Read Evil Ways for Free Online Page A

contained jars of ordinary chemicals, like magnesium, phosphorus, and sulfuric acid. There were large bottles of alcohol, used in some purification rituals. Morris even spied a box of Blue Angel wooden matches, presumably for lighting the candles, alcohol lamps, and incense burners.
    I'm wasting time. Whatever Fortner is up to, it's no business of mine. I'm a professional. Get in, get the goods, and get out again. That's what I'm damn well paid for.
    Morris supposed he could inform the police about Fortner. After all, they were eager for information about the child abductions.
    Oh, sure. Absolutely. "Excuse me, officer, but I was burglarizin' this fella's house the other night, and I came upon something you might be interested in. Oh, and did I mention that he's a practitioner of black magic, who's been stealing the kids to use their hearts in his wicked rituals?"
    He'd be lucky if they only laughed at him. A spell in jail or in the local loony bin would be more likely. And an anonymous call would most likely just be filed in the "nut" drawer.
    No, there was nothing he could do about Fortner or his little projects. "Let sleeping dogs lie" was good advice, especially when the dog in question was a black magician who did not stint at murder.
    It was a professional's attitude, and Morris was, above all else, a professional.
    He sent the flashlight beam around the room one last time. Ain't none of my damn business, anyway.
    Ten minutes later, Morris was shimmying up the rope that he had tied to the producer's tree. He had encountered no further interference on his way out of Fortner's house, or across the grounds.
    He reached the branch to which he had secured the rope, grasped it, and quickly hoisted himself up into the tree. Then he unknotted the rope, drew it up, and wound it back around his waist.
    Before starting his descent into the producer's property, Morris spared a final glance toward Fortner's house, where the flames were just now becoming visible in the windows, flickering like the eyes of a madman.
    Morris nodded, once. Then he turned away and began his careful climb down the tree. He wanted to be well away before any fire trucks showed up.
    Morris was a professional. But that was not the only thing he was.
    It was just after dawn when Quincey Morris got back to his room at the Beverly Wilshire, and found that the FBI was waiting for him.

Chapter 2
    Libby Chastain, white witch extraordinaire, was naked, wet, and horny.
    The first two conditions were due to the fact that she was in the shower. The third stemmed from her break-up, a week ago, with her lover, Nancy Randall.
    "I don't see why you won't do a threeway with me and Mike," Nancy had kept saying. "I mean, you told me you like guys, and I know you like girls. Come on, Libby, have some fun." Mike was Nancy's former boyfriend, and Libby had begun to suspect that he wasn't as "former" as she'd supposed.
    "Being bi doesn't make me a skank, Nancy," Libby had told her. "Threeways, fourways, moreways —as one of my favorite TV characters used to say, Homey don't play dat."
    But Nancy wouldn't leave it alone. Finally, Libby'd had enough, and told Nancy to pack her stuff and leave. Just as well. She probably wouldn't have quit until she had us as the main attraction in one of those Tijuana sex shows — just me, Nancy, two dwarves, and a burro.
    Libby didn't regret her decision, but a week of celibacy was starting to take its toll on her ability to concentrate. Consequently, she was giving serious thought to using the shower massage gadget for a purpose its manufacturers had never intended. Then again, maybe they did.
    She was reaching for the nozzle when she heard, very faintly, a sound made by the people who had come to kill her.
    She didn't know for certain that they had lethal intent, but the magical wards on her condo's door and windows would have stopped an everyday crack addict or rapist, as well as raising one hell of a ruckus. The fact that Libby had heard