The Devil and Dan Cooley

by Holly Lisle

  Puck said, "We want to see Devil's Point succeed, of course, so first you'll probably be dealing with the people who are out to put roadblocks in our way. Once the project is off the ground, we'll move to broader concerns. We want representation in local government. We want full citizenship, the right to vote. We'll pay taxes, but we want to get something for our tax dollars. We want to be mainstreamed into society. We want you to give us a shot at taking advantage of this second chance we've been given."

  She could feel her family practice falling to the side. Maybe not for years, but it would eventually. This was bigger, and no one else could do what she could do. No one else could give the Hellraised a fair shake.

  And family practice lawyers were everywhere.

  Expediency, she thought.

  This is like dealing with Kyle Haversham in the restaurant. You keep the end result in mind. You remember whom you're trying to help. You never lose sight of your idealism. Then you do what you have to do to get the results you need.

  She shook Puck's hand. "I'm your lawyer, Puck."

  Chapter 41

  Dan was still looking over the unsigned contract when Puck got home.

  "I can't sign this, Puck," he said. "I can't accept money to say that I think what you're doing for the state is good I can't become a paid spokesman for anything—that goes against what I believe in. No one can own me, or else what I say on the radio will be compromised. And what I had to say about Devil's Point would be compromised, too. If you paid me to say I thought it was a good thing, that would negate any value in what I said."

  Puck dropped onto the couch and leaned back. "Long day," he said.

  "I know. But don't change the subject on me."

  "I'm not. It's just been a long day. Kind of hard on me." He sighed. "You're right about the contract. I'm sorry I even suggested it to Meg." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs. "You have to realize that I've spent longer than you can imagine as part of a corporate culture. The first rule of any corporation is 'Get it in writing.' The second is, 'If you aren't paying them, they don't work for you.'" He smiled wryly. "Hell doesn't exactly get a lot of free testimonials."

  "Then you aren't upset?"

  "Of course not. You pointed out something that would have compromised what we're trying to do. Your point was valid, and well thought-out, and because I'm going to listen to you and take your advice, it will save us from real image problems in the near future." He chuckled. "We already have enough image problems for anyone."

  Chapter 42

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 15TH

  Janna got her script. She was to play an archaeologist—tough, intelligent, beautiful—who, on a dig with an ex-fiancé, uncovered proof that at least one form of dinosaur lived during the time of the Minoan civilization, which was the precursor civilization to classical Greece. And she and her ex-fiancé would discover a sacred box, and unlock it, and in it find three perfectly preserved eggs. When the eggs hatched into a previously unknown form of pterodactyl, she and the ex-fiancé would be headed toward fame and fortune... until something went wrong.

  It was a great script. The dialogue had been written by someone who'd actually heard the English language spoken, and who had a sense of humor besides. The characters were surprisingly well developed within the hundred-plus pages. The premise was a little goofy, but the writer had gone to a lot of trouble to make it logically consistent within the framework of the story. The story was good. Really good. ILM was already set up to do the special effects, which meant the pterodactyls would live.

  It was the project she'd worked her whole life for, and she was going to star in it, and she'd just heard that Brad Pitt had tentatively agreed to play her ex-fiancé, barring scheduling conflicts. And Harrison Ford was a possible as the brilliant scientist whose work brought the pterodactyls to life.

  She should have been walking on air.

  Instead, she felt only a sick, tight knot in her gut. This wasn't any fun. This wasn't the way she'd wanted to do it at all. She discovered, too late, that she wouldn't be satisfied with enormous success unless she earned it—and now, with success guaranteed her, with the rest of her life mapped out and looking like the star-studded path of a goddess, with everything she wanted in the palm of her hand, she didn't see any way that she could go back to the place where she'd been before—to being the woman who was willing to work her ass off to get what she wanted if only she could know when she got to the top that she'd done it herself.

  I want to know that Anton Leighton-White liked me, she thought. I want to know that I was really the actress he wanted. And I won't ever know that.

  Everything I do from here on out is poisoned.

  What do I do?

  Chapter 43

  Dan stared out his apartment window at the advancing clouds. The county had a severe weather watch until midnight—looked like they were going to get their weather. A thunderstorm would be perfect for his mood, too.

  Work had sucked. He'd done riffs on Raleigh politicians, on Washington idiocy, on the local fight over banning Huckleberry Finn in the classroom. He wanted to talk about something different, something that wasn't devils and Hell, and every call-in he got turned him back to the Great Devil Makeover.

  The press conference had sucked. Meg had stood in front of a press corps as big and interested as any that had ever showed up for a presidential State of the Union address, and had introduced the Devil's Point project, done a brief spiel about how it was going to revitalize the North Carolina economy, and launched from there into a prepared address about the ACLU antidiscrimination suit, the sufferings of the Hellraised in North Carolina, and finally into a big push for equal rights for the Hellraised.

  At no time did Meg say anything about second chances, about a push toward redemption. She seemed to have forgotten that the idea had been to remake Hell's damned, because now she was agitating to get them accepted into society as they were.

  Dan kept waiting for his chance to speak, for his opportunity to say that he didn't support equal rights for the Hellspawn, but while Meg pointed him out and people cheered, he never got a chance at the microphone.

  And when the press conference was over, she'd given him a hard look and said, "I heard you decided not to join us after all. It figures that when you have a real chance to make a difference, you'd back out. A man who would string along two women wouldn't have the courage of his convictions, would he?"

  He'd tried to explain, but she walked away.

  He reached Janna on the phone. She told him that she'd gotten the part she'd always wanted, and that she didn't see where the two of them had a future. She would be traveling around the world. She would be famous. She wouldn't have time for a DJ boyfriend who kept worse hours than she did.

  She said she wished him luck.

  She sounded like she'd been crying.

