fuckin' A."

They put in three hours, then broke for lunch at a nearby Olive Garden restaurant, and went back to work at a little after 1:00pm.

It was 4:36pm, and Fenton was about to suggest calling it a day when he heard Colleen say, very distinctly, "Well, now."

"Got something?" He walked over to where she was still examining Abernathy's personal papers.

"Could be." Colleen was holding a spiral notebook that had been found in Christine Abernathy's workroom. Without looking up from the page she'd been reading, she said to Fenton, "Does the name 'Pardee' sound familiar to you?"

It was almost nine in the morning by the time Libby and Morris finished giving their statements, over and over, to the police
—local, state, and even federal (as represented by an agent from the FBI's Akron field office, who wondered aloud if the bats were a new al-Qaeda terrorist weapon). In an unusual turn of events, the two of them didn't even have to lie to the cops—well, not very much, anyway. They did neglect to mention Libby's abortive attempt at impromptu magic, and, when asked about the scorch mark on his carpet, Morris said it had already been there when he'd checked in.

The police didn't push very hard. They had bigger problems to deal with
—like figuring out what to say to the local citizenry, who were even now learning of the attack, courtesy of the gaggle of carefully coiffed TV journalists doing live remotes outside.

Very soon now, John Q. and Sally Public would be demanding to know why thousands of bats had descended in fury on the Shady Tree Motel, leaving behind the corpses of two elderly people staying in a room at the far end of the building. Mr. and Mrs. Robert McKittrick, seventy-two and seventy, respectively, had been found sprawled on the floor. Both had apparently bled out after being slashed and bitten a number of times that the Medical Examiner would only quantify as "more than a hundred" each. The McKittricks were the only fatalities, and the most serious injury among the survivors was the damage to Morris's left arm, which had already received medical attention. However, several other motel guests were found by paramedics to be showing recognizable symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Another puzzlement was why the bats had suddenly broken off their attack and flown away. No similar incidents had been reported anywhere else in North America during the night. That being the case, the authorities were prepared to tell the public, with apparent confidence, that the bat invasion had been some freak of nature, as yet unexplained, but unlikely to be repeated.

No one had yet suggested sending a team to look for evidence in the hills overlooking the motel. Eventually, someone would.

The Shady Tree had temporarily closed down by order of the police, so Morris and Libby went back to their rooms to pack. Morris had just finished latching his suitcase when he looked up and saw Libby Chastain standing in the connecting doorway. "Hey," he said, in a neutral tone.

"Hey," Libby answered. She did not sound neutral, but was instead giving a good demonstration of the DSM-IV's profile of "Depression (severe)." "Quincey, about what happened last night… I just don't know what to say."

Morris sat on the edge of the bed. He did not invite Libby to join him. "I was just coming into see you, to talk about that very subject," he said, harshly. "You really fucked up, didn't you, Libby?"

Libby stared at him, her mouth half-open.

"Jesus Christ, we could've both been
killed.
If those damn bats hadn't decided to call it a night for some reason, we'd both be at room temperature now. And all because of
you."

"Quincey, that's not
—"

"What the fuck happened, Libby? Did you forget how to do magic, all of a sudden? Or have you just lost your nerve?"

"Quincey, all my fucking gear was in
there."
She jerked a thumb back over her shoulder toward her room. "All of it. Along with a few thousand bats, as you might recall."

"So, now you can't improvise anymore, when our lives depend on it?"

"I
tried,
damn it! I used what was available, and I
tried.
I knew it was a fucking long shot. I didn't have the proper materials, and no tools at all
—just toothpaste, deodorant, and your stupid aftershave, which by the way, went out of fashion somewhere around 1993. The odds were ten to one against, at least. But
I did what I could,
you ungrateful bastard!"

Morris looked at her thoughtfully, then nodded. "Yup."

"Yup?
What the fuck is
that
supposed to mean?"

"It means," Morris said, in his normal, calm voice, "that I agree with every word you said, apart from the unkind remark about my aftershave. I just wanted to hear you say it. More important, I wanted you to hear
yourself
say it."

Libby looked totally out of her depth. "But… but, you were
—"

"Everything you just said was true, Libby. Despite being scared shitless by the bats, which is a ridiculous phobia for a witch to have, if you ask me, and despite having nothing but crap to work magic with, you did the absolute best you could, Elizabeth Catherine Chastain." Morris's tone softened. "And I'm proud of you. Furthermore, if your Sisters knew, they would be, too."

Libby stared at him a little longer, then turned and stormed out of the room. As she left, Morris heard her say, loudly and distinctly, "MEN!"

Pardee closed the book he had been consulting, a 1584 version of the
Grimoirum Verum.
He dropped it onto the long, mahogany table in front of him, which was littered with old books, manuscripts, and scrolls in several languages. He began to pace the room slowly, occasionally looking out the huge window onto the grounds of Walter Grobius's estate, but not giving any attention to the work that was still going on down there in preparation for the Ceremony.

Then the pacing stopped. Pardee stood dead still; a smile sprouted on his face and quickly grew into a grin. It was time to go and see Grobius.

The old man sat at his enormous desk, nine brown prescription bottles lined up before him like soldiers at attention. They were joined by four oddly shaped containers whose contents were not the products of modern medical science. Grobius, a large bottle of Perrier open next to him, was systematically working his way through the collection, taking two pills from one container, four from another, and so on down the line.

Grobius did not look good today. His complexion had taken on a gray tint, and the flesh under his eyes looked unhealthy, even for someone his age. The old man's hands shook slightly as he made himself ingest the medicines.

He looked at Pardee and said sourly, "I'll need another treatment from your magic fingers sometime today. For all the good it's likely to do."

"It's kept you alive so far, along with the wonders of modern science and my own humble apothecary skills. Anyone else, if I may slightly flatter myself, would have succumbed years ago."

"Yes, I expect so." Grobius shook four green and white capsules from one of the bottles and gulped them down with a swig of the spring water. "But I'm glad it's almost over. We're on schedule?"

"Yes, essentially."

Grobius looked up at him, and there was sufficient intelligence and will left in the rheumy blue eyes to remind Pardee of how the old man had accumulated one of the world's great fortunes.

"Explain
essentially,"
he said to Pardee.

The wizard lowered himself into one of the chairs that faced the desk.

"We want everything to go exactly right on the thirtieth," Pardee said. "This confluence of factors won't occur again for twelve years."

"Which I would be highly unlikely to see, yes. Tell me something I don't already know."

"I've been studying the ancient texts again, which, oddly enough, caused me to remember the advice of Ulysses S. Grant."

"And that's relevant? Grant was hardly an exemplar for the office he held, as I recall."

"Grant was a mediocre president, true. But he had been a superb general. He claimed in his memoirs that the secret of his success was
tilting as many factors as possible in his favor. Not just the big things, like choosing terrain and placing artillery, but the smallest details, as well. For instance, the day a battle was planned, Grant would not only make sure that his troops had been given breakfast, but that the food was a cut above the usual quality, to ensure that they would eat, and gain strength for the fight to come."