No Place Like Hell Read online

  No Place Like Hell

  K S Ferguson

  Published by

  K S Ferguson

  Smashwords Edition

  Contents

  1

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  11

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  68

  Acknowledgements

  Titles by K S Ferguson

  Touching Madness: Excerpt

  Copyright

  1

  June 1968

  Bricks-for-brains at the wheel of the Camaro in front of us revved his engine. It roared through his glasspack mufflers.

  "You want to bet he's going to do something stupid?" I asked my partner, Dave, who rode shotgun in the patrol car.

  "I don't need your female intuition to see trouble coming, Nicky," Dave replied.

  We crawled down Santa Domingo Boulevard amidst a sea of teenagers cruising in their muscle cars. Exhaust choked the airless summer night as we drove past the stucco façades of businesses lining the Solaris commercial district.

  The brake lights flashed on a beat-up Ford Falcon ahead of the Camaro. The Falcon's driver had spotted our cherry top, and traffic slowed further. At the intersection, the light cycled from green to yellow.

  The numbskull in the Camaro jerked his car into the open right lane, downshifted, and peeled rubber. The screech of his tires cut through the rumble of motors. After a quick glance in my rearview mirror, I changed lanes to give chase.

  "Idiot." Dave flipped on the light and siren.

  A guy materialized on the right sidewalk and charged in front of the Camaro. With a squeal of brakes and a thud, the Camaro smacked the pedestrian, who bounced down the pavement like a wad of Silly Putty.

  "Hell!" I slammed on the brakes, shifted into park, and jumped out. Dave called in while I dashed ahead.

  All traffic had lurched to a halt. People got out of their cars to gawk. Bricks-for-brains sat frozen in the Camaro, his face white through the windshield. His girlfriend covered her mouth as though holding back a scream.

  My breath caught in my chest, and my feet moved in slow motion. Everything moved in slow motion, including my brain. All I could think about was whether the poor schmuck lying so still on the pavement was dead.

  A couple of toughs burst from the door of a building to my right and pulled up short at the edge of the street, staring at the body. The young turks driving the muscle cars got out to watch and point and elbow their companions.

  "Stay back!" I yelled, raising a hand to warn them off.

  I reached the victim, and time stood still. He was of average weight and probably average height, although it was hard to tell, the way he was crumpled on his side. His shiny wing-tips were scuffed and streaked by his slide across the pavement. The right pant-leg of his gray dress slacks was shredded from mid-thigh to mid-calf, and bloody, ragged flesh showed in the gap.

  All those first-aid lectures played like a reel-to-reel tape on fast forward. My first coherent—and useless—thought was that I should have grabbed the first-aid kit from the trunk. Like a first-aid kit could fix this mess.

  Dave joined me. I shifted the victim onto his back and positioned his head as gently as I could, mindful that if he ever woke up, he'd be pissed if I'd made him a quadriplegic.

  The right sleeve of his white dress shirt was rolled up above his elbow. The left was still fastened by a glittering green cufflink. I loosened his green and gray striped tie.

  He had close-cropped brown hair and a hamburger face. I put two fingers on his neck where his pulse should be. Something jumped. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. He definitely wasn't breathing.

  I tilted his head back, pinched his nose, and put my mouth over his to start artificial resuscitation. Inflating his chest seemed impossible.

  "Oh, man!" Dave said, crouching beside me. "It's Tad Newell, the mayor's son."

  I didn't care who he was; he wouldn't die on my watch. His lips tasted of bourbon and his cheeks smelled of aftershave and blood. His chest, rippling with hard muscle under his shirt, didn't crunch or grind as I compressed it. I took that as a hopeful sign.

  His picture had been on the front page of the paper. He'd recently returned from a tour in 'Nam. According to the article, a group of anti-war protesters spit on him while he made a speech at a veterans' picnic.

  "Where the hell's the ambulance?" I gasped between breaths and compressions.

  But Dave was gone, taking control of the scene. The hot Southern California smog transferred from my lungs to Tad Newell's, one breath at a time. My hands willed his heart to beat. The night stretched while I counted to five over and over.

  "Okay, lady, we got it."

  A white-clad ambulance attendant elbowed me aside and checked vitals. A second attendant rolled a gurney up before joining his workmate. The first one peeled back an eyelid and flashed a penlight over the eye.

  "Dead," he said.

  My stomach heaved. I'd locked lips with a corpse. Eww. I wanted to wash my mouth with lye. It was hard to see through the mist in my eyes.

  "Maybe you want to rethink that," Dave said at the attendant's shoulder. "You want to be the one who pronounced on the mayor's son?"

  The attendants exchanged a look. In a heartbeat, they had Newell fitted with an Ambu bag. While one of them squeezed the bag, the other applied a neck brace. Together, they whisked him to the ambulance. They pulled out fast, siren wailing.

  I dug a hanky from my pocket and wiped Newell's blood from my lips. I wanted to swipe at my tear-filled eyes, but as the first—and only—woman patrol officer on the Solaris force, I couldn't afford to show weakness.

  "Do we need to take statements?" I asked.

