Play with Fire

Play with Fire - By Justin Gustainis


chapter One

Author’s note: the events in this story take place shortly after those described in the most recent Morris and Chastain novel, Sympathy for the Devil.


ON THE DAY that Quincey Morris got out of jail, Libby Chastain was waiting for him.

Gate four of the Metropolitan Detention Facility in Brooklyn is nothing more than an iron door set in a big stone wall. There is a small parking lot nearby; Libby sat there, behind the wheel of a black Lincoln Town Car. She kept the engine running for the heat, and waited for that door to open. There was nothing to look at apart from the wall, the door, and some paper cups and other trash that blew around in the erratic wind.

Monday, January 16th, Morris’s lawyer had told her. Eleven a.m. And here it was eleven sixteen, and still no Morris.

Libby had noticed on her way that the parking lot adjoining the intake gate was much larger than the one in which she now sat. It’s as if this place is eager to lock people up, but in no big hurry to let them go.

Still, things could have been worse. Federal prisoners awaiting trial, like Morris, were kept here, but those under the jurisdiction of the city were sent either to the Tombs (the Bernard B. Kerik Detention Complex in lower Manhattan, which earned its morbid nickname a long time ago), or, even worse, Riker’s Island – an overcrowded hellhole that has generated more horror stories than Stephen King.

Morris had been incarcerated since July, following certain events that took place at the Republican National Convention, which had been held in the city. Given the charges against him, a list which even John Dillinger would have found impressive, Morris’s judge had denied bail.

Libby had heard that Mal Peters, who had been arrested along with Morris, was also due for release today, but later. She wondered if Peters would be met by someone called Ashley, who looked like a beautiful woman but was in fact something else entirely. The word was that Father Paul Finlay, who had also conspired with Morris and Libby and some others to save the world, would be sprung tomorrow, or the day after.

Libby had not visited Morris in jail – at least, not officially. As a known associate of the prisoner, she had been fairly sure that both the Secret Service and the FBI were interested in talking to her. They had no evidence to connect her with the dramatic business at the Republican Convention, but she might well be held for questioning – maybe for days. So Libby had kept a low profile. She temporarily moved out of her apartment, leaving behind some faked correspondence to show that she was going to be hiking in the Adirondacks for an extended period, exact location unknown.

But she had visited Morris secretly, using a spell for spirit transference. She had appeared in his cell on several occasions, her translucent form looking like a stereotypical movie ghost, while her body remained, behind locked and warded doors, in the bed where she had lain while casting the spell. Morris was familiar with the phenomenon and so had not freaked out when she showed up.

Her last visit had been four nights ago.

“You’re looking more cheerful than usual,” Libby said to Morris. “Considerably moreso, in fact. And I bet I know why.”

Morris grinned at her. “Gloomy Gus paid me a visit yesterday.”

Gustav Volmer, attorney at law, was known by that nickname because of his perpetually lugubrious expression. Volmer tended to take on cases that no other attorney would touch, and consequently rarely had good news to deliver to his clients.

“The old bastard was smiling so broadly when I walked into the visitors’ room, I thought he was having a stroke,” Morris said. “Turned out he had good news for me. I figure the last time something like that happened was when he told Sir Thomas More that Henry VIII had decided to forego the drawing and quartering, and just have him beheaded.”

Libby, or rather the projection of her spirit, nodded. “The government’s dropping all the charges,” she said. “Lack of evidence. All a big misunderstanding. Turns out that Stark had actually been abducted by a bunch of terrorists, who escaped in the confusion. You and the other two guys were just caught in the middle.”

“I assume you had something to do with that,” Morris said.

“Well, not directly. The orders came straight from the Attorney General, I understand. He in turn, was acting on very specific instructions from the White House.”

“So our new President decided I had no involvement with the conspiracy to kidnap his former political rival, Senator Howard Stark? What led him to that happy conclusion?”

“Stark did, actually. He’s mostly recovered from the bullet wounds, you know. And no longer being possessed by Sargatanas has done wonders for his morale, even if he didn’t get to be the Republican nominee this time around. He paid a call on President Leffingwell the day after the inauguration – and brought a couple of friends with him.”

“And those friends were...?”

“Me and Ashley,” Libby said. “Of course, there was no way we were going to get official clearance to visit the President – especially Ashley. So we made ourselves invisible. At least, until we were in the Oval Office.”

Morris shook his head slowly. “Damn, I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that little meeting.”

Libby nodded, smiling. “Stark led into it pretty well, but, still – the expression on Leffingwell’s face when we appeared out of thin air...”

“Priceless doesn’t describe it, I bet.”

“A bet you’d win. Up to that point, things went pretty much as you’d expect. Stark told the whole story, beginning with the night he was possessed by Sargatanas, right up to the point where Mary Margaret Doyle put two bullets into his chest. Naturally, Leffingwell decided that Stark had gone completely insane. He was about to ring for the Secret Service when Ashley and I made our rather dramatic entrance. That lent Stark’s account a certain verisimilitude, you might say.”

“So I get to walk,” Morris said. “Peters and Finlay, too? Gloomy Gus doesn’t represent them, so he didn’t know anything about their cases.”

“Yep – their charges are being dropped, too, with apologies all around.”

Morris was quiet for a moment, frown lines creasing his face. “It just occurred to me – why just drop the charges, instead of a full pardon for each of us?”

“I looked into that,” Libby said. “It seems a President can only pardon somebody who’s already been convicted of a crime. Your trial’s not even due to start until March at least. Anyway, we figured you’d rather not have the conviction on your record.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that, for sure.”

“Anyway, pardoning the three of you would lead to a lot of embarrassing questions – the kind that Leffingwell would really prefer not to answer. Telling the truth about what happened would be out of the question, of course.”

“Isn’t it always?” Morris said.