Evil Ways (4 page)

Morris was busy thinking about his way out, and wasn't interested in whatever else Fortner might keep in his little sanctum, since he wasn't being paid to mess with it. He turned away and was taking his first step toward the door when what he had just seen finally registered on his conscious mind.

He turned back slowly, hoping that he had been mistaken. He directed the flashlight beam once again toward the lowest shelf, and the row of jars that rested on it.

He had not been mistaken.

Each jar contained a heart, floating in some kind of clear liquid.

Morris knew enough anatomy to realize that he was not looking at the hearts of pigs, or calves, or some other animal.

They were human hearts.

And they were small, each of them. Far too small to have come from adults.

They were the hearts of children.

Morris had been in Los Angeles for just over a week, casing the house and grounds and keeping an eye on Fortner's movements. Local TV news, as well as the
L.A. Times,
had featured several stories about the children who had gone missing over the last few months, with no clues to suggest what might have become of them. The police were said to be "following several promising leads," which Morris had recognized for the bullshit that it was.

The most recent disappearance had been reported a week ago, shortly after Morris had arrived in town. The
Times
said that this was the eighth case in the last five months.

There were eight identical jars on Fortner's shelf.

Morris knew that the practice of black magic sometimes involved the use of human body parts, and that some of the more arcane rituals specifically called for the organs of children. He had recently met a South African cop back East who'd been on the trail of a black magician who was murdering kids for their organs.

Morris didn't know what Fortner had in mind, but it must be something really nasty to require this kind of raw material, and in such a quantity.

Not my business, no sir. I've got what I came for. All I need to worry about is getting out of here in one piece, giving this stuff to Carteret, and collecting my money.

He directed the flashlight beam slowly around the room, taking in the tools of the black magician's trade
—the grimoires, scrolls, pacts, magical ingredients, and various arcane devices.

It must have taken Fortner years to get all this stuff together. Decades, more likely.

The tools, Morris knew, had been made by Fortner himself. A magician's equipment must be attuned to him, and to him alone. It was a long, laborious process.

The flashlight revealed more mundane materials, too. Some of the shelves contained jars of ordinary chemicals, like magnesium, phosphorus, and sulfuric acid. There were large bottles of alcohol, used in
some purification rituals. Morris even spied a box of Blue Angel wooden matches, presumably for lighting the candles, alcohol lamps, and incense burners.

I'm wasting time. Whatever Fortner is up to, it's no business of mine. I'm a professional. Get in, get the goods, and get out again. That's what I'm damn well paid for.

Morris supposed he could inform the police about Fortner. After all, they were eager for information about the child abductions.

Oh, sure. Absolutely.
"Excuse me, officer, but I was burglarizin' this fella's house the other night, and I came upon something you might be interested in. Oh, and did I mention that he's a practitioner of black magic, who's been stealing the kids to use their hearts in his wicked rituals?"

He'd be lucky if they only laughed at him. A spell in jail or in the local loony bin would be more likely. And an anonymous call would most likely just be filed in the "nut" drawer.

No, there was nothing he could do about Fortner or his little projects. "Let sleeping dogs lie" was good advice, especially when the dog in question was a black magician who did not stint at murder.

It was a professional's attitude, and Morris was, above all else, a professional.

He sent the flashlight beam around the room one last time.
Ain't none of my damn business, anyway.

Ten minutes later, Morris was shimmying up the rope that he had tied to the producer's tree. He had encountered no further interference on his way out of Fortner's house, or across the grounds.

He reached the branch to which he had secured the rope, grasped it, and quickly hoisted himself up into the tree. Then he unknotted the rope, drew it up, and wound it back around his waist.

Before starting his descent into the producer's property, Morris spared a final glance toward Fortner's house, where the flames were just now becoming visible in the windows, flickering like the eyes of a madman.

Morris nodded, once. Then he turned away and began his careful climb down the tree. He wanted to be well away before any fire trucks showed up.

Morris was a professional. But that was not the only thing he was.

It was just after dawn when Quincey Morris got back to his room at the Beverly Wilshire, and found that the FBI was waiting for him.

Libby Chastain, white witch
extraordinaire,
was naked, wet, and horny.

The first two conditions were due to the fact that she was in the shower. The third stemmed from her break-up, a week ago, with her lover, Nancy Randall.

"I don't see why you won't do a threeway with me and Mike," Nancy had kept saying. "I mean, you told me you like guys, and I
know
you like girls. Come on, Libby, have some
fun."
Mike was Nancy's former boyfriend, and Libby had begun to suspect that he wasn't as "former" as she'd supposed.

"Being bi doesn't make me a skank, Nancy," Libby had told her. "Threeways, fourways, moreways
—as one of my favorite TV characters used to say,
Homey don't play dat."