  "Already done. Unit two picked up the kid driving the Camaro."

  Dave waved the last of the bystanders off, and we returned to the patrol car. I looked around the scene once more, imprinting it in my mind. When I reached for the door handle, my hand shook.

  "You drive. I want to make notes while it's fresh." I dropped into the passenger seat with a thump.

  Dave grinned. "You should be a novelist. You love writing reports. They sound just like those gritty crime novels. Or maybe an episode of Dragnet. Hey, you ever thought about writing scripts for them?"

  I ignored Dave's teasing. It was standard cop gallows humor. For the first time in my short week as a bona fide patrol officer, I felt like I'd done something worthwhile, something more than move along vagrants or write traffic tickets. Something that made sticking with this job worthwhile.

  I hoped the EMT was wro
ng and Tad Newell wasn't dead. He'd gone off to war half a world away and returned safe. He didn't deserve to die in an accident in his home town.

  I flipped open my notebook to a fresh page, pleased to have something of importance to write up. Despite my shaking hands, I'd managed two pages describing the accident scene when the radio crackled.

  "Unit five, respond to a 10-53 at Clark's Books, 1511 Bueno Ventura."

  I snatched the radio. "Unit five to dispatch. Is there another unit available? We're still finishing our last assignment."

  "Unit five, be advised we have a pile-up on the 101. You're the only unit in the vicinity of the 10-53."

  "Unit five, 10-4."

  Dave groaned. "Great! A silent alarm."

  I looked out my window so Dave wouldn't see my excitement. I secretly hoped the break-in might be the work of a local burglary ring plaguing the city. Busting the thieves in the act could be my first step to detective. I'd show the naysayers what a woman could achieve.

  2

  Kasker's mouth watered at the thought of tasting Decker's soul. His breath came in short, quick gulps, and his loins engorged like they did when the flesh lay with women. But the climax of this hunt would bring a hundred times the pleasure of the flesh.

  He got out of his Mustang and gazed about. Music throbbed from around the corner, and a few cars breezed by, stirring heat with their tires. But mostly, the business district, after another scorching day, had succumbed to the somnolence of exhaustion and darkness.

  His otherworldly senses told him no other souls lingered in the alley to his right. In fact, for the last several minutes, he hadn't detected the sweet scent of Decker's damned soul, either, which seemed odd. Decker's date with death wouldn't come for another half hour, and even then, his soul couldn't escape.

  Kasker trod down the potholed asphalt alley between the old brick buildings. Distant streetlights cast faint illumination, and deep shadows cloaked the building walls. Rats scurried around the battered garbage cans dotting the sides of the alley. Warped lids let the stench of the cans' rotting contents waft in the night air.

  The thrill of the hunt coursed in Kasker's veins. He suppressed the urge to throw back his head and bay his excitement. Every muscle tingled with anticipation.

  The light over a shop entrance threw a dirty gray pool on the pavement under it. An ancient wooden door stood partially open. Faint luminescence flickered through the gap.

  Kasker moved closer with silent steps. Burning candle wax and blood overrode the miasma of the garbage. Curious rats drawn by the scent retreated at his approach. He pushed through the back door of Clark's Books and stopped short.

  Decker's naked body lay spread-eagled over a pentagram scrawled in charcoal on the warped hardwood floor. Black candles flickered at each point of the star. Runes circled the corpse and spiraled inexorably out until they stopped at Kasker's feet.

  Curses and cantrips! Where was Decker's soul? It had to be here. The pact Decker signed kept it anchored to the body until collection. How could it have broken free?

  He scented the air, swung his eyes over the storeroom. Cardboard boxes and rows of books lined tall shelves circling the walls. An electric coffee pot stood on a worktop, along with packing supplies. An unlit bare bulb hung from the ceiling. A narrow door led to a tiny bathroom jammed by a sink and toilet.

  No soul. No hint of it or any other in this room or in the front of the shop beyond the dusty curtain.

  Kasker wiped a hand over his brow and blinked at what remained of Decker. I've lost my touch. It must be the constant distractions of wearing flesh. But he'd found other souls since he'd taken it. Why couldn't he find Decker's?

  He stepped into the room, careful to keep his Jesus boots off the runes and the splatters of blood. Not an easy task. Whoever helped Decker from this world had opened him from sternum to groin.

  From the arcs of blood painting the walls and shelves, he'd still been alive when it happened. A fitting end for a power-hungry cheater. Nothing less than the man deserved.

  Was this the death Fate prescribed for Decker? Kasker didn't think so. If it was, it had come well ahead of schedule. Seve's foretellings were never wrong.

  Kasker knelt beside the body for a closer look, making sure he didn't step into the final circle. Goats only knew what dark magic might be at work here. He could be vulnerable.

  Decker was a short, corpulent man of forty. A thick mat of dark hair covered chest, arms, and belly. He had a square, blockish head, uneven eyes, fat lips, and a double-chin.

  No bruises or scrapes marred Decker's face or hands. No needle marks left their tracks on his arms. His expression was one of serenity.

