CHAPTER 7
Unfortunately, this necessitated another out-of-town trip.
Franklin was not happy to see me leaving town again, especially with being down a body again and me being the Hunter most familiar with New Orleans, but I had a job to do. I was going to get my name cleared one way or the other.
My files on the virgin kidnappings ring went back to when I was still in good graces with the FBI. MHI had gotten a few of the files on the remaining missing, after we rescued those girls from the Seattle Lich. It was virtually guaranteed all of those girls were already sacrificed, but it was the only thing I had to go on.
The nearest suspected victim where the family was still alive was in Arkansas. But there was an event in Pueblo that fit the MO, and while that wasn’t close to Crestone—nothing was close to Crestone—it was closer than, say, Arkansas. And Crestone was the Tibetan town I needed to visit to see about what unguents you used to wipe out an Old One’s entity. Also, I had an in in Pueblo.
It was good to be armed again. The one problem with visiting England was being continuously at the mercy of whatever evil thing might pop up at any time. They had arms at the Institute, but God help you if you were caught walking around Oxford with a 1911 in your waistband. English politicians were firm believers that everyone should be a victim and English constables looked at carrying a pistol as equivalent to a thermonuclear device.
I hired a plane. Less hassle that way. Not a jet, I wasn’t going to spend that much. A twin-engine Beech. Faster than driving, and I could load up as many guns as I wanted. I told the pilot I was going big game hunting. Which was almost the truth.
First stop was Crestone. Going to Pueblo was going to dredge up old memories, victims’, families’, mine. Crestone was easier.
Crestone, Colorado, is even more the definition of middle of nowhere than Yuma, my late friend Jesse’s hometown. It was damned near the center of Colorado but on the far side of the Front Range from Denver and most of the main areas of CO and in, if not Colorado’s most arid region, then pretty darn close. Put it this way: the nearest major attraction was Great Sand Dunes National Park.
It was an old mining town that had just about dried up and drifted away with the sand dunes until the 1950s. Them damn ChiComs had taken over China then invaded Tibet. (Then promptly burned six thousand years of history.) There wasn’t much the US government could do about China but they could try to start an armed rebellion in Tibet. Tibet had been independent for as long as anyone could remember. And they’d stayed that way by not only being hard to access but being good fighters. So, train up some Tibetans and send them back to train others. Set up an air-lift like they’d done for the Chinese in World War II. Made perfect sense.
Where to put these Tibetans where they’d be at home and keep their lungs ready for the heights while training?
When they activated the Army’s 10th Mountain Division, nobody and I mean nobody could figure out why the hell they’d put it in New York when they had Colorado just sitting there. The answer, of course, was “there was this congressman.”
The CIA black ops program put these Tibetans where it made most sense: Crestone. Tibet was mostly arid. Crestone was in an arid part of Colorado. Tibet was very high. Crestone was in a high part of Colorado. There were nearby mountains that were even higher. Best of all, Crestone was so far away from anything that nobody in 1958 was going to look there. Pretty much the same arguments as why they set up Oak Ridge in Appalachia.
So they took two hundred Tibetan “fighters” and some of their families out of refugee camps in India and Nepal and brought them to Crestone, Colorado, to start training to retake their homeland. Victory was assured!
Enter the Dalai Lama, who got wind of the program. The Dalai Lama was an absolute Buddhist pacifist and there’s no group more pacifist than Buddhist pacifists. He also had been basically the king of Tibet and was, like the Japanese emperor, the highest moral authority. He put his sandaled foot down and forbade any of them from engaging in combat. To do so would damn them for eternity upon the Wheel.
So much for the armed Free Tibet program. And note to people who think my mother’s approach is right: The nonviolent approach of Gandhi and Martin Luther King requires a government that is in some way Western, moral, and beholden to the will of the people. Fascist and Communist dictatorships don’t give a shit. Anything but an armed Free Tibet program is flapping your gums to no avail. End international relations pro-tip.
So the Tibetans were told to not talk to anyone about the original plan, each given a small severance package and residency papers and the CIA walked away.
