Hellbound/L.M.Lewis
Chapter 4
"Too many hoods, too little time." Mark sat back in the folding chair and ran his fingers through his hair. Though it wasn't entirely hopeless, he'd decided. They'd managed to pare the list down considerably through a combination of attrition and incarceration.
"Been a while since I culled these," Hardcastle had said at one point, with an apologetic sigh.
But even the short list was longer than they'd hoped. When they'd finished trimming it to only the possibles, the judge gave it one long, last, considering gaze.
"This one," he put his finger down with sudden certainty. "I think he's our best bet."
Mark leaned in and read off the name. "Roman Legatta? Okay," he squinted and then shuffled through the untidy heap for the file, "why him?"
"Nothing that's in there," Hardcastle waved the files away, "at least not all of it. Legatta and Romney go back a ways. The story was, they had a falling out maybe two years back."
"'Bout the time Shelia's other boyfriend got killed?"
"Yeah, 'bout then. Legatta mighta known Bonhavey, mighta disagreed with how it was handled, though if he didn't do the murder, there woulda been plenty of other guys willing to take part of the action."
"So, that's why you think it was him this time? But why would Romney have trusted him enough to let him get close?"
"That's the thing, see, maybe two months ago, Legatta turned up again, and if he was back on Romney's turf, it probably means they'd patched things up. The prodigal returns."
"You think it was all a scam? Legatta was just biding his time? So the wheels were in motion for that long?"
"Who knows? It's possible, or our mastermind bought him out more recently. Loyalty, hah." He picked the list up and shook his head. "But, anyway, he's the one I'd start with."
Mark had finally located the relevant file. He thumbed it open, scanned the first page for a moment and then looked up. "Start where?"
"With Frank." Hardcastle shrugged. "What are friends for?" He smiled. "He'll have an address."
00000
Frank did. And he forked it over with only a minimal amount of professional dubiousness. It was a sure sign of increasing desperation, Mark thought. Harper looked on with something approaching envy as Hardcastle said he was just going to run over there and have a little chat with the man.
"Must be nice to fly under the radar. No probable cause, no nexus criteria."
"Yeah, but if I knock on the door, he doesn't have to let me in and there's nothing I can do about it," Hardcastle pointed out.
Frank opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then shut it again without uttering a word. McCormick had a quick and deep suspicion that he might have been thinking something along the lines of 'But that's what Mark's for.'
"Well," Harper finally said, "I think I should go along."
Hardcastle raised one eyebrow.
"Just in case he gives us some unexpected probable cause," Frank added dryly. "I'll stay in the car unless you need me."
There was no arguing with that, especially since they'd all read the same file.
00000
It was an upscale set of townhouses. Mark supposed the neighbors were mostly dentists and executive types. There was a car in the drive, a black Mustang with some nice custom touches. He didn't say 'crime pays,' because he'd decided it also could be pretty pricey.
They stepped up on the porch. McCormick froze where he was, one foot on the top step. He saw Hardcastle ring the bell, and before he could reach out and touch the man's sleeve, the judge had already lifted a hand, impatient to knock. He obviously hadn't seen the slight mis-seating of the door against the jamb.
"It's open," Mark said in an edgy half-whisper.
Hardcastle gave a sharp glance over his shoulder, back at him and then father out, toward the truck, where Frank was still sitting, peering out the passenger-side window. Mark watched him cover that with a quick, natural smile and a nod. Harper was probably far enough away that none of it registered as suspicious behavior.
The judge turned back to the door, knocked firmly enough to nudge it open, and shouted, as softly as humanly possible, "Anybody home?"
By now Mark thought the answer was probably a qualified yes, depending on how one classified human remains. He also knew the lack of an answer to his gentle shout wouldn't discourage Hardcastle, in fact he was itching to get inside that door before Frank could notice something was amiss and rein him in.
Act followed thought. The door swung open under the heavy persuasion of the judge's rap—it might have appeared, from a distance, to be opening from within—and there was sufficient space now to step through. Mark glanced back at Frank, not with enough of a frown to be a betrayal, but not smiling cheerily, either. Then he turned and slipped in carefully without touching any part of what he figured was a crime scene.
There were no immediate signs of a struggle, but enough general untidiness that a minor one could have passed unnoticed. There was also a vague mechanical noise that Mark couldn't quite place but that drew Hardcastle further back into the hallway, and then toward a second half-open door.
