Evil Ways (30 page)

Morris wore one of the light headsets that Hannah Widmark had picked up at a specialty electronics store in Spokane. It consisted of an earpiece, a battery-powered transceiver, and a slim microphone that was positioned about four inches from his mouth. Duplicate sets, tuned to the same frequency, were now being worn by Hannah, Fenton, Colleen O'Donnell, and Ellie Robb. All of them were now in their pre-selected positions at different points around the compound's perimeter.

Morris pressed the "Transmit" button and said, "This is Q. The doves are in position, and so am I. Acknowledge." A moment later, a woman's voice, still lovely despite the static said, "This is H. Got it." Then he heard a man's voice say, "This is D. Acknowledged." Once he had heard from Colleen and Ellie, Morris settled the rifle across his knees and tried to relax. He would probably be here a while.

He had just finished leading the white witches to their predetermined positions, using a GPS device to find the precise spots that had been determined from viewing the aerial photographs of the area. Each had with her a backpack or carryall or some other container for the "gear" she would use to cast a spell to counter that being made by the black witches inside the compound.

Morris had wanted Fenton in the position covering the front, and largest, gate. To his surprise, Hannah had not argued, and had readily agreed to take the north gate, on the side opposite from Morris. Colleen O'Donnell was covering the back. Morris had assumed that Hannah would want the front, which would likely offer the greatest number of targets. He was certain that she had no intention of merely keeping the guards in her scope pinned down by fire, which was why he wanted her somewhere else. Hannah's ready agreement had pleased him at the time, but now he wondered if she were playing some more devious game. Then he mentally shrugged, and let it go.
Wheels within wheels. You think about that stuff too much, you can drive yourself nuts.

Morris's own plan was crude, but the best he could come up with. Once his fire had sent any guards near the south gate scurrying for cover, Morris was going to move in as closely as he could without being seen. By then, if the guards had been called to some other part of the compound, all well and good. But if any remained, Morris planned to shoot them dead, before charging the gate to gain entry to the compound. Hannah would probably have accused him of being hypocritical; however, Morris was not planning to kill guards out of bloodlust. He did not want to kill anyone, at all. But he was going in after Libby Chastain, and God help anyone who got in his way.

Morris decided to spend the time until action doing something useful. He prayed.

Several of the invited black witches had arrived by car during the afternoon and early evening. Each had been greeted with great courtesy, shown to a spacious private bedroom with bath, and told to call housekeeping if she needed anything at all. But now that it was dark, the others should…

Pardee looked up, just in time to see a silhouette pass between him and the risen full moon. A grin split the wizard's thin face. The figure he had glimpsed in outline had not been wearing anything as silly and impractical as a conical hat.

But she
had
been riding a broom.

"My sisters in Satan, I bid you welcome!"

Pardee stood upon the highest of the marble steps that led to the great altar, and looked down at the twenty women who stood in a ragged semicircle before him. Their ages ranged from twenties to fifties, and their garments spanned the gamut from goth, to biker chick, to hippy, to punk, to almost nothing at all. Most of them had animals of various species either in their arms, on their shoulders, or by their sides.

"By these revels tonight, we bring about a new age of our faith, for we shall, by making use of this ancient ritual, which has been hidden for centuries, successfully call upon the one whom we all worship, and whose favor we all hope to gain, both in this world and in the next."

Pardee made a sweeping gesture to include several long tables that had been covered in white cloths, which were even now being removed by trusted servants.

"For our revels, I offer you the finest drink, the most sumptuous food, and the most intoxicating herbs, and I bid you eat, drink, dance, get high, fornicate, and enjoy yourselves any fucking way you wish, until the witching hour is almost at hand, and the true work of the evening can begin. Until then…" Pardee drew in a deep breath, and what followed was a joyous shout:
"Let's party!"

That was the cue for the music, which instantly boomed from a dozen huge speakers spaced around the area. The first song on the playlist was, appropriately, by Black Sabbath.

As the first strains of "Heaven and Hell" blared forth from inside the compound, Morris shook his head. Then, after a moment, he checked his watch.
Well, at least they're punctual. Trite, but punctual.

He reached for the airline carryall bag he'd brought with him and unzipped it. Not wanting to show a light, Morris rummaged past the boxes of rifle ammunition, a St. Christopher's medal, a large revolver, and other necessities to find an energy bar, which he brought out along with a bottle of water. Might as well chow down and enjoy the show, if
enjoy
was the proper word.

Look on the bright side, Quincey. If those assholes are planning to make us listen to almost three hours of heavy metal, getting shot at when it's over is gonna come almost as a relief.

From her concealed position 180 yards from the north gate, Hannah Widmark was bobbing her head to the beat coming from the other side of the wall. She quite liked heavy metal music, and was glad to learn that the Forces of Evil had decent taste in something.

Even though she knew it was likely to be several hours before she got to kill anybody, Hannah checked her equipment, using touch alone. Ammo
—check. Combat knife—check. Tampax (just in case)— check. She spent extra time on the two Colt .45 automatics that she wore, butts forward, in twin holsters under her armpits.

