Weston Ochse - Reign of Evil

Holmes toggled on a tablet to magnify the view and waited.

Through the mask of trees, Laws could be seen approaching the front door and knocking. The house was Tudor-style with a pitched roof, dormers, and timbers offset by the white cottage covering. It appeared perfectly suited for its secluded position, deep within the San Gabriel Mountain woods.

They waited.

Laws turned and looked around, but not in the direction of the vehicle.

He knocked again.

The door was opened several seconds later by an older woman, dressed in a housedress, apron, and sensible shoes, right out of a 1960s Better Homes and Gardens photo.

Laws smiled, held out his hand to shake, and waited.

The woman ignored it, however, and seemed about to close the door when—

The tablet came to life as YaYa’s equipment came online. A zoomed-in side shot of Laws and part of the woman’s face appeared along with audio. “But ma’am, I’m just a courier from Loyola Marymount.” He spread his hands apologetically. “I have a registered letter that I have to deliver to Mr. Van Dyke regarding an emergency meeting of the Board of Trustees.”

“Again, Mr. Van Dyke isn’t here at the moment. If you can leave it with me, then I can—”

Laws shook his head and frowned sadly. “That’s unfortunate. The board requires an immediate response. It’s why they sent me out here.” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “It has to do with a windfall they want to distribute among the board members. I don’t know any details, but it’s supposed to be a considerable sum.”

The woman was silent for a long moment, then said, “Wait one moment,” and closed the door.

Laws turned to where YaYa was sitting and gave a huge grin.

“Show-off,” Holmes said quietly.

Yank noticed that despite the word, his boss had a secret smile on his face. They were lucky to have Laws. Not only did he have a photographic memory, but he could also speak several languages. Yank was just happy to be able to speak a little L.A. Spanish, much less Chinese.

A minute later, the woman returned to the front door. She opened it. “Come in, Mr. Fogbottom. I’m sure you understand we get people wanting Mr. Van Dyke’s autograph all the time.” She smiled softly and stepped aside. “He asks me to keep them out.”

“I’m sure you do an excellent job, ma’am.” Laws stepped inside.

With no one outside, the image snapped off, but the audio continued, provided by Laws’s wire. “Sure glad he’s here. It was a long drive and that road—”

She chuckled. “Rim of the World. It keeps many from coming, thank the gods.”

Yank and Holmes glanced at each other.

“It also keeps me from getting down to L.A.,” she added. “I can’t stand those sheer drop-offs.”

“Me neither.” The sound of several footsteps on a hardwood floor.

“This is Mr. Van Dyke’s sitting room. If you’ll wait a moment.”

The sound of a single set of footsteps retreating.

Laws whispered, “East-facing window. Walls lined with floor-to-ceiling built-ins, except for one wall with pictures with movie stars and… is that Schwarzenegger?”

“Yes,” came a raspy voice. One could tell it had once been deep but now was edged with sickness.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’m not one to clomp around my own house like Ms. Murphy. Plus, these slippers don’t make much noise.” After a pause, “Ms. Murphy said you had something for me.”

“I do.” The sound of paper ruffling. “If I could see an ID, though, Mr. Van Dyke.”

Rasping coughs. “Look at the man in the pictures and look at me.” More coughs. “What you see is a younger, handsomer version. Plus, that young man doesn’t have my particular sickness.”

“Very sorry for your—illness, sir.”

“It comes and goes. Now the correspondence.”

Sounds of papers shuffling. “If you can sign here, please, sir.”

“Fine. Give.”

More paper shuffling.

Then a sharp intake of breath.

“There you are. And thank you very much for your time.”

“Leaving so soon?”

“I have several more of these to deliver.” Sound of footsteps on a wooden floor. “I’ll let myself out.”

“You don’t understand,” began the raspy voice. “You can only leave when—”

The door opened, then slammed shut. “Start the engines. We need to leave. Now.” Laws was walking as fast as he could.

YaYa picked himself up from the ground, then began to run.

They made it to the SUV at the same time, jumped in, then Yank sped away.

Holmes turned around in his seat.

“What was it?”

For one of the first times Yank noticed fear in Laws’s eyes. They’d been in plenty of situations and the man had seemed always in control and capable of taking anything thrown at him. Seeing his fear stirred the butterflies in Yank’s stomach.

“What was it?” Holmes repeated.

“I think… I think it was a vampire.”

Laws still wasn’t certain what he’d seen, but the uneasiness it had created within him had sent his Spidey senses thrumming. He’d seen Ms. Murphy lock the door from the inside behind him when he’d entered, but what she hadn’t seen was the wad of Silly Putty he’d shoved into the space where the lock would go. It was a good thing too, because it had appeared that Mr. Van Dyke hadn’t intended for him to leave.

Van Dyke’s appearance was that of a two-hundred-year-old version of the man in the pictures. The man standing next to Schwarzenegger and Nicholson and Magic Johnson had a vibrancy the man who’d stood before him lacked to such a degree, he might as well have been the husk of who he’d been. And why?

They sat in a booth in a corner of the bar by windows facing the water. They’d only ordered waters, much to the displeasure of the sixteen-year-old waitress who snapped gum like it was an Olympic event.

“Let’s go over it one more time,” Holmes said.

His back was to the corner, and he occasionally glanced up to see who was entering and leaving. So far no one had sat by the booth next to them. It was mid-afternoon and there wasn’t much traffic.

Laws took a drink of his water as he glanced at his three teammates. He was normally cool and collected, living by the dictate WWSMD—What Would Steve McQueen Do. Growing up in Hollywood, Laws had been surrounded by the uncool, the wannabe cool, and the supercool. Although he’d never met McQueen, Laws’s father, who’d worked on several of his films, including Bullitt , told him that the man was the coolest he’d ever met.

Laws began slowly describing the man’s appearance. “I just thought he was sick, but then as he was signing the document, I happened to glance at one of the pictures. I could see my reflection perfectly, but his was smudged. I remember blinking my eyes several times, thinking it was me, but no, it was as if someone had come and wiped their hand across his image.”

“I thought vampires didn’t have a reflection,” Yank said.

“That’s fiction written by people following the tradition of Stoker,” Laws said, unable to keep from being the Encyclopedia Supernatural.

“Our mission logs reference human smudging in reflective surfaces,” Holmes said. “But it could refer not only to a vampire, but to someone possessed, like with a demon.”

“Like that makes it better,” YaYa said. “Thanks for the clarification.”

Holmes sipped thoughtfully at his water. “No problem.”

“Let’s talk this out, though. If it is a demon, what kind? Given we’re dealing with druids, it could be anything, not necessarily those from Christian ideology. Perhaps like the thing that had you,” Laws said, nodding his head at YaYa.