That left about five hundred Tibetans in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. (Not to mention a bunch of CIA case officers who had to find a new career specialty. Fortunately, the Vietnam War was just heating up…) All the mines were closed and there were about no jobs.
Paradise! The land of opportunity! To Tibetans, Crestone looked like nirvana! There was so much water! (Remember the thing about the sand dunes.) There were electric lights! You didn’t have to go collect sticks over miles of parched terrain to cook dinner and hold off the biting cold of a Tibetan summer!
To make a long story short, they settled in. They started businesses which covered the whole “no jobs” thing. They got irrigation credits and started farms. They walked the hills and found overlooked mineral deposits, found out who the local babu was that had to be paid off and started small mines. (Mining in Tibet had been even more tightly controlled than in the US and almost as corrupt.) They dug in and worked and not a few of them became rich.
The United States is a nation of immigrants. We need more like the Tibetans.
Some of them had eventually moved away. There was a large Tibetan population in Seattle for example. That was where I hooked up with them. The occasional times that I’d needed a charm in Seattle I’d used either Chinese or Tibetans. It always boggled them that a round-eye could speak their language and in many cases read the ancient tongues better than they could.
But the CIA hadn’t only brought fighters. They’d also brought shamans because if you’re going to move a group as tied in to the supernatural as the Tibetans, that’s what you do. They won’t move without having a lama or a shaman tell them which way is the correct way to place their foot. Because, let me make this clear, Tibet really is rife with hoodoo. Go up the wrong valley in Tibet and you’re going to get your soul sucked out and your bones spit on the ground.
Some of those shamans were still around. Older now, creakier, more powerful, and a few of them very knowledgeable. When the shamans in Seattle had a question they couldn’t answer, they’d take a pilgrimage to Crestone. And when it was really tough, they’d talk to Father Pema. Pema meant Lotus but it wasn’t considered by the Tibetans to be a girly name. The lotus has a special meaning in Buddhism. And Father Lotus was the most powerful and knowledgeable Tibetan shaman in the New World.
Crestone still looked like an Old West mining town. Many of the downtown buildings were from the original boom period in the late 1800s. Single-story, clapboard siding, covered porches elevated to get away from the mud when it, rarely, rained. There were some newer houses, a few brick, mostly cheap vinyl siding and single-story. Cars were up on blocks in many yards and there were a few vegetable gardens here and there. Only the main drags, Colorado 71 and Country Road 5/10, were paved.
Father Pema’s house was on Alder Street near North Crestone Creek. The house was old, clapboard, but was well cared for. Freshly painted with a straggling front lawn and a garden on the side that I suspected ran mostly to medicinal and magical herbs. Hopefully all of them were legal but some of Tibetan medicine used hemp extracts. I suspected those plants were somewhere up in the mountains, probably tended to by apprentices. And some Tibetan medicinal plants were more powerful than peyote if not on the controlled substances list.
Father Pema was tricky. Sometimes he’d talk to a round-eye and sometimes not. Hell, sometimes he’d blow off other shamans. And he didn’t have a phone: if you wanted to talk to him you had to come see him. Calling ahead wasn’t preferred. You presented yourself at his house and he’d get to you at his convenience.
But if he had a weakness, it was the same as Madam Courtney’s. And I had two bottles of a locally made, New Orleans, dark spiced rum with me.
It was late spring by then but there were still patches of snow in sheltered areas and coming from New Orleans it was cold as shit. I’d rented a car at the nearest airport. The heater didn’t work. I was freezing my ass off. It felt wonderful.
I walked up on Father Pema’s porch and knocked on the door. It was answered by a young male Tibetan who looked like one of the “round-eyes all need to be buried” types.
“I’m looking for Father Pema,” I said in Tibetan. I held out the bottles still in a brown paper bag. “I bring gifts.”
“Father Pema does not talk to barbarians,” the kid said haughtily.
“He has spoken to me before. It regards certain writings of a lama from the first century.”
I put this in correct Tibetan phraseology which was more or less: The words of a grand master of the eternal Wheel from the time of the King of the Eighteenth Lotus Petal Lying on the Waters of the Buddha.