This one he nudged with his elbow and the noise, now louder, became more identifiable from its overtones. A Jacuzzi. Mark thought. We're going to surprise a hit man taking a soak. At least he won't armed. Probably.
But he was aware that the judge had called out again, still not very loud, but audible over the rumbling of the water jets. Hardcastle was in the doorway, looking to the left. Mark heard his startled grunt and stepped up behind him, concern overcoming reluctance.
Pink foam almost up to the rim of the tub—it was too damn incongruous but his first thought was bubble bath, and it was a full second before he saw it for what it really was—blood, frothed up.
The obvious source was nearly submerged in the middle of it, with one damp, hairy arm still languorously draped over the edge, the hand hanging down, dripping slow, pink drops onto the bathmat. The man's head was thrown back, further than ought to be ordinarily possible, with the aid of a deep slash across the front of his neck. The bleeding had stopped.
Mark took a sharp inward breath and unconsciously touched the doorframe to steady himself. The victim's visible parts were pinker than the foam. Scalded.
He realized he'd been focusing down pretty hard, avoiding taking in the big picture. Hardcastle had turned. He was facing him and saying something that he was apparently having to repeat.
"Go get Frank," and there was a push on the shoulder to get him moving, out of there into the hallway where he could finally start breathing again.
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"Surprised him," Parks said consideringly, "slashed his throat, then dumped the pot of boiling water on him."
"It took some timing." Frank rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets.
"Yeah, well, the murderer must have been in the house already, must've been well known to the victim, making himself at home while Legatta was in the tub."
They were all back on the curb in front, trying to stay out of the way while the technicians went in and out. Another car pulled up. Noman stepped out, looking around with that peering, curious way that was beginning to annoy McCormick so much. Parks looked over his shoulder at the sound of the door closing, and gave a weary sigh of resignation.
"They called him, too," he said quietly, as if in unspoken explanation that it hadn't been him doing the calling.
Noman bustled up, with a quick nod at the assembled company and an oblivious smile. Then they all looked toward the front steps of the townhouse. There was a cluster of men emerging, stretcher maneuvered between them, the victim suitably enveloped in a body bag.
A very brief moment of dignified silence held—just long enough for the shrouded corpse to be hefted into the back of the M.E.'s van—then Noman cleared his throat and said, "Sorry not to have gotten here sooner." He cast a pointed look at Parks. "I would have liked to have seen the victim in situ."
"Throat slashed, bled to death pretty quick, but lived long enough to show signs of burns from having hot water tossed on him as well," Frank's gruesome precis was delivered in his flattest detective's tone.
"When?" the psychologist asked sharply.
This got him a shrug from Harper. "Not too long. It's gonna take some calculating. The water temperature throws things off a little but they'll figure it out. Not more than a couple of hours, anyway."
"Hours, eh?" Noman let out a long breath and his gaze turned slightly toward McCormick with a self-satisfied expression. "That was a remarkable bit of rapid deduction."
"Wasn't him," Hardcastle interrupted, "not this time. It was me. And all I figured out was the who," he added grimly. "The how was somebody else's idea."
Noman shifted his gaze, to take in the older man, with some apparent reluctance. Mark frowned and fought an urge to explain. Hardcastle's reasoning before the fact had made perfect sense. It was only in retrospect that the whole thing seemed like magic.
"And still too late; still two steps behind this guy," McCormick grumbled.
But he had no time to weigh in further before a uniformed officer stepped up between Harper and Parks, leaning in and saying a few quick words that drew the task force detective away.
He was only gone a moment, while the other four still stood, tensely expectant, with an undertone of irritation from Hardcastle. Parks' return did nothing to dispel the mood.
"Got another body," he said flatly.
"Dammit," Mark muttered. "Harpies, right?"
It was out, and answered with a quick, aggravated look from the judge, before Parks could even give him a perplexed shrug.
"A guy named Ulster. Mob ties."
"Darryl Ulster?" Hardcastle asked. Mark was already pulling the list out, realizing that getting to the bottom of this had taken precedence over all other concerns for the judge. He handed the list over wordlessly to Parks. Harper had already seen it. Ulster wasn't number two, but his name was near the top.
Parks handed it over to one of the other officers with quick curt instructions that all of them needed to be located. "Persons of interest," he said. "We'll work out the details if any of them are reluctant." Obviously they were all familiar names to him.
