Evil Ways (25 page)

Pardee gave Grobius a tour of the grounds in an electric-powered vehicle that looked something like a glorified golf cart. Grobius had bought half a dozen of these customized models for the groundskeepers, so they could attend to the topiary without either tearing up the grass or making undue noise. Of course, given whom these toys belonged to, each was equipped with satellite radio, a GPS, and a fast Internet connection. Grobius's request for mounted .50 caliber machine guns had been politely declined by the manufacturer.

This was Grobius's own property, but much had been done to the grounds in the past couple of months, and Pardee welcomed the chance to show it off.

"Over here are more of the fire pits, where the individual practitioners will work their rituals, independent of each other, but nonetheless in concert."

"How many of these did you install, anyway?

"Twenty-five," Pardee said. "That's probably more than we'll need
—I don't think that many practitioners will show up, but it never hurts to plan for success."

"All the money I gave you for this project, and you couldn't even come up with twenty-five of these people?" the old man said grumpily.

"Actually, there aren't all that many followers of the Left-Hand Path in this country
—or worldwide, for that matter."

"Why not? Judging from the kinds of things I've seen you do, I would have thought there'd be thousands of people, if not millions, who would want that kind of power."

"I appreciate the compliment, but it took years of study and practice to attain my level of proficiency," Pardee said. "But, you're right, in a way. There are, in truth, quite a few people who start on the Path, more or less for the reason you mentioned: the power. We have more fire pits over there, as you see."

"Many are called, but few are chosen, eh?" Grobius laughed at his witticism. Unlike everyone else who worked for the old man, Pardee felt no obligation to join in.

"Something like that," Pardee said. "A number of them lose interest, once they realize the amount of work, time, and sacrifice involved. No commitment, you see. Whereas others have the commitment, but not the aptitude. Quite a few of them are killed every year, in the occult equivalent of laboratory accidents."

"Get blown to pieces by their own potions, you mean,"

"That, or something worse." Pardee brought the cart to a gentle stop.

"Here's the main altar, which you've seen from the house. I don't think you've had a good look at it from ground level, yet."

Grobius took in the stone steps leading up to the central platform, on which sat a construction that might well have served as a table for the gods, especially if the gods were messy eaters. Symbols were carved into the altar and surrounding stones.

"Is this
marble?"
Grobius asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Italian, from the Carrera Quarry, the one that Michelangelo used. As I've told you more than once, we have to go first class if we are to welcome such a distinguished guest."

Thirteen feet beyond the altar was an elaborate circle painted on the marble. It was surrounded by other painted symbols, most of which Grobius didn't recognize.

"That's where he will appear?" he asked Pardee.

"Exactly. He will be confined within that circle, of course. I have no doubt he will be willing to do my bidding."

"What if he gets out of the circle?"

"He will not." Pardee might have been stating the law of gravity.

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because I have researched this ceremony for years, and I have been a practitioner of the Art for many years more. He will not escape, I can assure you."

Grobius looked around at the huge, elegant, and expensive structure.

"I will trust in your judgment," he said. "You've never let me down before, Pardee."

"Nor will I this time."

Then, after an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation, Grobius said, "You're sure he can cure me."

"Without doubt. With the power he possesses, he can cure any illness, if he has a reason to."

"And… extend my life, indefinitely?"

"Indefinitely, yes. Eternally, no. Eternal life, sad to say, is not possible on this plane of existence, according to conditions laid down by G… the one who made it. But five hundred years, six hundred years is not impossible. I have known him to grant this boon to others."

"Well, I suppose that will have to do." The old man essayed a crooked smile. "As long as you're satisfied with the arrangements."

"I am."

"Wait
—didn't you say something about sacrificing one of the white witches, as the capstone of the Ceremony?"

"I did, and that is still my intent," Pardee said. "I have reason to believe the one I have chosen for that honor will be available very soon now."

"And that will guarantee success?"

"In the Art, guarantees are hard to come by. But a great deal of power will be brought to bear Wednesday night, more than has ever been concentrated to one end before, I believe."

"The Devil, you say." Once again, Grobius chuckled at his own wit. This time Pardee joined in, with what seemed to be genuine amusement.

"And if after all this, it fails…" Grobius was not laughing now. "There will be the Devil to pay."

"Indeed, sir. There will, indeed."

Morris and Fenton had talked on the phone at some length that morning, agreeing on how they would divide their labor, and it was evening before they spoke again. Each had been busy, and so had their partners.

"Grobius is almost a caricature," Fenton said. "The Reclusive Zillionaire. Like Howard Hughes, but without the foot-long fingernails."

"Yeah, I saw that movie," Morris said.

"Even Google hardly knows this guy," Fenton said. "I got like twelve hits off his name, and they all link to brief mentions in articles published over the years. I thought rich people were always sponsoring charity events, getting their faces on the society pages."

"I think maybe it's the other way around. Those who do the charity stuff are the ones we hear about. Those who don't want publicity are able to buy a lot of privacy. Just how rich are we talking about, do you know?"

