The Devil's Graveyard by Anonymous Page B

contract had been given to someone else.’
    ‘I see. And you want to know who that someone else is?’
    ‘Yes. I also want to know who it is who’s hiring these people, and why.’
    ‘Jefe didn’t know?’
    ‘No, but he said you might be able to help with that. That’s why you’re here.’
    ‘Okay. Anything else?’
    ‘That will do for now. Think you can manage it?’
    ‘Well, let’s see, shall we? Can you dim the lights?’
    ‘Sure. Tommy, dim the lights, please.’
    The black-suited security guard turned a switch by the door and dimmed the overhead lighting until it was sufficiently dark to see that Annabel’s crystal ball was beginning to glow a gentle white colour. This was her cue to lean forward and begin waving her hands over the enigmatic sphere. After a few seconds, a swirling white mist appeared inside it. Powell had the good sense to remain quiet as she went through some rather dubious gesticulating with her arms. Eventually, after staring unblinkingly into the glowing glass ball and concentrating hard for just under a minute some insight seemed to come to her.
    ‘The man you seek,’ she intoned, ‘is in the hotel already. He has a list of people he plans to kill.’
    ‘Can you see what he looks like?’
    ‘I see two men together. One of them is a contestant in the show. The other is a merciless killer. They plan to kill off their main rivals so they can win the show.’
    Powell reached a hand up to his chin and began rubbing it as if he had an infuriating itch.
    ‘Who are they?’ he demanded.
    ‘Wait. I’m seeing something. It’s – it’s a room number.’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘This room is on the seventh floor.’ Annabel, staring fixedly into the crystal globe, was beginning to sweat with the effort of concentrating. Powell, too, was staring into it, but could see nothing other than the white mist swirling around inside. Again the old woman spoke, her voice now a monotonous drone, her words interspersed by short pauses.
    ‘It’s room number – thirteen on the – seventh floor. That’s where – you’ll find the – assassin you’re looking for.’
    ‘Wow!’ said Powell, sounding surprised. He was impressed in spite of himself. ‘That’s very precise. Do you have a name for the occupant?’
    Annabel slowly shook her head. ‘No. There’s confusion over this man’s name. I can’t work out why.’ Her speech was beginning to sound normal again.
    Shit! thought Powell, but he kept it to himself. ‘Okay,’ he said gently. ‘Can you see anything else?’
    ‘Yes, there is one thing. But I suspect you already know this.’ She sounded hesitant now.
    Powell raised one eyebrow quizzically. ‘And what is that?’
    ‘This show is cursed.’
    ‘Excuse me?’ If he was surprised, he did a remarkable job of concealing it.
    ‘There’s some kinda curse on this show. I can’t figure out exactly what it is, but if I was a contestant, I don’t think I’d want to win.’
    The show’s owner and promoter waved a dismissive hand and smiled at her. ‘I’m not worried about curses. Or what happens to the person who wins the show. I just want to be sure the show goes ahead without any glitches.’
    ‘It’s your call,’ said Annabel. ‘But I reckon a more appropriate name for your show would be The Hex Factor .’
    Powell sighed. ‘I think we’re done here. Tommy, turn the lights back up, please.’ The white mist within the crystal ball began to dissipate and Annabel sat back in her chair, looking a little tired, and, if anything, even older. The security guard turned up the lights again and Annabel watched with unconcealed pleasure as Powell tossed the remaining hundred-dollar bills over the desk to her.
    ‘Thank you, Annabel. You appear to have done well.’ He looked across at her and added, ‘Of course, if we need you again for any reason, we know your room number.’ There was a note of subtle intimidation in his voice, and Annabel had no doubt that if even one of her