Noman was leaning over, trying to get a better look at the list before it was carried off. Then his stare refastened itself to the judge.
"Very remarkable piece of deduction," he said quietly. "Two for two."
"There's more than two names on that list," Mark pointed out.
"Might be more murders as well," Noman shrugged diffidently.
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They decamped to the latest location, a canyon road up north of the city. The body had been discovered by some linemen, in a spot remote enough that it might have escaped detection had it not been for the raptors they'd spotted, circling nearby.
"Our guy's actually getting cautious, not leaving one where we'll trip over it?" Harper asked between huffs as they trudged up the slope.
"Nah," Parks sighed. "The telephone wires were clipped and I'll bet if those guys had missed the clues, we would've gotten an anonymous call in a day or so."
They were all breathing a little harder as they crested the bluff and had a clear view of the cluster of activity on the far side, just below. One of the techs waved them over and the others parted way for the newcomers.
Mark caught his first glimpse of something that looked not quite human, more like badly butchered meat, though still with the general shape of a human body. The damage, though considerable, was superficial. It was somehow, or maybe even because of that, all the more grisly.
"Vultures?" he whispered, looking up at the lone remaining bird, soaring patiently a ways off.
"Nah," the technician shook his head. "Flayed. Couldn't have even done a tentative ID if the wallet hadn't been left nearby. Not real systematic, though. It was more like little chops, kinda like a vulture might, I suppose. Don't know if he was expecting to fool anybody."
McCormick took a step back and said—soft and quick and almost to himself— "This one was supposed to be a suicide—violence to self, right? But that doesn't make any sense. You can't murder somebody for being a suicide and, besides, we already had them, back at the beginning."
He found the judge next to him, saying "Go sit down over there," and pointing toward some rocks a short distance away. Mark nodded but didn't move until he felt a hand under his arm, and some firm guidance.
The hand was on his shoulder now. He was sitting without being exactly sure how he'd wound up there, a good fifteen feet from the body.
Hardcastle was still standing next to him, unexpected concern etched into his expression. "Long day, huh?" he asked almost gently.
The tone was unexpected, too. Mark frowned, figuring he must look even worse than he felt. That was an interesting notion, since he felt like crap, still breathing too fast, and trying to clear the spots from his vision.
"Yup," he finally drew a deep breath, "long . . . and I don't think it's over yet.
"Found something else here." It was one of the techs, wearing gloves and crouching over the small heap of personal effects that had apparently been left a short distance from the body. He'd already bagged a fair number of items, but this latest one he held up for the others to see. "It's a note." He looked puzzled. "A suicide note, I think."
Parks and Harper looked down at the body, then at each other, in perfect mirrored double-takes.
The evidence tech looked briefly nonplussed. "I don't mean his suicide note. It's got another name on it. 'Shelia Storm'," he read it off and then looked up sharply. "Hey, that woman from last week. The jumper."
The lieutenant and the detective had already closed the distance between them and the tech. Parks was leaning in, reading without touching. "Same color ink. The handwriting's a little shakier, from what I remember." He looked back at Noman. "Rough draft?"
"Quite possibly." The psychologist nodded. "It appears that one of our original suicides was not a suicide." Then he shifted his gaze back to the body. "And our killer has not made a faux pas here, merely a curious interpretation of the facts. He most likely saw this man as guilty of a suicide, simply not his own."
"He'll rearrange the facts as much as he needs to," Mark muttered bitterly. "It's his game. His rules." He didn't care that the psychologist was studying him again. It was all pretty damn unimportant, he decided, as he turned back to the judge.
"There'll be one more. You've got to narrow that list down more," he said urgently.
Hardcastle pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, well, the first one made sense, and the second one is a stretch, but I guess he's just a creative son-of-bitch, but 'Violence against Nature'?"
"You read the damn study guide. It's a euphemism for homosexuality. You got any likely candidates on your list?"
Hardcastle shot a look at Frank, who shook his head. The judge finally shrugged and said, "Nothing that made it into the files. Most of these guys are pretty old school; that'd be something they'd keep off their resumes."
"All right, so maybe the killer knows stuff we don't know—after all, he'd hired them before; he must've known them some, right?" Mark frowned, sitting silent for a moment. "Or maybe," he finally lifted his eyes, starting up again slowly, "maybe he's just gonna be creative again."
