Christopher Moore - Practical Demonkeeping

“I am fluent in Greek,” Howard said. They all looked at him.

“No,” Brine said. “They expect Travis to be alone. The mouth of the cave is at least fifty yards from any cover. As soon as Howard stepped out, it would be over.”

“Maybe we should let it be over,” Travis said.

“No. Wait a minute,” Robert said. He took a pen from Howard’s pocket and began scribbling figures on a cocktail napkin. “You say there’s cover fifty yards from the caves?” Brine nodded. Robert did some scribbling. “Okay, Travis, exactly how big is the print on the invocation? Can you remember?”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters,” Robert insisted. “How big is the print?”

“I don’t know — it’s been a long time. It was handwritten, and the parchment was pretty long. I’d guess the characters were maybe a half-inch tall.”

Robert scribbled furiously on the napkin, then put the pen down. “If you can get them out of the cave and hold up the invocation — tell them you need more light or something — I can set up a telephoto lens on a tripod in the woods and Howard can translate the invocation.”

“I don’t think they’ll let me hold the parchment up long enough for Howard to translate. They’ll suspect something.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Robert pushed the napkin he had been writing on in front of Travis. It was covered with fractions and ratios.

Looking at it, Travis was baffled. “What does this mean?”

“It means that I can put a Polaroid back on one of my Nikons and when you hold up the parchments, I can photograph them, hand the Polaroid to Howard, and thirty seconds later he can start translating. The ratios show that the print will be readable on the Polaroid. I just need enough time to focus and set exposure, maybe three seconds.” Robert looked around the table.

Howard Phillips was the first to speak. “It sounds feasible, although fraught with contingencies.”

Augustus Brine was smiling.

“What do you think, Gus?” Robert asked.

“You know, I always thought you were a lost cause, but I think I’ve changed my mind. Howard’s right, though — there’s lot of ifs involved. But it might work.”

“He is still a lost cause,” the Djinn chimed in. “The invocation is useless without the silver Seal of Solomon, which is part of one of the candlesticks.”

“It’s hopeless,” Travis said.

Brine said, “No, it’s not. It’s just very difficult. We have to get the candlesticks before they know about the seal. We’ll use a diversion.”

“Are you going to explode more flour?” asked Gian Hen Gian.

“No. We’re going to use you as bait. If Catch hates you as much as you say, he’ll come after you and Travis can grab the candlesticks and run.”

“I don’t like it,” Travis said. “Not unless we can get Jenny and the Elliotts clear.”

“I agree,” said Robert.

“Do you have a better idea?” Brine asked.

“Rachel is a bitch,” Robert said, “but I don’t think she’s a killer. Maybe Travis can send Jenny down the hill from the caves with the candlesticks as a condition to translating the invocation.”

“That still leaves the Elliotts,” Brine said. “And besides, we don’t know if the demon knows the seal is in the candlesticks. I think we go for the diversion plan. As soon as Howard has the invocation translated, Gian Hen Gian should step out of the woods and we all go for it.”

Howard Phillips said, “But even if you have the seal and the invocation, you still have to read the words before the demon kills us all.”

“That’s right,” said Travis. “And the process should begin as soon as Rachel starts reading the words I translate, or Catch will know something is up. I can’t bluff on the translation at my end.”

“You don’t have to,” Brine said. “You simply have to be slower than Howard, which doesn’t sound like a problem.”

“Wait a second,” Robert said. He was out of his seat and across the bar to where Mavis was standing. “Mavis, give me your recorder.”

“What recorder?” she said coyly.

“Don’t bullshit me, Mavis. You’ve got a microcassette recorder under the bar so you can listen to people’s conversations.”

Mavis pulled the recorder out from under the bar and reluctantly handed it over to Robert. “This is the solution to the time problem,” Robert said. “We read the invocation into this before the genie comes out of the woods. When and if we get the candlesticks, we play it back. This thing has a high speed for secretaries to use when typing dictation.”

Brine looked at Travis. “Will it work?”

“It’s not any more risky than anything else we’re doing.”

“Who’s voice do we use?” Robert asked. “Who gets the responsibility?”

The Djinn answered, “It must be Augustus Brine. He has been chosen.”

Robert checked his watch. “We’ve got a half hour and I still have to pick up my cameras at The Breeze’s trailer. Let’s meet at the U-PICK-EM sign in fifteen minutes.”

“Wait — we need to go over this again,” Travis said.

“Later,” Brine said. He threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table and headed toward the door. “Robert, use Howard’s car. I don’t want this whole thing depending on your old truck starting. Travis, Gian Hen Gian, you ride with me.”

During the drive to Pine Cove, Rivera was nagged by the idea that he had forgotten something. It wasn’t that he hadn’t reported where he was going; he had planned that. Until he had physical evidence that there was a serial killer in the area, he wasn’t saying a word. But when he knocked on the Elliotts’ front door and it swung open, he suddenly remembered that his bullet-proof vest was hanging in his locker back at the station.

He called into the house and waited for an answer. None came.

Only cops and vampires have to have an invitation to enter, he thought. But there is probable cause. The part of his mind that functioned like a district attorney kicked in.

“ So, Sergeant Rivera,” the lawyer said, “you entered a private residence based on a computer data base that could have been no more than a mailing list ?”

“ I believed that Effrom Elliott’s name on the list represented a clear and present danger to a private citizen, so I entered the residence .”

Rivera drew his revolver and held it in his right hand while he held his badge out in his left.

“Mr. and Mrs. Elliott, this is Sergeant Rivera from the Sheriff’s Department. I’m coming in the house.”

He moved from room to room announcing his presence before he entered. The bedroom door was closed. He saw the splintered bullet hole in the door and felt his adrenaline surge.

Should he call for backup?

The D.A. said: “And so you entered the house on what basis ?”

Rivera came through the door low and rolled. He lay for a moment on the floor of the empty room, feeling stupid.

What now? He couldn’t call in and report a bullet hole in a residence that he had probably entered illegally, especially when he hadn’t reported that he was in Pine Cove in the first place.

One step at a time, he told himself.

Rivera returned to his unmarked car and reported that he was in Pine Cove.

“Sergeant Rivera,” the dispatcher said, “there is a message for you from Technical Sergeant Nailsworth. He said to tell you that Robert Masterson is married to the granddaughter of Effrom Elliott. He said he doesn’t know what it means, but he thought you should know.”

It meant that he had to find Robert Masterson. He acknowledged the message and signed off.

Fifteen minutes later he was at The Breeze’s trailer. The old pickup was gone and no one answered the door. He radioed the station and requested a direct patch to the Spider.