Which clearly confused the hell out of Pema’s new apprentice.
“The what?” he said in English.
“I’ve got some Tibetan writing from the first century A.D. I need his interpretation.” I switched to English and tapped the satchel on my hip. “I also need him to figure out what material I need to destroy a major mava. And by major I mean the largest ever found in North America. I’m known to Father Lotus. Tell him it’s Tiewan.”
“I’ll see if he’s in.” The kid took the bottles. He still looked puzzled.
I took a seat on one of the rockers on the porch and settled down to wait. It might be a few seconds, it might be days. That was the way Father Pema worked.
As it was, it was about two hours when the door opened and Father Pema walked out.
He was ancient. Exact ages, like real names, are something the Tibetans don’t talk about. The birth date of a child has magic significance so they’re cagey about their birthdays. But he had to be around ninety.
He was short—I’ve never seen a tall Tibetan—wiry, very muscular legs and a grip like an industrial press. “Iron Hand. What problems do you bring an old man this time?”
“We suspect there is a mava in New Orleans,” I said in Tibetan, pulling out my notes from Oxford. “A great beast of the deep with many parts that extend long distances. The notes I have called it a ‘mother of worms.’”
“There is a mother of worms in this land?” Pema exclaimed.
Tibetans don’t show fear or surprise. He was afraid and surprised.
“So we suspect. I have the writings of the lama which defeated one to the north of Tibet in the first century.”
“Where did you find the writings of the Most Perfect Lama Thubten?” Pema said eagerly.
“They are not the writings of the lama. They are words of one of his surviving apprentices. I found them in the library at Oxford. These are only notes.”
“I would see even the notes of such.” He held out his hand.
I sat down as the old shaman read through my notes. They were in Tibetan, or at least my version of it. Some of the notes were exact copying of the manuscripts. You couldn’t photocopy something that old and fragile.
“I would love to see the original,” Father Pema said when he was done reading.
It was after dark and the cold was starting to get to me. I was wearing a sweater and coat. Father Pema was in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. I wasn’t going to complain.
“I’ll gladly pay your way to visit Oxford. The scholars there would love to have someone of your knowledge visit.”
“That would involve traveling by aeroplane and ship, yes? I’ve done that before. I did not like it.”
“Airplanes have gotten much better since the 1950s.”
“I don’t even like cars. I like my feet on the ground. What would you know?”
“What are the unguents and materials used by the Most Perfect Thubten to defeat the Great Worm Mother?”
“This is knowledge known only to the Most Perfect.” Pema handed the notes back. “I am barely a scraper of the ground compared to the Most Perfect Lamas.”
A “Most Perfect Lama” was the Tibetan equivalent of a cardinal. There were probably five left on earth and none of those would give me the time of day.
“Also,” Pema said, “much of this knowledge was lost in the Great Corruption.” That was what they called the Chinese invasion. “I doubt that a Most Perfect Lama would give such information to you and I suspect that none know these arts in this time. They are lost forever.”
“Were any of them ever written? Perhaps in tomes of medicine or healing? Would I be able to find any hint in such?”
“If there is a library that has this, such a library may have the original recipes. But…” He took a deep breath. “The mystic unguents of the Most Perfect would have been merely a carrier for the power of the Great Lotus. You simply need the power of strong healing and that which fights the corruption of the earth. It is any material which represents the blessed faith of the good. It need not be Tibetan.”
“That sounds like…”
“I hate to say this,” Pema said, getting up, “but you can probably drown it in a few thousand gallons of holy water. Best if it’s blessed by a truly devoted priest, but that’s much easier to get your hands on. Anything else?”
“No. That’s it.”
He walked into the house without saying goodbye.
I got back in my rattletrap rental and headed back to the airport. Maybe the heat in the fleabag motel would be working.
It wasn’t.
* * *
Pueblo was in a region equally as arid as Crestone, but was a typical modern American town. This time I’d called ahead. Admittedly just from the airport. And there was, thank God, an Avis outlet so I had a decent car.