But Nancy wouldn't leave it alone. Finally, Libby'd had enough, and told Nancy to pack her stuff and leave.
Just as well. She probably wouldn't have quit until she had us as the main attraction in one of those Tijuana sex shows
—
just me, Nancy, two dwarves, and a burro.

Libby didn't regret her decision, but a week of celibacy was starting to take its toll on her ability to concentrate. Consequently, she was
giving serious thought to using the shower massage gadget for a purpose its manufacturers had never intended.
Then again, maybe they did.

She was reaching for the nozzle when she heard, very faintly, a sound made by the people who had come to kill her.

She didn't know for certain that they had lethal intent, but the magical wards on her condo's door and windows would have stopped an everyday crack addict or rapist, as well as raising one hell of a ruckus. The fact that Libby had heard nothing meant that whoever was out there had sufficient magical know-how to overcome her protections
—and in near-silence, besides. People with that kind of skill don't just stop by to borrow a cup of sugar.

It might be coincidence that they had caught Libby at her most vulnerable, but she doubted it. She sensed a malign intelligence behind this invasion, and its agents were probably going to take her life in the next few seconds unless she found something to do about it
right now.

All the rooms of the condo were charged with magical energy; some of this was deliberate on Libby's part, and the rest simply stemmed from the fact that she lived and practiced magic there. As a result, she could work some basic spells in her home without the equipment and materials that she would need to make them viable elsewhere. Libby quickly whispered the words of a simple levitation spell, and a few moments later found herself floating gently upward until her body was stopped by the high ceiling, her naked back pressed lightly against the textured paint. That would buy a few seconds when the killers came for her, but no more.

Libby darted her gaze around the room, seeking something,
anything,
that could be used in her defense. But she found no inspiration in the towels, shampoo, cosmetics, and other paraphernalia that occupy a modern woman's bathroom. Libby found herself shivering, even though the water in the shower had been running warm verging on hot when she'd left it a few moments ago.

Water.

Libby heard someone try the bathroom door quietly, only to find that it was locked. Most people don't bother to lock their bathroom doors when home alone, but Libby had gotten into the habit during
the seven months that Nancy had stayed with her. If the bathroom door was left unlocked while Libby showered, she could usually count on a naked Nancy slipping in there with her, in hopes of starting something. It had been fun and exciting the first few times, but Libby usually took a shower in order to get clean, not to be groped by a sex maniac, even a friendly one.

The locked door gave Libby enough time to chant, softly but very fast, a conjuration spell that she hadn't used in years. She hoped that she still remembered it correctly, and apparently she did, because in the stream of the shower below her, a shape began to appear. The shape was female in form but smaller than a human woman, and it appeared to be made of water. The creature spread its liquid hands and looked upward toward Libby.
Why have you called me?
a mellifluous female voice said, inside Libby's mind.
Do you want to play a game?

Water sprites, like most of the fey, are gentle, playful creatures.

Unless they are attacked.

The bathroom door burst open in response to a hefty kick, and two men stumbled in, each holding some kind of automatic weapon with a sound-suppressed barrel. Amped up with adrenaline and the urge to kill, the men opened up at the first human-looking form they saw. Their bullets passed harmlessly through the water sprite and buried themselves in the tile of Libby's bathroom.

Which is not to say that no harm was done.

After firing one long burst apiece, the men stood gaping at the translucent fairy that was occupying the shower stall. But they did not stand there long.

With a screech of rage that only Libby Chastain could hear, the water sprite flung itself at the two hit men. But the watery form did not soak them. Instead it quickly divided in two, each half forming a long thin stream
—that instantly shot up each man's nose.

The streams went on and on, drawing substance from Libby's still-running shower. The men staggered back into Libby's living room, dropping their weapons as each desperately tried to draw a breath that contained air, and not water.

Libby allowed herself to drift slowly down from the ceiling. Once her feet were solidly on the floor, she grabbed a bath towel and began quickly to dry herself. But she did not turn the shower off.

Although white magic cannot be used to harm people, it does not prevent evil people from, essentially, harming themselves. Libby did not think that her practitioner's oath required her to save people who had just tried to kill her. In any case, if she tried to interfere with the water sprite's vengeance, it might well turn on
her.
Libby had no desire to share the fate of the two killers who were now, she was sure, in the process of drowning while on dry land.

She was not looking forward to seeing what would be lying on her living room floor, but Libby knew she would have to go out there sooner or later, and sooner would be better.

She had telephone calls to make.

The man from the FBI was a compact, wiry-looking black man who had placed one of the room's easy chairs so that it faced the doorway. He sat there as Morris came in, both hands conspicuously in sight, one of them holding open the small leather case that contained his badge and ID card.

Morris stood in the doorway, very still, then took a slow step into the room, and let the door swing shut behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was standing behind the door. He thought those kinds of adolescent shenanigans might still be in the FBI's playbook, but the man with the badge seemed to be alone.