"'Creative,'" Hardcastle echoed glumly.
"Yeah," Mark shuddered. "Crimes against Nature. Was there ever a suspect in the murder of Shelia's other boyfriend? I don't mean Romney, for ordering it, but the guy who actually carried it out—the one who decided to mail her the little souvenir."
Harper frowned and then looked at Parks. "Kepler, Artie Kepler, wasn't it?" The task force detective nodded. Harper turned back, hands in pockets. "Good catch, Mark. It was on account of the M.O.. Kepler had a reputation for sending bits of his victims to the other parties concerned—I guess there was no such thing as bad publicity in Art's book.
"It wasn't cut and dried, though," Harper added, appearing oblivious to the possibilities of a pun. "Up till then it had always been stuff like fingers or ears, though we'd heard he'd once sent a tongue of a guy who'd turned informant, sent it to the guy's brother. But it was never anything like what Shelia got—that seemed more like Romney's idea, being as that was the part that had gotten Bonhavey into trouble in the first place."
"Maybe Romney's idea," Mark said quietly, "but he had to find somebody who wasn't squeamish." He turned to Hardcastle. "Maybe that was Legatta's problem; he didn't have the—"
"Guts for the job," Hardcastle finished hastily, then looked doubtful. "But all these guys kill people for a living. Legatta was a pro."
Come on, Hardcase, there's killing people, and then there's . . ." he paused, glancing over at the remains of the second hit man with a distracted expression as he search for the right word, "mutilation," he finally added. "That's what it is. Not enough to just take lives. More anger here than that."
"Vengeance is a powerful motivating force." It was Noman, still standing by the corpse, speaking out of his own apparent reverie. The others looked back at him suddenly.
Mark frowned sharply. "Okay, so if you buy that, then why do you keep giving me that look?" he asked bluntly. "I didn't have a beef with any of these people."
"Well," Noman smiled thinly, "there are all sorts of offenses that can precipitate a feeling of vengeance. It needn't be personal. It might be against one's sense of justice, for example. But if it makes you feel any better, Mr. McCormick, I've really given up on you as a prime suspect. It seems evident that the mechanics of the thing are beyond your scope. This would have taken someone with resources, and a certain stamina that I do not believe you possess."
The psychologist was still smiling. His eyes had shifted slightly to the left. Mark followed the angle and looked up at Hardcastle, standing there, hands in pockets, still apparently contemplating the remaining names on the victims list.
"Yeah," the judge murmured, "Artie Kepler. It makes a lot of sense." He glanced up sharply at Harper. "You got any kinda current address on him?"
"He won't be at home," Mark sank his concerns under the immediate need, "I mean, if he is the next victim. I suppose it won't hurt to look, but he's probably already dead, and, anyway, that part of the circle is supposed to be a burning plain."
Harper, Hardcastle, and Parks all looked grim.
Frank finally grumbled, "It's a helluva big desert, Mark; you got anything in those Cliff Notes that'll narrow it down for us?"
McCormick looked up at the vulture, now in the company of two more, hardly discouraged by the official showing below. "Oh," he sighed, "the guy's creative; he'll think of something." He felt himself shiver, despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun. "There's always the U.S. mail."
00000
Mark drove and neither one of them had much to say. Three murder scenes in one day kinda takes it out of a person.
They'd accompanied Frank to Kepler's last known address, which appeared current. Nobody there, and no body, either. Mark's sense of relief was shallow and unconvincing. He couldn't shake the dread that accompanied the almost-certain knowledge that it was far from over yet—that and a weird half-hope that the guy, whoever he was, would just hurry up and work through his obsession.
But there was the other matter, the one that had gotten brushed aside this afternoon.
"Noman," Mark started tentatively, after all, it hadn't been said in so many words, "he's after you, now; you realize that, don't you?"
The judge waved that away wearily. "Ridiculous. That doesn't make any sense."
"Which part? That I think he's after you, or that he is?"
"Both," Hardcastle replied firmly, but then he looked fixedly straight ahead and said, "You're probably right, though. Nonsense or not."
"Well," Mark said with a little huff, "which part of this whole thing has made sense, right from the start? And we've been kept so busy, running around . . . have Harper and Parks got any other leads? I mean, now that I'm not on the Most Wanted List," he smiled thinly. "I keep thinking it all goes back to Shelia's first boyfriend."