The door to the two-story home was opened by a teenage girl. I barely recognized her. The last time I’d seen her she’d been two years younger, filthy, covered in sores and terrified. Also strapped to an altar in the middle of a firefight.
“Chad!” she shouted, throwing her arms around me. “It’s so good to see you!” That was also very loud.
Mandy Cummings would speak very loudly for the rest of her life. That was my fault. And Milo’s. Explosions wreck your hearing. She also had fine scars on the right side of her face and some sight loss in the right eye. It was all collateral damage, but we had managed to save her life.
I hugged back. She’d gotten much more squeezable.
“You’ve grown.”
“I have you guys to thank for it.” Mandy grinned.
Her family was gathered in the hallway watching this with bemusement. I wasn’t sure what they’d been told about Mandy’s rescue and I’d have to deal with that carefully. Before MCB Seattle even got to the scene we’d told the girls they couldn’t talk about what actually happened to them. The Doctors Nelson were psychologists by original trade and had helped the girls as best they could. Mandy seemed to have mostly recovered from the ordeal.
“I’m Chad Gardenier.” I held my hand out to her father.
“We were sort of surprised when you called.” Arthur Cummings was forties, balding but solid. From what I remembered he worked in construction.
The rescuees had been from all over the Western United States so we hadn’t ended up meeting any of the families. Some of the girls held in the container were from the Pueblo area. Others who had been captured in the area had been separated out, either not virgins or sold elsewhere. And that was why I was there. Mandy had been at a girls’ night with friends when the ring had attacked the house. The ring had killed the rest of the family and taken all the girls. Two had been rescued by MHI, in Mandy’s case by the thinnest of margins. My information on the cover story was that it was “a Satan-worshipping serial killer ring.” Which was close to the truth.
“You’re one of the men who rescued Mandy,” the mother said. Clara Cummings was short, plump and blonde. Nice enough looking for being in her forties.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where are my manners?” She gestured toward the living room. “Please come in.”
“You’re FBI?” Mr. Cummings said when we were situated. Mrs. Cummings had gone to get snacks.
“No, sir. My company is hired to handle certain types of cases by the government.” I waved at the various scars on my face. “The types of cases where people end up like this. Sort of bounty hunters. Other than that, it’s classified.”
“Okay. Mandy’s told us how she wasn’t supposed to talk about certain things, but damn it, people have a right to know!”
“I agree, sir, and I disagree. Why, in both cases, is not only highly classified, it would take hours and hours to explain. And some of it, frankly, you probably wouldn’t believe. So I’ll leave it at that. Bottom line, I helped saved your daughter’s life, but now I really need your help.”
“You can pretty much ask for anything,” he said, hugging Mandy to him. “You on the run?”
“No,” I said, not adding but it’s getting close. “It’s about the people who took Mandy. I need to talk to the parents of girls who…didn’t get them back.”
“They hardly talk to us,” Mandy said unhappily. And loudly. “They wanted to know what happened and I couldn’t really talk about it. The Hamiltons…was where they took us. They’re all…gone. The Morrisons and the Hawkins divorced. We really only ever see the Simpsons ’cause we still go to the same church. I have a hard time looking Mr. and Mrs. Simpson in the eye. We used to be friends.”
“Grief changes things. But I really need to talk to as many of the families as I can. I need something from them as well. But I’ll talk to them.”
“We can tell you where they live,” Mr. Cummings said, shrugging. “Give you some numbers. But like Mandy said, they don’t really talk to us anymore.”
“That’ll be fine.”
* * *
They might not talk to the Cummings anymore, but say “it’s about your missing daughter” and grieving parents will tell you anything.
The Simpsons’ house was practically identical to the Cummings. US suburb, one each. It was also right around the corner.
Irene and Warren Simpson had four children. Their middle daughter, Marcella, had gone over to a friend’s one night and never returned. The Hamilton house had been burned to the ground. At first they’d thought their daughter had died in a fire. Then came the word that none of the bodies of the girls had been found. Then it was suspected one of the girls had started the fire. Then the FBI showed up and they found out it matched a string of disappearances.
