Play with Fire

chapter Fifteen

PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR BARRY Love could usually be found, when he could be found at all, on Ninth Avenue just off Forty-Eighth Street. His office was on the fifth floor of a brick office building that had probably been built when America still liked Ike. Love specialized in cases involving what he called “the weird shit,” so it was inevitable that he would cross paths with Morris and Chastain sooner or later. A couple of years ago, they had sought Love’s help on a case, and in the process had helped him out with a small demon infestation.

Love’s work had made him twitchy and paranoid, perhaps with reason. Consequently he rarely would talk on the telephone, and never made use of email or text messaging. He’d once said that such technologies made it too easy for “them” to find out what he was up to. So Morris and Chastain had to come to him.

They were trying to identify someone with a skill set that would have allowed him to steal the well-guarded Corpus Hermeticum and get out again undetected. Their phone calls from Montana had produced nothing useful – but if anybody would know such a person, it would be Barry Love.

Making an appointment was, of course, out of the question, which explains how Morris and Chastain found themselves outside the heavy wooden door that read “Barry Love Investigations.”

The door had been plain, unadorned wood the last time they’d visited, but since then a number of designs had been drawn on the door in various colors. Some others were actually carved into the wood.

Morris stared at them. A few of the designs looked familiar to him, but he couldn’t remember from where. Pointing with his chin, he said to Libby, “Think Barry’s got him some vandalism problems?”

Libby looked at the door for a few seconds. “Not unless there’s a gang of witches in the neighborhood, and we tend not to go in for tagging much.” She shook her head. “Those are wards. Pretty sophisticated, too.”

“If he’s home, we can ask about them,” Morris said, and knocked on the door. He waited, got no response, and knocked again, with the same result.

“Well, shit,” he said.

Libby Chastain shrugged. “We knew it was a toss-up as to whether he’d be in or not.”

“Yeah, it always is, with Barry.”

“Let’s go find dinner someplace close by,” Libby said. “Then we’ll come back and see if he’s here. If he’s still not around, you can crash on my couch tonight, and we’ll try again tomorrow.”

“If there’s a better idea than that, I can’t think of it,” Morris said. “I noticed an Italian place down the street that might–”

The clanky old elevator that had brought them to the fifth floor was moving again, the sound of its operation was loud in the quiet building. The arrow above the elevator shaft showed that the car had been summoned to the ground floor.

“Could be Barry’s about to save us some trouble,” Morris said.

Libby was watching the floor indicator. “Seems likely,” she said. “I don’t imagine this building sees a lot of traffic after five – or even before five, for that matter.”

They both jumped a little when the door from the stairway burst open to reveal Barry Love, who began to walk rapidly along the hall toward them.

“Haven’t seen you guys in a while,” he said by way of greeting, while still thirty feet away.

“We figured you were on the elevator,” Morris said.

“I sent it up here,” Love said. “Misdirection.”

Morris and Libby exchanged looks, without being obvious about it. Same old paranoid Barry.

Barry Love was just under six feet tall, and wiry. There was quite a bit of gray in the brown hair, even though Love had not yet reached forty. His face had the careworn look of a man who doesn’t sleep much, and who has bad dreams when he does. His arms were not visible under the sport coat, but Morris knew that they were covered with tattoos designed to be sigils against demons.

Love unlocked the two deadbolts that kept his office secure, flicked on a light, and motioned them inside. Then he closed the door behind them and relocked it. “I don’t mean it the way it sounds,” he said, “but I wish you hadn’t come. Not now, anyway.”

The two windows in Love’s office had their shades drawn. He went to the nearest one and used a finger to move the curtain aside a couple of inches, allowing him to look out and down. What he saw didn’t seem to reassure him.

“Are you having trouble with demons again, Barry?” The last time they’d been here, Love’s office was being attacked by a trio of demonic creatures. Morris and Chastain had helped him handle the situation.

“Yeah but not like last time. Sit, if you want.”

While they eased into the visitors’ chairs, Love sat down at his desk, which was covered as usual by books, files, random sheets of paper, and fast food wrappers.

“What’s your problem now, Barry?” Morris asked.

Love shrugged his bony shoulders. “Apologies to Robert Johnson, but... I’ve got a hellhound on my trail.”

Libby sat up a little straighter. “Do you, now?”