Hardcastle nodded.
"Did Donhavey have any family?"
The judge wrinkled his forehead. "Noman's still got my file. I need to get that back from him. You think that'll make him point his finger at me more?"
He had the insouciant grin of a man who wasn't the slightest bit worried. Mark hoped it wasn't ill-founded confidence. But then Hardcastle's frown was back, as though he really didn't need the file to give the answer.
"Nah," he replied after a moment's further thought, "none I remember. His mom was dead, I think."
Mark shrugged. "Well, no name in the file doesn't necessarily mean no relative." He had a frown of his own. "'Course it doesn't mean the guy whose name isn't in the file would give two hoots about what happened to his son."
"Donhavey might have had a brother . . . or maybe an uncle," Hardcastle suggested gently.
"Might," Mark said dryly. "But everyone else is optional. The father is kinda mandatory, even if he's not in the file."
The conversation petered out. They were at the drive and Mark realized he'd gone tense, and that the judge was sitting equally stiffly. He pulled in at a sedate speed that bordered on reluctance.
"He might send it straight to the cops," the judge said quietly. It sounded like a non sequitur, but it was exactly same one that Mark had been wishing on.
They'd pulled up past the fountain. The front porch was visible. The package was not so obvious in the twilight, being small and leaning up against the stoop. But both men had been watching for it closely and now, with the Coyote in park, they cast each other mirrored looks of mutual dread.
"We'll call Frank," Hardcastle said. "It's evidence. We shouldn't even touch it."
Mark nodded in ready agreement. "Maybe we should go in the back way."
The judge started to nod as well, then broke that off and glanced one more time at the porch, frowning. "Nah, I gotta at least look at it first, see if there's a return address. Might be from the aunts or something."
"But don't touch it," McCormick advised, with the conviction of a man who knew good things did not come in small packages.
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Mark watched from the window of the den. One of the two evidence techs looked familiar, though he couldn't recall precisely which murder scene he'd been at. Both the men seemed casually bored.
The package had been deemed too small and light to be a bomb and they were only there to take photos and then transport it. It was all done with due attention to the fact that they were being closely observed by a police lieutenant and an ex-judge with a reputation for being detail-oriented, but it was done quickly and, before long, they had packed it up and were gone.
Harper was leaving, too. The day had begun thirteen hours and three murders ago, and there was a visible hunch to his shoulders. Mark watched him exchange a few words with Hardcastle, probably Frank assuring the judge he'd let him know as soon as there was anything to know. That done, he got in his car and departed. The judge was left standing alone in the drive.
Everything was calm, but with the heavy feeling of an impending storm, something with a whole lot of lightning. Mark almost jumped when he heard the buzzer from the oven, three rooms away and not all that loud. He shook himself, then rapped on the window. It was a moment before he had Hardcastle's attention and could flag him in.
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Dinner was eaten with a minimum of conversation. They made it all the way through that, and an hour into a movie that neither of them was watching, before the phone rang. This time Mark would have sworn he'd seen the judge jump, too, which was a very bad sign, almost unprecedented.
Hardcastle's side of the telephone conversation consisted mainly of grunts and uh-huhs, none of which sounded too surprised. The call was brief and the good-byes were terse, with no indication that there'd be any further action tonight.
The judge hung up, turning and resting his hip on the edge of the desk. He looked just as tired as Mark felt.
"It's what we thought it'd be."
"Exactly what we thought it'd be?"
"Well," Hardcastle shrugged, "you weren't thinking the guy'd back down now, did ya? You weren't expecting a token finger or something?" He sighed. "Which is too bad, a finger mighta been easier to identify. And the M.E. can't quite call it a murder yet, even though that kind of injury would be kind of hard to survive, if the guy didn't get some medical attention right away."
"If he'd even want to survive it," Mark said grimly. There was a moment of profound silence. McCormick finally shook his head and said, "Okay, now what?"
Hardcastle let out a breath and took another one in. "Now nothing. At least for tonight. The lab guys are working on it, but until the rest of the body turns up, we haven't got much."
"It meant a lot to Kepler, I'm sure," Mark said dryly. "It's weird, ya know, feeling sorry for a bunch of professional killers." There was no immediate response from the other man and, after a second, McCormick squinted over at him. "You don't think this guy's doing some kinda public service, thinning the herd or something like that?"
