The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) (21 page)

It got dark after a couple of steps. I pulled out my lighter and it flickered to life, showing dark earth and creaking wooden supports holding up the roof of the tunnel. Miners used to pack these tunnels, dying of black lung and cave-ins, working themselves to death for pitiable pay. Many of the people in these mountains worked in similar mines. It was no wonder Charity Crabbpatch was pissed off.

But Reverend Sharp was pitching for the other team, and pitching strong. He looked ahead, holding the Bible tightly to his chest. “Lot of men died down here,” he said. “And they died doing honest, Christian labor. That was never for me.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And Charity didn’t like it either.” I raised my voice, and it echoed down the tunnel. “You in there, Charity?” I asked. “Come on out! We’ve come all the way here, just to get a look at your beautiful face!”

“Don’t mock the devil,” Reverend Sharp warned. “He won’t take kindly to it.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” I replied.

I raised the lighter over my head, and it illuminated the widening tunnel. There was a small mound of dirt in the center of the tunnel. Charity Crabbpatch hovered above it, ravens perched on her shoulders. The ground under her seethed and writhed. I looked at it, and saw it was full of insects, rats and snakes. Centipedes, scorpions, spiders and other vermin of all shapes crawled around together in a living carpet. I realized that mocking the devil might have been a mistake.

Charity stared at me, her red eyes glowing in the darkness of the mine. “You like this place? I hope you do. Your bones are gonna be here for a very long time.” She pointed a finger at us. “The creatures of the dark will be your only companions. Why don’t you go and get to know them, right around now?”

All of her pet vermin came towards us in a crawling, hissing, snarling tide. I went down, feeling them passing over me as I struggled to hold onto the shotgun. I heard Reverend Sharp go down next to me. I rolled over, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him free. I pressed us both against the tunnel’s wall and tried to catch my breath. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth something would slither inside. It was like drowning in a pool of filth.

When most of the vermin had crawled past, I looked back at Sharp. “You okay, Father?” I asked. Then I saw the viper wrapped around his shoulders. It was hissing madly. The diamond-head was raised and poised to strike.

“God Almighty…” Sharp whispered. “They shall take up serpents… and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them!” I thought he was babbling like a mad man, but then I realized he was quoting scripture. Whatever it was, it didn’t anger the snake. I reached out, grabbed the tail of the snake, and pulled. It came hissing towards me, ready to uncoil and strike like lightning. I hurled it away, as far as I could into the dark.

Reverend Sharp gasped. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered. “That was a sign.”

“Sure it was, Reverend,” I muttered, turning back to Charity. “Why don’t you get religion some other time? I think we’re gonna be a little busy.”

The ground under Charity’s bare bloody feet kept moving. A long spindly spike came out, black as midnight and glistening in the lowlight of my lighter. Another spike followed, until there were eight of them stabbed through the air. Charity just hovered above them and laughed, as more dirt was cast aside. That’s when the creature came to the surface, bigger than an automobile and looking mean enough to tangle with a tank. It was a spider, a gigantic black widow that looked like it wanted me to be the husband.

I raised the shotgun. “Cute pet,” I told Charity. I racked the gun and fired, but the spider was already scuttling down the tunnel, making less noise than a falling raindrop as it crossed the ground. Before I could fire, one of those spiky legs struck my side. It felt like a spear point was jabbing into my flesh. It tossed me aside, and the wall of the tunnel flew up and smashed me in the face. The shotgun fell from my hands.

I was battered and bruised and that giant spider was going to reach down and bite my head off. My only hope was Reverend Sharp. He stood in the center of the tunnel, holding up his Bible like he was about to lead the Sunday Service. I didn’t know if he noticed me. He didn’t seem to notice Charity. She was creeping up behind him, claw poised to slide into his guts.

“God walks with me!” Sharp cried. “He has shown me his word and I have seen his glory!” He turned around, opened the Bible, and slammed it into Charity’s face. The paper clung to her skin. She reeled back, screaming as the pages burst into blue flame. Light danced in the tunnel as Charity tumbled down. She was finished for the moment. Now all I had to worry about was the giant spider about to rip off my head.

I was looking into those glistening eight eyes as it neared me, trying to get the strength to move – but it wasn’t happening. I looked to Sharp. “Reverend!” I shouted. “How about a little salvation over here!”

He grabbed my fallen shotgun and worked the pump. “Demon!” he shouted. “Face the wrath of God!” He fired, and the shot blasted gooey chunks of spider across the walls of the tunnel. Sharp fired again and again, pumping more shells into the spider and spraying its innards everywhere. It went down, its legs curling up and the shine in its eyes going to black nothingness. Sharp shot it again, right in the face, and that was the end of the spider.

Reverend Sharp helped me up. “Thanks, Father,” I said. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

He shrugged. “I robbed banks in Chapel Hill for a spell. That career taught me well.” He smiled as he handed me the shotgun. “My faith has returned, Mr. Candle. The snake did not bite me. I know that God has a plan for me.”

