Chapter Seven

 

 

MORRIS CLOSED THE trunk lid then turned and leaned against it, hands in his pockets. He would have been more comfortable with his arms folded across his chest, but he didn’t want to give Dan Sturbridge an impression of disapproval. He thought he knew what was going on, and it would require careful handling.

“What about you, Dan?”

“It’s just that... look, Quincey, I’ve been in law enforcement a long time. I’ve had to deal with a lot of dangerous people. I’m not yellow.”

“I never thought you were,” Morris said evenly.

Sturbridge went on as if Morris hadn’t spoken. “I’ve chased suspects down dark alleys, not knowing whether they were armed or not—and sometimes, they were. I’ve served warrants in neighborhoods where most cops wouldn’t go without a SWAT team in their back pocket. I’ve risked my life plenty of times, over the years. But this...” He made a gesture that seemed to Morris to combine frustration with despair.

“You did okay when we had to deal with those vampires that time three years ago,” Morris said. “In fact, I’d have said you did fine.”

“That’s ’cause I didn’t really believe it was vampires we was after. I figured it was just a few nuts who had taken the Goth thing one step too far and were acting like vampires. And by the time I found out just how wrong I was...”

“You had no choice but to fight. It was fight or die. Or worse.”

“Exactly. That’s exactly the way it was. And afterward... afterward I had nightmares about it for months. For months. I took to sleeping with a cross around my neck, and another one over the bed—and I’m not even Catholic.”

Morris nodded. He was no stranger to horrific nightmares himself.

“So why’d you call me in this time, Dan?” he asked.

“I figured you’d handle it yourself, without dragging me along. Anyway, don’t you have a partner now? Some kind of witch? That’s what I heard, anyway.”

“You’re right,” Morris said. “I do have a partner these days. Her name’s Libby Chastain, and she is a witch—the kind who practices white magic, which is still pretty damn powerful.”

“Then why don’t you get her down here? Sounds like she’d be more help to you than I could ever be.”

“Not a bad idea, in principle,” Morris said. “But Libby lives in New York City, where she’s got her own private consulting business.”

“A consulting witch?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“And she makes a living doing that?”

“A pretty good living,” Morris said. “With a population as big as the one you’ve got in the New York metro area, it’s not hard to find quite a few folks who believe in magic—or who are desperate enough to need to believe.”

“Yeah, I guess even if one percent are believers, that still adds up to an awful lot of people.”

“It sure does, podner. And I’m not going to ask Libby to drop whatever she’s doing and come running out here, if it’s not an emergency.”

“You don’t think that a bunch of fucking ghouls killing and eating people amounts to an emergency?”

“No, I don’t,” Morris said. “A threat—yes. One that has to be dealt with—yes. But out there in the desert, a long way from any human habitation...” He shook his head. “I don’t figure the ghouls are likely to find a lot of people to prey on. Besides...”

When Morris didn’t immediately go on, Sturbridge looked at him. “Besides, what?”

“Pretty soon, Libby’s going into seclusion for a month with other members of her Sisterhood. She won’t be available for anything else until that’s over with.”

“Seclusion? You mean some kind of retreat, or something?”

“Don’t know for sure, but I get the impression that it’s probably a bigger deal than just taking a month off for prayer and meditation. The whole thing’s supposed to be a big secret, so she hasn’t said much about it. The way she put it was, ‘It’s a witch thing—you wouldn’t understand’.”

“Okay, fine, I get it,” Sturbridge said, his voice sounding a little desperate. “But isn’t there somebody else you could call in to help you?”

Morris shook his head slowly. “Nobody I could get on short notice. Nobody I’d trust, anyway.” He gave the Sheriff a measured look. “I trust you, Dan.”

“Even though I’m shit scared?”

“I’m scared of those things, too, Dan. Seriously. But somebody once defined courage as ‘being shit scared, and still doing what you have to.’”

“Yeah? And who said that?”

“Me,” Morris told him. “I did.”

“Look, Quincey—”

“It has to be you, Dan. I won’t do it alone—it’s too dangerous. I need somebody to watch my back. You called me in, Dan. This is your county, and it was one of your taxpayers that the fuckin’ ghouls had for dinner. The next victim will be one of yours, too, most likely. Unless we stop it now.”

Sturbridge turned and walked away—or started to. He stopped after two or three steps and just stood there, his back to Morris. Morris wasn’t sure what Sturbridge was looking at—the Sheriff’s headquarters, people going in and out, the parked cars, or maybe nothing at all. After perhaps a minute, he turned and walked back. His face was expressionless. “All right,” he said. His throat was so tight, he seemed to have difficulty getting the words out. “But I get the fuckin’ flamethrower.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Morris said through a grin. “Unless you have some experience lopping off ghouls’ heads with a cavalry saber, that is.”

“No—they don’t teach that one at the California Police Academy. Not yet, anyway.”