Her pistol craft instructor, a shadowy, enigmatic man named Cranston, had insisted that the .45 Colt, although foolishly abandoned by the U.S. military ten years earlier, was still the best combat handgun in the world. Its rate of fire was as fast as anyone could want, it would never jam if you kept it clean, and the big, slow .45 round was a guaranteed one-shot stop, no matter where on the body you hit.

Cranston had taught her, with care and patience, how to fire both weapons simultaneously and hit what she was aiming at, with either hand, every time. Two hours a day, every day, for more than a year, Hannah had watched and learned and practiced. Cranston used to
say, with that weird laugh of his, "The weed of Satan bears bitter fruit, Hannah. And these are your weed-cutters."

Hannah hoped they'd play some Def Leppard over there before the evening was done. Those guys were her faves.

Sitting in his darkened office, Walter Grobius watched the witches' revels through state-of-the-art binoculars that showed him every detail. He could almost have counted individual strands of pubic hair, except many of the ladies of the Left-Hand Path seemed to prefer having none at all.

Grobius watched the witches as, in various pairs and combinations, they got it on with each other, with familiars in the forms of baboons and large dogs, and with bizarre-looking creatures that he assumed were the minor demons Pardee had referred to.

It was the most erotic thing he had ever seen in his life.

For the first time in years, Grobius found himself getting an erection. Something so rare was too good to waste. He reached for his telephone.

"Send one of the secretaries up here. No, I don't care
—whoever's handy."

Grobius put the phone down and smiled contentedly. Getting your cock sucked a few hours before achieving virtual immortality was not a bad way to spend an evening. Not bad, at all.

"Well, dear Libby, it's time," Pardee said.

Libby Chastain looked at him impassively. She had heard the music start a few hours ago, knew what it portended, and had estimated the passage of subsequent time with fair accuracy. She had not been surprised when Pardee, shit-eating grin in place, had opened the door.

She had spent most of the day in meditation, so her mind was calm and clear. She had practiced several other mental disciplines, as well. The last hour or so had been given to a series of muscle contraction routines, including some Kegel exercises that Libby thought might prove very beneficial in a short while.

Pardee approached the bed, and sniffed loudly. "What's this
—you haven't soiled yourself? Such discipline! However, I fear it will prove all for naught. When I plunge my sacrificial knife in your lower belly and start working my way up, I'm afraid both your bladder and bowels will give up all their contents."

He stood next to the bed now, and was staring into her eyes. "But do you know what?" he said. "I'm not going to let it spoil my enjoyment, not even a little bit. In fact, your sudden incontinence might even add to it. Now, then."

Pardee reached out one hand and cupped it over the top of Libby's head. He noticed her right hand suddenly form a fist; clearly, she was not as composed as she pretended. Good. Pardee said a short phrase in some arcane tongue and Libby instantly went limp, eyes closed, head lolling to one side.

"Can't have you putting up a fuss along the way, dear girl. Although I doubt you would prove very much of a problem."

Pardee touched the shackle binding Libby's right hand and said another word in the same language. The manacle dropped free, then slid off the bed to hit the carpeted floor with a soft thud. He repeated the operation three more times, then picked up Libby's limp form and carried her out of the room.

The grin remained in place. If possible, it was even wider.

Pardee, now clad in black ceremonial robes, dumped Libby Chastain onto the altar as if she had been a load of dirty laundry. He then faced the witches, most of whom, being engaged in various forms of debauchery, had not yet noticed his arrival. Pardee watched for a few moments, finding special interest in a chunky, tattooed blonde and what she was having done to her by both a minor demon, covered in scales like an alligator, and her familiar, which had taken the form of a large, clearly aroused, Great Dane.

Then Pardee raised his arms skyward, the signal to cut the music. Def Leppard was silenced in mid-screech, although the orgy down below tapered off more gradually. When he was sure he had their attention, Pardee said, "The time is come, my sisters. Go to your
positions, ready your materials, and prepare to welcome the new king of this world!"

The witches, some of them walking a bit unsteadily, got to their feet and began to move toward their designated fire pits. Some pulled their clothes on first, while others chose to remain skyclad. Soon, flames began to rise from several locations, and soon all twenty of the pits being used were burning. The body organs of dead children would be burned in those pits, accompanied by suitable incantations.

"Sisters, I bid you begin your rituals now!" Pardee cried.

Then he turned to the altar and began tearing off Libby Chastain's clothing.

When Ellie Robb noticed that the awful music had finally ceased, she closed her eyes and concentrated, sending the same message, over and over, to the white witches who had accompanied her:
Begin, my sisters, Begin, my sisters, Begin, my sisters…

Then she opened the backpack she had brought with her, and prepared to join her own efforts with those of the others. She sent a quick prayer to the Goddess that they would be enough, in number and in power, to stop the abomination that was beginning behind those concrete walls.