“It could just be a coincidence,” I pointed out. “Or maybe the snake wasn’t hungry, or didn’t get a chance to sink its fangs into you.”

“It could,” Sharp agreed. “But there’s something greater than knowledge telling me it’s not.”

“I won’t argue with that.” I looked down at Charity. “Now, let’s do a little of the Lord’s Work.” I racked the gun and faced Charity.

She looked up at me. Her eyes were as wide as full moons. She held her clawed hands over her burned face. “Please!” she cried. “I repent! I throw myself upon God’s mercy!” She whined and cried and it made me consider leaving her alone for a little more than half a second.

Then I pressed the muzzle of the shotgun to her forehead. “God’s mercy?” I asked. “You can go ask him about it. When you see him in person.” I fired, and splattered that witch’s brains out all over the tunnel. I looked back to Reverend Sharp. “The Hollow’s finished,” I said. “Let’s go.”

We walked out of the tunnel and drove the Roadmaster back down to the village. I was at the wheel, though I wanted to collapse with each passing second. There was a motel in town where I could do just that, and I was looking forward to it. Reverend Sharp sat in the passenger seat. He was reading his bible, pouring over each holy word.

I looked back, where Weatherby and Selena sat together. “So,” I said. “It looks like Reverend Elias Sharp has found Jesus after all. I never really cared much for God or any of that stuff myself. I learned that the only one you count on for help was yourself, and praying was just a lot of noise and wasted time. “ I turned to the kid. “What do you think, kiddo?”

Weatherby shrugged. He looked at his sister. “Our father taught me early on that there is truth in all faiths, no matter how bizarre, and that there are few things more powerful than the conviction of a godly man. But no, I don’t believe that it is for me. I have seen too much to embrace such a simple explanation for all things.”

“So what do you believe in then?” Selena asked her little brother.

“I have faith in people,” he said. “In my friends – like you, Mort – and in my family – like you, Selena. I have faith in the people around me, and I don’t think that anything can shake that.”

“Well,” I said. “Amen to that.”

We sped back to the little country town, and far away from Witch’s Hollow.

Business Proposition

Weatherby Stein’s room had everything a boy would want. Toys were scattered across the hard wooden floor, ranging from tin soldiers to race cars to model sailboats. The shelves were packed with pulp magazines and books, a library of amusements for any adolescent. A television sat in the corner. It had never been switched on. The window looked out at over a green field, radiant in autumn sunlight. Located in a government-owned cottage in upstate New York, the whole place was full of comfort, amusement and safety.

Weatherby hated every inch of his room, and the house it was in. He sat on his bed, his toys untouched except by dust. He was too old for them anyway, being precisely fourteen and a half, but he hadn’t even played with them when he was small. It didn’t seem right.

He was a small, scrawny child, nearly dwarfed by the size of his bed. He had pale skin, and hair as dark as a raven’s wings, carefully combed over his pleasant, frowning face. The OSS – and now the Central Intelligence Agency – had dressed him well. He wore a collared shirt, a striped tie and shorts, with round spectacles over his eyes. He resembled a small, fidgeting owl.

He folded his thin fingers and looked at the clock in the corner of the room. It was a black cat clock, with eyes and a tail that swung as it ticked. Weatherby hated that clock, more than anything else in the hated room, because it told him when Bobby Belasco – his government appointed guardian – would arrive. Sure enough, just after three o’clock there came the characteristic knock on the door.

“All right, champ!” Bobby Belasco’s voice had a simpering cheerfulness to it, like he was perpetually delighted by all things and wanted to share his joy with the world. “Ready for the day’s session? I’m coming in.”

There was a lock on Weatherby’s door, but Belasco had the key. There was no point in trying to stop him. Weatherby sat up on his bed and folded his arms as Belasco let himself in. A plump secretary in a checkered skirt followed, a typewriter held in her hands. She sat at the desk in the corner and set up, not looking at Belasco or Weatherby.

Belasco pulled up a wicker chair and sat across the Weatherby. He put his boots on the bed. “Howdy, howdy, little cowboy,” he said. “Feeling talkative today?”

“No, sir,” Weatherby replied. “No more than last week. Or the week before that.” His voice was a soft, strange mixture of upper-class German and aristocratic English.

“Well, that’s just too bad, champ.” Belasco’s smile remained. Weatherby had been interviewed by Belasco, or another CIA Agent, every Wednesday, every week, for every year since he had come here from Europe. They always wanted to know the same kinds of things, and Weatherby hadn’t given them more than hints. They were never unfriendly, and always warm and cordial – which only made Weatherby hate them more. Belasco was by far the worst.

“I mean it,” Weatherby repeated. “I won’t tell you.”

“Not about alchemy?” Belasco’s smile remained. Weatherby had seen his appearance degrade the longer he was with the Company. Stubble sprouted on his chin, his Hawaiian shirt was rumpled and had several stains, and his eyes had a wild, darting quality about them, never focusing on one thing. “Come on, sport – just a couple words. How do we transmute lead to gold? Did your father ever mention that?”