"I talked to a guy I know at Treasury. He did a little digging around over there, but they haven't got much about Grobius either. My guy says that's because his holdings are so spread out, and they involve so many holding companies and shit like that, nobody outside the operation, and probably damn few inside it, knows what's Mister G's and what isn't."

"Fella's like Keyser fucking S
öze," Morris said.

"Yeah, and like Keyser, there's no official evidence to connect Grobius to anything illegal. The guy's either real clean or real careful."

"Libby and I called a lot of the people we know who are involved in the more esoteric side of things. Grobius's name rang a couple of bells, but small ones. There's a rumor going back maybe five years, that Grobius was sick with something lingering but fatal. I don't know if it was AIDS, or what. The docs apparently told him to make out his will, so he went looking to the magical community for help."

"There's nothing illegal about that, Morris. It's even kind of understandable. I mean, if you're looking the Reaper right in the eye, and
you've got a bunch of money that's no good to you when you're dead, you'll try anything that offers hope
—Laetrile, crazy diets, and maybe magic."

"Yeah, but don't forget, there are two kinds of magic, white and black. Libby says that neither one can cure a fatal illness. Prolong your life a while
—maybe. Cure you—no. But there's a difference between the two sides."

"Which is…"

"White magicians don't lie about what they can accomplish. Black ones sometimes do."

"Black ones like Pardee, maybe."

"Uh-huh, that had occurred to me."

"That still doesn't explain the dead kids with the missing organs, Morris."

"No it doesn't…. except…"

"What? Except what?"

"Well, shit. I had an idea, but lost it in the fog of sleep deprivation. I'll let you know if I find it again. But there's something else, Fenton. Remember, I told you what Hannah's buddy Frank said: something big and nasty is supposed to be going down in North America on Walpurgis Night, which coincides with the full moon, this year."

"There was a time when I would've said 'occult bullshit' to that, but I think I'll hold that opinion in abeyance for now."

"Smart man. Thing is, Libby and I both got confirmation from some of our sources. There's a lot of stirring among the followers of the Left-Hand Path lately, and some of them are talking about a big deal coming up on the thirtieth."

"Which is two fucking days from now."

"Which is precisely two fucking days from now. But one of the guys I talked to had also heard the name of a place that's been associated with these revels."

"And Colleen accuses me of milking stuff. Just tell it, will you?"

"Coeur d'Alene, Iowa."

There was silence on Morris's phone.

"Fenton? Hello?"

"Yeah, sorry. 'Coeur d'Alene' rang the chimes. I was just checking my notes, wait… yeah here it is. Morris…"

"I'm here."

"Grobius has a place in Coeur d'Alene, Iowa. Big estate, apparently."

"Well, fuck my ass and call me Shirley."

"Say
what?"

"Just an expression."

"Something else I'm lookin' at, that's interesting about this estate. They only started building it five years ago. That was about the time that Grobius supposedly took sick, isn't it?"

"You know, I wonder if Libby can do a scrying of Grobius's place in Iowa, see if there's anything there besides cows."

"What the fuck, man, go for it. I know Libby has done some pretty impressive stuff in the past. Go on, ask her."

"I will, as soon as she gets back. The Sisterhood is having a… meeting, I guess you'd call it, supposed to start in a little while."

"She gonna be back tonight?"

"Oh yeah, couple of hours, max. It's kind of like a conference call. Say, is your partner there with you?"

"Colleen? No, she's lying down for a while. She's dealing with some shit that happened this morning. Asked me not to disturb her for a while. Why?"

"Nothing important. Thought I remembered where I might've met her, some years back, and I wanted to ask her about it. It'll keep."

"Okay. If Libby can do the scrying, let me know what she turns up, even if it's nothing but cows. I just won't put the scrying stuff in my report for the Bureau."

"Yeah, I'll call you either way. But what do we do if she can't make it work?"

"Beats the pure fuck out of me."

Libby Chastain checked the time and saw she had ten minutes until the Circle would form. As she always did on these occasions, she went into the bathroom to take a simple precautionary measure. Then she made sure her hotel room's door was triple locked, and that the wards she had placed there earlier were still in place and functioning. Quincey Morris was in the adjoining room, the connecting door closed but not locked, and he had promised to remain there until Libby was back in her body again.

She lay on the bed, loosened her clothing a little to make sure she would remain comfortable, and closed her eyes. Libby began to repeat in her mind the mantra she had been taught years ago, while seeing in her mind's eye the image of a circle. She needed to focus on keeping that circle perfectly round, perfectly round…

"Greetings, Sisters, and may the peace of the Goddess, and the love of the Earth, our mother, dwell in your hearts." Eleanor Robb sat at the head of a long conference table, in a luxuriously appointed boardroom. The carpet beneath Libby's feet was beautiful and wonderfully soft. Sunlight streamed gently in from several windows, and yet none of it shone in anyone's eyes. The air held just the slightest odor of sandalwood, and from somewhere came the music of a beautifully played Spanish guitar, just loud enough to be audible.