"Sergeant Markowski – to what do I owe the pleasure, if that's what it is?"

  Unlike the rest of him, Pettigrew's voice was restrained and fairly cultured – at least when his homies weren't around. Not many people knew that he has a degree in economics from Penn State – or he would have, if they hadn't kicked him out three weeks before graduation for starting a species riot.

  Physically, he was what you'd expect: weightlifter's build, shaved head, the grease-stained sleeveless sweatshirt displaying the tats that ran the length of both muscular arms.

  "You mean, apart from the delight I always experience in your company?" I can talk fancy, too, if I want.

  Pettigrew's mean-looking mouth turned up briefly at the corners. "Yeah, besides that."

  "I wanted to ask you about a couple of things. You hear about stuff that I wouldn't, since there's people who'll talk to you that won't talk to me."

  "Hard to imagine, isn't it?" Then the playful note left his voice. "Why should I do anything for the porkers? All you bastards do is help the supie-loving government oppress real warm Americans."

  "I don't suppose saying 'the goodness of your heart' is enough of a reason," I said.

  "Not fuckin' hardly."

  I gave him a shrug. "So, what do you want?"

  Pettigrew walked slowly over to a nearby workbench, picked up a rag, and started carefully wiping his hands. From the looks of the rag, I didn't think he was gaining much ground in the cleanliness department.

  Without looking up from what he was doing he said, "Jackie Marcus."

  It took me a moment to place the name. Then I remembered that John Robert Marcus had been busted a month ago on six charges of child molestation involving a couple of kids who lived in the same trailer park he did. The girl was seven, I think. The boy was five. I knew Marcus's name because he had been a longtime member of HSR, even editing their so-called newspaper for a couple of years.

  "You want him sprung?" I asked Pettigrew. "You can't seriously expect me to say yes to that."

  "I don't." He finally looked up, his expression grimmer than usual. "He's in County, awaiting trial. They've got him in the protection wing, along with the snitches, welchers, and faggots. I want you to get him released into population."

  "You want him in the yard, with the rest of the inmates? What the hell for?"

  "So a couple of our guys who are already inside can get to him. Fucker betrayed the movement, made us all look bad with his little hobby."

  The last word had some snap to it, and I remembered that Pettigrew had kids of his own. Going against type, he was said to be a pretty good husband and father.

  "You want your people to shank him," I said.

  "Shank?" He gave me a crooked grin. "Don't believe I'm familiar with that word, Officer."

  Now that I had Marcus's name rattling around in my memory bank, something else popped up.

  "The DA's trying to make him a deal, isn't she? A lighter sentence in return for everything he knows about the HSR and all of your little hobbies. He hasn't made up his mind yet, has he?"

  The grin was gone now. "All the reasons don't matter. What's important is that the son of a bitch has got to go down before his case goes to trial."

  "And if I promise to talk to the warden over at County and see if I can get Marcus sent out in the yard to play, you'll answer some questions for me?"

  "Yeah, something like that."

  I shook my head slowly. "No can do, hombre – even if I was so inclined, and I might just be. The warden at County's new, only been on the job about four months. I've never met him, and he sure as hell doesn't owe me any favors."

  "Maybe he owes a favor to one of your buddies. One hand washes the other, or so I hear."

  "It's not real likely. Like I said, the guy's only been in place four months – not long enough to run up too many IOUs." I paused to let that sink in. "That mean we can't do business?"

  Pettigrew looked at me. "You could've just said, 'Sure, I'll take care of it', knowing all the while that you couldn't."

  "Yeah, I guess. But I don't work that way."

  "So I hear," Pettigrew said. "So I hear."

  He dropped the rag in a trash can and leaned his butt against the workbench, his still-dirty hands gripping the edge for support. "Ask your questions," he said. "I'll either answer, or I won't. But I won't lie to you – I don't do that."

  "So I hear," I said. "All right, then. There's some people with a Scranton connection making and selling snuff films."

  "I thought all that stuff was some bullshit urban legend," Pettigrew said.

  "This stuff isn't," I told him. "I've seen one, and it's the real deal. There's four different ones that we know about, and they all follow the same pattern. Two guys are chained up inside a pentagram. A demon is summoned, and it possesses one of the guys. Then he's set free, and the demon makes him torture and kill the other guy. It's the nastiest shit I've ever seen – and I've seen a lot."

  "Jesus," Pettigrew said. "That is beyond sick."

  "No argument from me," I said.

  "Demons, huh? Well, that's supies for you – fuckin' perverts, every damn one."

  "Let's not generalize," I said. "So I take it all of this is news to you?"

  "Yeah, it's the first I've heard of it," he said, and I believed him.

  "If you come across anything that smells like this, I'd appreciate a call."

  He shrugged those big shoulders, not committing himself. "What else you got?"

  "Somebody's been burning witches," I said. "Two, so far. We don't know why, and we sure as hell don't know who."

  "Yeah, I saw something on the news about one of them," he said.

  "Is that all you know about it – what was on TV?"