He stood up and took a couple of steps toward Morris, still holding out the ID folder, as if he thought Morris would want to examine it. "Special Agent Fenton, FBI," he said. "Although I guess you figured out that last part already."

Morris was still holding his room's card key. Now he put it back in his pocket, his movements slow and careful. Some of these guys were always waiting for an excuse to show off one of the fancy moves they'd learned at Quantico
—or worse, demonstrate just how fast they were on the draw. Morris had no desire to have his liver ventilated by a 9mm slug because some Fed overreacted to an innocuous movement.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Agent Fenton?" Morris said evenly.

"Answering that one is gonna take us a while. Maybe we should both sit down."

Morris didn't move immediately. "Am I under arrest?"

"No, you're not," Fenton said, sitting down again "Yet."

Morris looked at him for a moment longer, then moved to sit down himself. There was another armchair in the room, but he chose the side of the king-size bed. In the unlikely event that things got physical, Morris figured he could get off the bed and into action a lot faster than someone sunk into a big, overstuffed chair.

"You know," Morris said, "I do have an office in Austin. No secretary, but there's an answering service that makes appointments, and they're pretty reliable. All you had to do was call."

"I'm aware of that," Fenton said. "Thing is, this can't wait, and I had no way of knowing when you'd be coming back. I mean, you have to go see Carteret first, don't you? Or were you just planning on a phone call to let him know that the job was done?"

Despite himself, Morris blinked a couple of times. "I'd sure be interested in knowing how you got a warrant to tap my phone," he said. "Or did you just decide that I was a terrorist, and skip the warrant entirely, probable cause be damned?"

Fenton gave him a satisfied-looking smile. "We didn't tap your phone, as a matter of fact," he said. "But we
were
able to get a warrant to look at some records. Your phone calls, both sent and received, for instance. And your bank records, which showed a recent wire transfer to your account from one James Tiberius Carteret. Southwest Airlines confirmed your booking of a flight to Los Angeles shortly thereafter. I was interested to see that you bought a one-way ticket. Didn't quite know when you were coming home, did you?"

"Maybe I was hoping to meet some honey over on Rodeo Drive," Morris said. "Hook up with her and spend a week at her place in Palm Springs, playing house the way the rich folks do. You ever think of that?"

Fenton ignored the sarcasm. "You were under surveillance from the moment you deplaned in L.A., of course. We noticed your intense interest in a certain residence on Mulholland Drive
—which is currently the subject of a three-alarm fire, I understand."

"That right?" Morris said. There was no expression in either his face or voice.

"Yep. It's quite a conflagration, they tell me. Just a second." Fenton produced a complicated-looking phone, opened it, and began to use his thumbs on the keyboard. Then he waited about half a minute, looked at the screen again, and put the thing away. "Don't worry, looks like they've got it contained. It won't spread to the rest of the neighborhood, most likely."

"I'm sure that's good news for a number of people."

"It surely is. 'Course, arson isn't a federal crime, unless you burn down some federal property, and Mister Fortner's place certainly doesn't qualify. Interesting fella, that Fortner. Did you know he spent a year with Skorzeny, back in the Eighties?"

There was silence in the room then, broken only by the distant sounds of rush hour traffic nine floors below. It went on for a while, until Morris broke it.

"You're an interesting sort of FBI agent," he said. "Did you say you were with the L.A. field office?"

"No, I didn't, because I'm not. I'm with the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico."

Morris nodded, as if this didn't surprise him. "Behavioral Science. Well, now. I used to know somebody, worked for your outfit years ago, fella name of Will Graham."

"Before my time," Fenton said.

"Uh-huh, I expect it was. So what does Behavioral Science want with me? I'm not a serial killer, and I don't chase them down, either."

"I know the first part of that's true, but I'm not too sure about the second."

"Not sure I follow you, podner."

"What I mean is, you've been involved from time to time with people who were suspected of a variety of crimes, including serial murder."

"I don't associate with criminals, Agent Fenton. Given the choice, I don't associate with FBI agents, either."

"Just as well I didn't give you a choice, then." Fenton stood up, but not like he was in any hurry about it. "You mind if I take my jacket off? I've had it on all night, and I'd like to feel the full benefit of the air conditioning in here."

"Be my guest."

Fenton slowly removed the jacket of a gray suit that, Morris estimated, must have cost him the better part of a month's salary. Once the suit coat was off, Morris could see Fenton's sidearm
—some kind of plastic automatic, like a Glock or Sig Sauer, worn in a holster just behind the right hip. Morris wondered if Fenton was displaying the hardware for intimidation purposes, but decided that guys from Behavioral Science were a little more subtle than that. At least, he hoped they were.

Fenton placed his carefully folded jacket on top of the room's writing desk and sat back down.