No Place Like Hell (17 page)

"It was bound to happen eventually, wasn't it?" she said and took a sip from her tumbler. "I mean, we knew he had a bad heart. But his doctor didn't seem to think it was enough to stop him from working himself to death."

There was bitterness in her statement, like her husband had thought more of his work than his wife. I couldn't help looking at our opulent surrounding and wondering what her problem was. She seemed to have everything.

"What was it you came for?"

"Trying to clear up a minor detail," I said, trying to downplay the importance of my next question. "Mr. Merkel's doctor said he took nitroglycerin tablets when his heart acted up. Do you know if he had them with him yesterday?"

A little crease appeared between her eyebrows. "What a silly question! He never left the house without them. They should have been in his jacket pocket."

"Do you know what coat he wore yesterday?"

The crease was joined by frown lines across her forehead. "What does it matter what he wore? He's dead. Winning an award for best-dressed corpse won't bring him back. Now if you'll excuse me, I have arrangements to make."

She walked away with an uneven gait.

"Mrs. Merkel, wait," I said, following her.

She turned and glared at me.

"I think something happened in the parking lot last night. That someone was there with your husband."

She raised her cigarette to her lips, took a long drag, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling while she squinted at me through the cloud.

"My husband's death has been ruled natural causes. Are you implying it wasn't?"

"Not exactly," I said, squirming under her scrutiny.

"What evidence do you have?" she asked.

"His jacket is missing," I replied.

"His jacket," she said. "That's it? A tramp could have wandered by and picked it up. Heaven knows Solaris has enough of them, lounging on every street corner with their bottles hidden in brown paper bags. Perhaps you should ask them who took it."

"His wallet was still in his pocket, Mrs. Merkel," I reminded her.

"Henry," she called, turning away. "See Miss Demasi out."

My face burned and my chin quivered. I clenched my fists at my sides. Seconds later, the butler appeared and showed me to the door.

I stopped just before stepping through, remembering the Mustang I'd seen as I'd approached.

"Have you noticed anyone different in the neighborhood? Any unfamiliar cars parked nearby?"

The butler looked down his nose at me. "No one but those hippie beggars from that phony church. When I shooed them away, they had the audacity to ask for a handout. I called the police, but by the time a squad car arrived, they'd gone."

I got in my baking Corvair and drummed my fingers on my thigh. I'd struck out on Tad's thugs and Merkel's death. I had no way to clear my record with Chief Greene and win a promotion. All that remained were my unanswered questions about the Slasher killings.

28

Kasker parked down the block from the Luna Azul. A headache built behind his eyes. The flesh screamed for rest and food, but excitement kept him moving. Nothing sated like a good hunt.

Once he'd retrieved his car, he'd spent the long, hot morning ping-ponging between Merkel's home and office, hoping that the new inhabitant of Merkel's flesh would make an appearance. After all, what was the point of selecting a rich and powerful body to occupy if you didn’t take advantage of its resources?

He pounded along the blistering pavement in the harsh noon light. Satisfaction curved his lips into a smile and puffed out his chest. He swept past the door guard without waiting for acknowledgment.

The restaurant was half-filled by customers who took advantage of the air conditioning to cool off while they lunched. The murmur of voices and the clatter of cutlery resonated in the air. The smell of food made saliva break in Kasker's mouth.

The two cooks and the kitchen helper jumped at his sudden appearance before moving away from him. Kasker grinned at them and raked his eyes over the skinny waitress, her hands filled with platters, who was just leaving the kitchen. Perhaps he'd have her serve him later, after he'd dealt with the demon.

Seve's Latino body guard waited at the office door. Kasker didn't see the Negro. The Latino took an initial step to stop Kasker, caught the look on Kasker's face, and backed away. Kasker swaggered in without bothering to knock.

The demon sat at his desk, pencil in hand, thick ledger open before him. His thin lips parted to reveal bared teeth, and the tension lines around his eyes deepened. Kasker lifted his chin and gave Seve a cold stare.

"Haskell was one of yours," Kasker said.

"Si. You devoured his soul?"

"Not yet," Kasker replied, smirking. "He occupies the flesh of another, Emmett Merkel. I haven't found the new flesh yet, but I will. Merkel's resources are too tempting to ignore."

Seve hissed through his teeth. He reached into the waste basket beside the desk and extracted the morning newspaper. The demon turned to a page near the back, folded the paper open, and slapped it on the desk. His finger stabbed an article, and his tone was surly.

"Try looking at the morgue."

The left column was filled with Merkel's obituary. Kasker's confidence spilled away like beer from a broken bottle. He dropped onto the chair opposite Seve and wiped a hand across his forehead.

"You've cost me another one, sabueso."

"Haskell isn't my fault," Kasker said, baring his own teeth.

"They're all your fault." The demon leaned over the desk. "Holmes' escape is your fault. You're incompetent and should be punished."

Kasker bit back a snarl and tightened his grip on his flesh lest his true form emerge to confront the demon. "If Merkel is dead, then the transfer was unsuccessful."

"You assume that Holmes' goal is to transfer the souls."

"You said that was the purpose of the ritual. Why else would he sacrifice those who've traded their souls to Hell?"

Seve stared at the ceiling and rubbed a finger over his mustache. "To spite Hell for his own incarceration? Or is he still practicing and not yet in full control of the magic? Perhaps he doesn't understand the distance limitations."

"Regardless," the demon said, returning his glare to Kasker, "you've failed again. Our master demands results—or you will pay the price."