Love nodded wearily. I’ve been catching glimpses of it for the last week or so. I think it’s waiting to catch me alone, at night, in an unprotected place.”

“Is that what the stuff on the door is for?” Morris asked. “Wards against the hellhound?”

“They’ve worked pretty well,” Love said. “So far, at least. It can’t get through the door – I’ve heard it trying. But I can’t live my whole life in this office. I’ve got work to do.”

“Who set it after you?” Morris asked.

“Don’t know for sure. I can think of at least three people in the city with the skill – and the motivation. I tend to piss off a lot of left-hand path types in my job, know what I mean?”

They both nodded. Love was probably the city’s foremost occult detective – as such, he made a lot of enemies.

“But that’s my problem, and I’ll deal with it,” Love said. “Meantime, what can I do for you guys? I assume this isn’t a social call.”

“No, afraid not,” Morris said. “We wanted to–”

“Wait!” Libby held up a hand. “I’m trying to think.”

She sat with eyes closed and brow furrowed for half a minute or so. Then she looked at Barry Love and said, “I may be able to help with your hellhound problem.”

She picked up her big purse and began to sort through its contents. Without looking up she said to Morris, “I’m not exactly tooled up for complicated working. Got anything on you, Quincey?”

Morris carried a switchblade, which made him a criminal in New York State. But this weapon had a silver plated blade that had been blessed by the Bishop of El Paso. It had saved his life, and Libby’s, more than once. He pulled the knife from his pocket and clicked it open. “Only this. Sorry.”

“Um,” Libby said. She looked around at Love’s office, whose shelves were covered with books, religious icons, and all manner of occult bric-a-brac. “Maybe you’ve got what I need here, Barry.”

Love spread his hands. “Try me.”

Libby closed her eyes in concentration.

“Sea salt,” she said.

“Absolutely,” he told her. “Regular table salt, too.”

“Honey.”

“Hmmm. Yeah, I think I’ve got some packets left from that breakfast takeout last week.”

“Sulphur.”

“Got a box of wooden matches. Will that do?”

“Yes, I think so. And some kind of flammable liquid.”

After a moment’s thought, Love opened a drawer and placed a half-empty bottle of cheap Scotch on top of his desk. “Guess I’ll have to make the sacrifice,” he said.

“Excellent,” Libby said. “Now, if you’ll assemble those other items for me, please, I believe I can cast a spell that will have a very satisfactory outcome.”

Twenty minutes later, she had just finished using the first two fingers of her right hand to apply the concoction she’d created around the entire perimeter of the office door. As she did so, Libby had recited an incantation in ancient Greek. Morris had studied enough Greek in high school to realize that he had absolutely no idea what she was saying – but this was Libby Chastain, white witch extraordinaire, so it didn’t really matter.

“Oh, I’ll need a reliable ignition source,” she said. “A wooden match takes too long to flame up, and there’s always the chance it’ll blow out. I know Quincey doesn’t smoke, so Barry, can you...?”

Barry Love produced a plastic disposable lighter and handed it to her. “I smoke like a furnace,” he said. “Lung cancer is the least of my worries, and tobacco helps me relax.”

Libby tested the lighter, then adjusted the flame to make it higher. “Very good,” she said. “Now comes the tricky part.”

Barry Love gave her half a grin. “Figured there was gonna be a tricky part, sooner or later.”

“Is the hellhound out there now, Barry?” Libby asked.

“I don’t know for sure, but I figure it’ll show up pretty quick if it thinks I’m vulnerable.”

“You mean, if the wards on the door weren’t protecting you.”

“Exactly.”

“All right, then. What I’m about to suggest involves an element of risk,” Libby said. “But if it works, it should rid you of this creature, once and for all. Of course, there’s no guarantee that whoever called up this hellhound won’t send for another one someday.”

“Someday sounds like a pretty good deal to me right about now,” Barry Love said. “Let’s do it.”

“And, if something should go wrong,” Libby said, “Quincey is our backup.”

Morris held up the knife, its silvered blade glinting in the light. “If it jumps you, try to keep it away from your throat long enough for me to stick it with this.”

Love looked at the blade, then at Morris. “Will that thing destroy a hellhound?”

“Can’t say for sure,” Morris said, with an embarrassed shrug. “I never tried it on one before.”

“Then maybe we’d both better hope Libby’s spell does the trick.”

“Amen to that, podner.”