  His face was clean shaven, his short brown hair tidy. Under the odor of blood and offal, the scent of soap and clove oil drifted. He'd been ritually prepared for his ritual sacrifice. It was as if Decker lay down for a nap and was gutted while he slept.

  Black threads circled the wrists and ankles, their loose ends trailing down to disappear under the candles. A ragged hole gapped where Decker's heart should be. Kasker scanned the room. No sign of the missing organ. The hair rose on the back of his neck, and a low growl rumbled in his chest.

  He stood and danced around blood pools to step beyond the curtain separating the back of the shop from the front. A large window let in dim streetlight. Bookshelves covered the outer walls. More tall bookcases stood in ranks down the center of the space. A counter with a cash register—drawer open and empty—blocked access to the storeroom.

  Kasker's senses told him no one lurked in the aisles, but he walked a serpentine path through them anyway, just to be sure. Book dust tickled his nose until he sneezed. The hot, close air made sweat break out on his body.

  Nothing seemed amiss. No additional corpses lay waiting to trip him. No stack of books was adorned with a bloody heart.

  Kasker returned to the storeroom. He rubbed his chin and stared at the body. Never in the eons he'd collected souls had he seen anything like this. He crouched by Decker.

  Candlelight danced on the rune-inscribed ivory hilt of a dagger embedded in Decker's throat. Kasker hovered a hand over it but didn't touch. Like the symbols on the floor, the dagger vibrated with strange energy.

  He sniffed, just to be sure. No more soul scent here than from the tasteless burgers the flesh craved. But from the dagger, a tendril of essence wafted up, a trace of the practitioner responsible for Decker's lost soul.

  Holmes.

  A slow smile spread Kasker's lips. A trail at last.

  3

  "Drop me here. I'll take the back."

  Dave gave me a sideways glance. If I'd been a man, there'd be no hesitation about us splitting up. Dave was less of a prick than most of the guys at the station, but he sometimes played the macho protective male.

  I wouldn't admit it to him, but with only one week of patrol experience under my belt, I was nervous about facing my first burglar. I'd practiced physical restraint with cop partners twice my size. I shot at the range regularly and had earned expert marksman status, even though I hated guns. None of that slowed my racing pulse.

  Dave pulled up beside a maroon Mustang parked near the alley and scowled at me.

  "You cover the exit," he said as he jotted the Mustang's license number in his notebook. "You don't go in until I say. The owner's on his way to unlock the front."

  I hopped out, and he rolled around the corner. The alley yawned before me. I wiped sweating hands on my pants. Rustling drifted from the dark, and I gulped.

  Idiot! I should have grabbed my flashlight off the seat before Dave pulled away. I tiptoed over the asphalt, ears straining. Flickering light shone from an open door. A faded stencil on the brickwork overhead read Clark's Books.

  Nothing in the alley offered cover, at least nothing I wanted to snuggle up to. A garbage can wouldn't stop a bullet from a burglar's gun anyway. The best I could do was remain in the shadows.

  Footsteps scuffed inside. Was it a professional thief or a drug-c
razed junkie? A major burglary bust could be just the boost I needed to advance my career. I drew my pistol, eased to the door, and stepped into the flickering light.

  The sick son-of-a-bitch knelt beside a mutilated body. My stomach did handsprings at the sight of it. But he sucked up the scent of the blood and offal like a new Hoover.

  And that smile. It reminded me of a kid waiting for the Thanksgiving turkey to hit the table—the anticipation sparkling in his eyes. Definitely not the burglar I'd expected. My hand tightened on my gun.

  One long finger touched a puddle of blood on the floor beside his victim. Then he raised it to his mouth. The tip of his pink tongue flicked out for a taste.

  My gorge rose. I choked on the malodorous fog hanging in the hot, stuffy room and fought the urge to turn away. Arresting this jerk was my job, and I'd damn well do it no matter how revolting the suspect.

  "Police! Hands in the air!" I sighted down my service revolver, ready to plant a round in his chest if he made a wrong move.

  His head jerked toward me, flipping his blond ponytail the opposite direction. Ice-blue eyes raked my police uniform. He stood, lifting his open hands to shoulder height. The smile turned sultry.

  He was tall, tan, and in his twenties with a movie-star hero's square jaw and a dimple on his chin. Sexually charged charisma oozed off him, the kind that would have women ripping off that skin-tight tank top and unbuttoning his bell-bottomed Levi's. I struggled for breath but held my revolver steady.

  He had to be strung out on LSD. What else could explain the cruelty on the floor? Or the smile? The sucker was staring down a life sentence.

  Surprise lit his eyes, and he glanced over his left shoulder toward the front of the shop. My throat closed on an indrawn breath. Did he have an accomplice?

  A second later, the door rattled, a bell tinkled, and footsteps sounded on the hardwood. The lights came on, dispelling the eerie shadows cast by the candles. Dave's voice mingled with another, probably the shop owner.

  "Dave, in here!" I called.

  Dave drew back a moldering curtain. One look at the scene and his own revolver was in his hands. The sickness I felt was mirrored on his face.