They’d called their local police department for information. They’d called the FBI. They’d put up fliers. They’d gone on local television. But their daughter had disappeared into the night. They were willing to talk to anyone who might give them some closure. They just wanted to know if she was alive or dead. Anything.
I knew there would never be closure. Their daughter was positively identified as having been sacrificed by the Seattle Lich. And the way the lich got rid of the bodies was to feed them, bones and all, to his pet ghouls. There wasn’t so much as a scrap of hair left of their daughter. Since MCB wasn’t about to let that out, the parents would die waiting for word of their daughter’s fate.
Frankly, I wasn’t going to tell them that, even if it wouldn’t put me in more trouble with the MCB. I wasn’t going to look them in the eye and say “Your daughter’s soul was torn out with her heart and used to power an undead being, one that is still on the loose, so until it’s killed, her soul is trapped between worlds, and her body was eaten by ghouls. Sorry.”
Yeah. Wasn’t going there.
“I was one of the people who rescued Mandy Cummings,” was what I said to the two parents. “My company is also involved in looking for news of other victims, including your daughter, Marcella.”
“Is there anything you can tell us?” Mr. Simpson asked, holding his wife’s hand.
“Not really. You got word that this was a ring, right?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Satan worshippers! How in God’s name can something like that go on in this day and age?”
“Not in God’s name, ma’am, that I can tell you for sure. I won’t tell you that we’re going to get your daughter back like we did Mandy. I tell you that as sort of an expert in this area, she’s most certainly gone. You understand that?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Simpson teared up. There was a box of Kleenex on the table and I pulled one out and handed it to her. They were used to these sorts of conversations and prepared.
“There is a new scientific way to identify remains,” I said carefully. “I don’t know if you know this, but bodies are found all over the US all the time. What we’re trying to do is sort out some of those unidentified remains, Jane Does, ones that match the general description of your daughter and other potential victims.”
“Why are they unidentifiable?” her sister Robyn asked.
“I’d really rather not get into that, just…when some hunters find a body in the woods that’s been there for…a while. Sometimes they don’t even realize it’s a human body.”
“Oh.” Robyn got pale.
“Wasn’t there any word on Marcella when you found Mandy and Risa?” Mr. Simpson asked.
“Not that I can get into. This is an ongoing investigation. I know you want some information—anything. But if the people who took your daughter, who are continuing to take other people’s daughters, get word of details of the investigation, it can make them change their patterns, making it harder to find them. And it’s hard enough as it is. Also, if any information leaks out from the investigation, it can compromise the trial. I’m pretty sure you don’t want your daughter’s kidnappers released on a technicality. That’s why the FBI is so close to the vest with information and I have to be as well. What I need, though, is fairly simple. I just need a few hairs.”
“Hairs?” Mrs. Simpson demanded. “You’re not one of those damned psychics are you?”
“No,” I said, not adding: But I know a few. “The reason is the identification method. You’ve heard of DNA? It’s found in every living cell. It’s what’s passed down from you to your children, and it’s as unique as a fingerprint for an individual. We’ll take the hairs and run what’s called a DNA profile. Then compare it to potential…remains that might be Marcella. At the very least, it may give you some closure if we can find her body.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Mr. Simpson said.
“Do you have her hairbrush? One that only she used?”
“We do,” Mrs. Simpson said, tearing up again.
I handed her more tissues.
I’d wanted to kill these assholes before, but now this was feeling really personal.
* * *
Dealing with all the families was painful. It was one of the reasons I never could have been a cop. I preferred killing monsters to handing over tissues. It wasn’t that I was bad at detective work. Being a detective was about figuring out patterns, and I was really good at pattern recognition. But crying families was not my thing.
I also had to track down the Morrisons and then the Hawkins. The mothers had kept mementos of their daughters. In both cases the girls were their only children and between the grief, the silences, the wondering, the couples had divorced.
It turned out all the families had kept keepsakes. I had four hair samples from the victims for Madam Courtney to use.
I was glad as hell to head back to New Orleans, heat and all. I was ready to kill me some monsters. Preferably the monsters who were taking these girls but anything would do.