Holmes motives were of little interest to Kasker, but the demon's warning stirred real concern in Kasker's belly. His hunter's mind turned itself to the problem. How did Holmes know whose souls were damned?

"Where do you keep the contracts?" Kasker asked.

The demon's eyes narrowed. "No one has access."

"You think Holmes has super powers? Or a crystal ball that tells him which ones to sacrifice?" Kasker spat on the floor. "Of course he doesn't. He's seen your precious parchments."

"Impossible." Seve slammed the ledger closed. "You think I leave them laying around for prying eyes to read?"

Kasker breathed in the office air testing for the scent of the damned. A succulent essence wafted up from the drops of blood spilled on the contracts. His heart thumped in his chest, and his skin prickled with soul lust.

"There," Kasker said, pointing to the floor. "Show me."

29

With my lunch date looming, I didn't have time to drive across town to Susan Brown's house. Besides, if she ever mentioned to anyone that I'd been there, I'd have yet another black mark.

I'd spiraled in on Clark's Books trying to answer Tad's question. Why use it instead of a safer, more secluded location?

If the neighborhood had significance to the killer, it eluded me. The bar across the street attracted late-night traffic, putting the killer at risk of being seen. If it had to be this area, why not use the flower shop, the bakery, or the dress shop, all on the opposite side of the alley from Clark's, away from the prying eyes of bar patrons?

A Closed sign hung on the front door of the bookstore. No one answered my knock. Bright light glowed in the room beyond the curtain, and the faint strains of chanting drifted through the glass.

I left my car out front and trudged around the block. A shiny blue and white Ford station wagon blocked the alley behind Clark's. The tailgate hung open, the interior crammed with bottles, jugs, buckets of rags, an ancient Hoover vacuum, brooms, and mops. Lettering on the front doors read
Blake & Sons Cleaning
.

Clark's backdoor stood ajar. The scent of vanilla and hot wax filled the alley. The scratchy recording of a cassette tape played from inside, repeating the slow chant
shree ram jay ram
while a stringed instrument and bells created harmony in the background. I squeezed past the car and into the bookstore.

Fresh wax on the scarred and battered wood floor gleamed under a powerful portable light. The walls and ceilings were three shades brighter and spotless. On the work table beside a cassette player, a white candle burned next to the photo of an ancient and shirtless East Indian guru.

"Can I help you, officer?"

A woman my age stepped out of the bathroom, cleaning rag in hand. She wore loose green coveralls, a blue bandana over her short, ebony hair, and bright yellow rubber gloves.

"I'm looking for Mr. Clark," I replied.

"He's across the street at the bar, waiting for us to finish," she said, picking up an empty pail and walking toward the door. "My sister's gone to get him."

"The place looks amazing." I'd imagined they'd have to gut the building to remove the bloodstains and smell. I couldn't believe they were gone.

"Thanks," she said with a nervous smile. "We almost didn't take the job, but money's tight right now."

I trailed her into the alley where she stowed her supplies in the back of the wagon.

"I can understand why you wouldn't want to tackle a job like this one. Pretty gruesome."

"It wasn't the mess," she said.

She brushed past me into the store. I waited by the door. She unplugged the portable light, carried it to the wagon, and stashed it in the back.

"We've done jobs much messier than this one. Elderly people who died and weren't discovered for weeks. Suicide by shotgun. That was the worst. Bits of bone and brain everywhere."

My stomach flip-flopped at the thought. This woman was tough.

"Are you working this case?" she asked.

"My partner and I were first on the scene."

She went back inside, where she stopped the tape, blew out the candle, and collected the candle, player, and picture. She gave the place a final look, shivered, and walked out.

"I hope you did a cleanse afterward," she said.

"A cleanse?" I asked.

"To remove any taint of negative energy, especially since you were present right after it happened."

I stifled a laugh.

She must have read the expression on my face. She waved at the shop. "This is a place of power. That power was used to amplify an evil act. We did what we could to protect ourselves while we were here, but we're going straight to a sweat lodge, and then we'll meditate."

"It's a bookstore!" I protested. "Just a bookstore."

"It's a place of words, and words have power. And it's at a ley line intersection," she replied.

"A what?"

"Ley line intersection." Her voice took on the kind of patience that a teacher used with dull pupils. "John Michell, the English writer, lectures about them. They're psychic power lines that run between ancient spiritual sites. Some people can tap into that energy."

I didn't believe a word of this mystic crapola, but it didn't matter what I believed. What mattered was what the killer believed.

"How do you know it's an intersection?"

She opened the driver's door and fished a city map from the seat. When she unfolded it, it was crisscrossed with dozens of red lines.

"Here's the bookstore," she said, pointing to our location. "See how two lines cross?"

I stared at the map, my heart thumping in my chest. Another set of red lines crossed at the Robert Haskell kill site.

"Where'd you get this?" I asked, taking it from her hands.

"My sister and I made it."

"You and your sister are psychic?" Skepticism filled my voice.

She quirked an eyebrow at me. "Just because you don't believe doesn't mean these things don't exist. Besides, it doesn't take a psychic to draw lines between points on a map."

I reined in my opinions and used my neutral interview voice. "How'd you know what points to use?"

"They're from a list we picked up at our meditation center. It includes all the world's important temples and burial sites, like Machu Picchu, along with some lesser known local landmarks."

I nodded like I understood what she was talking about. A little thrill walked up my spine. I was close to nailing Sleeth.

"Who made the list?"