The judge looked back at him blankly for a moment, then there was a flash of something that bordered on anger. "What the . . . you don't actually think I think that way, do you?"
Mark shied back slightly. "Nah. I didn't. It's just that . . ." he studied a spot just past the window, in the infinite blackness outside. "I dunno," he finally shrugged, "just seemed like you guys take it all in stride—just a couple of dead hoods, more-or-less."
Hardcastle said nothing for a moment, as if he was weighing the truth of it. "Well . . . maybe that's just another way of coping. For those guys who work the crime scenes all the time, it's gotta just be a job—somebody else's tragedy, not theirs. Maybe a real bad one—a kid, or something unusual—that'll stick, keep ya up at night for a while, but if you let all of 'em get to you . . ."
Mark frowned. "Sorry I got so wigged out today."
The judge waved the apology away. "I think today qualified as unusual and, besides, you're not a cop . . . and even cops have to step outside and take a few deep breaths once in a while."
Mark looked around slowly, feeling as though he was in the last sane place in an insane world. "'Unusual'? Yup, I guess that pretty much sums it up."
He got to his feet slowly. "I'm beat." He trudged up the two steps and turned left, toward the front door. He glanced back over his shoulder to say 'goodnight'.
Hardcastle was giving him a puzzled look and finally said "Not the guestroom?"
"Hah, you're not such a hot alibi any more; you realize that, don't you?" Mark managed a smile, though he thought it might have come across as a little thin. "Unless you think my being able to vouch for you is going to do any good."
The judge harrumphed.
"Well, wait'll Noman starts arching his eyebrows at you every time you open your mouth. You'll see."
"The guy's a nut case," Hardcastle muttered. Then his eyes narrowed suddenly and he turned back toward the desk, reaching for the phone.
Mark followed him, stopping at the top of the two steps and leaning against the edge of the doorway. "Come on, you don't think—?"
"He had the file; he knew every damn thing about the case that we did."
"He's under contract to the LAPD. He's—"
"Who knows where the hell they get these guys?" The judge picked up the receiver and started to punch a number in.
Mark took the steps and leaned forward, breaking the connection. "Wait a sec. You're gonna call Frank and tell him you think it's Noman?" Mark gave him a sharp look. "And this is right after the guy starts yanking your chain. How's that gonna look?" He paused and frowned. "Hey, how come you didn't think of all this back when it was me he was pointing at?"
"I'm not going to accuse him of anything." The judge grabbed the phone back impatiently and started dialing again. "I'm just going to have Frank do a little checking, that's all—make sure the guy doesn't have any old axes to grind. Now why would a psychologist have a grudge against you?"
"I dunno, Judge, I ticked a couple of 'em off back in Jersey." He cocked his head. "And why would one of them be after you?"
"Some of my enemies could afford to buy off a professional. It's possible."
"You mean the killings, and the accusing are two separate things?"
"You got it, kiddo."
Hardcastle finished dialing. This time Mark didn't interfere. He settled slowly into the nearest seat, staring out the window again. The phone conversation was brief, and evidently involved Frank raising many of the same objections that had just been covered.
Mark didn't hear the phone being hung up; it was only when the judge spoke—and apparently repeating himself—that things snapped back into focus.
"You okay?"
"Ah, yeah," Mark answered slowly. "Just thinking. We still don't have any idea who's doing it."
"Maybe the package—"
McCormick's expression went grim. "Think he's going to start leaving useful clues now?"
"He'll slip up. They all do eventually."
"There's two more circles to Hell."
"Okay, only two more."
"But the next one is a doozy—Circle Eight, ten parts. You think he's going to do in ten people?"
"Dunno. Maybe he'll run out of ideas. Maybe it'll be 'Hell Lite'."
"Reader's Digest Condensed Hell?" Mark said dryly.
"Yeah," Hardcastle's own smile was thin, "something like that . . . we can hope, anyway."
Mark nodded, not feeling very hopeful, and got to his feet again. He frowned. "Thieves," he said.
"What?"
"Thieves are in Circle Eight. Thieves get bit by snakes."
"That doesn't sound so bad, compared with all this other stuff."
McCormick was in the doorway again. He shook his head. "Depends on how you feel about snakes." He stepped through into the hallway. There was only a moment of hesitation before he turned right and headed up the stairs.