  Now he was alone. The storm marched up from the southwest, from the Gulf of Mexico, and he wanted to stand in it. He wanted to let it pound him flat.

  He'd lost both Meg and Janna. Both of them. He'd lost them because he wouldn't let go of Francie. And maybe he wouldn't have had a real future with either of them, but he would never know that. Maybe one of the two of them had been the right woman for him. If he'd given either of them a real chance, maybe he would have found he'd been able to resurrect the part of himself that had died with his wife.

  Fetch trotted into the room, and came over to stand by Dan's leg. Dan reached down and rubbed behind the imp's ears. "I brought another candy bar for you, " he said. "I stuck it in the fridge because it started to melt in the car."

  The imp stood looking up at him.

  "You can go get it. It's on the top shelf."

  The imp didn't move. It cocked its head to one side and made a curious little interrogative noise.

  "What?"

  The imp rested its hand on Dan's leg and suddenly he realized it was trying to let him know it was... concerned? About him?

  The imp cared about him? At so
me point in its human life, it had committed a damnable offence, and it hadn't yet repented that. It was evil—by nature or by choice, and probably by both. He'd done nothing to try to give it a second chance—hadn't given it clothes or tried to find it a job or even paid it special attention. The occasional candy bar, a pat on the head, a scratch behind the ears—nothing worth mentioning.

  But he could see the concern in its eyes.

  "Janna and Meg both dumped me," he said. "I'm a little down."

  That little interrogative squeak again.

  "I'm understating. I'm a lot down. I'm discovering that I cared about both of them, and I'm discovering it too late."

  It patted his leg. An attempt at comfort, and he found himself moved that it tried.

  He heard a step on the stairs outside the apartment, and Fetch shot away to its corner, and rolled up into a ball there. An instant later, Puck came through the door.

  "Big day," the devil said. "I think the press conference went well. Your presence made a real difference for us, Dan. Thank you for coming."

  Dan shrugged.

  "Really. I'm tremendously grateful. I think that having a man of your moral fiber associated with Devil's Point will clear our obstacles faster than a flame thrower at a weenie roast."

  Dan said nothing.

  "That was supposed to be a joke."

  "Oh. It was funny."

  "I'm trying to tell you how much your presence on the platform with us today meant to me."

  Dan said, "Don't worry about it." He turned back to the window and stared out at the black clouds that moved toward him. Flashes of lightning illuminated the underside of the cloud bank at irregular intervals, and the distant rumble of thunder followed after, slowly.

  "You're angry."

  "I'm... unhappy."

  "Why?"

  Dan looked over at the devil. He didn't seem much like a devil anymore. He'd become almost a friend. Perhaps he could become a friend—and right at that moment, Dan thought he needed a friend more than anything.

  He said, "Do you have a while?"

  "My evening is free."

  So Dan told him about Francie; about meeting her and loving her and finally losing her. He talked until his voice grew hoarse and his throat grew raw, until the thunder and the lightning crashed all around them so close the apartment shook, and the rain slashed against the windows, and the wind outside screamed like a banshee and whistled through the gap between the front door and the frame.

  And he talked on, about how he'd looked for her replacement in both Meg and Janna, and how he'd made a mistake in doing that. "No one could replace her," he said. "And I should have seen the two of them for who they were, and not as plugs for the huge hole in my life."

  Puck sat, listening, not commenting at all until at last Dan fell silent. Then he said, "You truly loved her."

  "She was the human embodiment of love. She was my whole world—when she died, I had to find other reasons just to keep breathing, because she'd been my reason for everything I did."

  "You loved her..." The devil stared out at the black sky, and a close flash of lighting illuminated his face and for a moment made him almost handsome. Compassion showed clearly in his eyes, and a comprehension of Dan's pain.

  "I, too, lost those I loved," Puck said at last "My wife gave me three children, and not long after the youngest was born, she died. My oldest son died when he was eleven. My life after his death spiraled downward, into unending despair and grief. I did things that I now remember... and regret... and I did those bad things because God took away from me the people I loved."

  Dan looked at the devil. "I understand," he said softly. "When Francie died, I blamed God for not saving her."

  The devil nodded "I did the same thing. And it didn't help me after I died to discover that he could have saved them, and that he let them die as a lesson to me."

  Dan, startled, said, "God could have saved Francie? He really did let her die?"

  "Of course. Surely that's more evident to you now than ever—if he can put us here, he can cure the dying of their cancers and diseases and sicknesses. But he sends the diseases—why would he choose to take them away?"

  The anger that he'd felt when Francie died came back to Dan, washed over him like a tidal wave, and dragged him with it out to the sea of rage where he'd spent so much time just a few short years ago.

  "I did realize that. I realized it when God turned all of you loose here—that miracles weren't impossible after all."

  "I saved you, Dan. God could have saved her. Miracles happen."

  Dan nodded. Anger swelled in his throat, a hard hot knot that made swallowing difficult and speaking impossible.

  The devil said, "You didn't make a mistake in not loving Meg or Janna. They weren't right for you. Both of them had plans of their own, lives completely apart from yours. Both of them have proven that they can get by just as well without you as they can with you. And, quite frankly, neither of them love you. If they did, they would still be a part of your life."

  Dan locked his hands together so tightly they hurt. The muscles in his arms and shoulders went tight. He'd felt this all along, but hearing someone else say it made it more real.

  "No," Puck continued, "you had the one woman in all the world who was right for you. Your other half. Your true love. And God took her away from you because he felt you needed to experience that pain and loss in order to—how did God phrase that when he tried me?—ah, yes, 'in order to permit your soul to grow stronger and purer. ' I lost a wife and son when a couple of college courses in philosophy could have had the same effect."

  Dan stared at him, angry and miserable and lost.

  The devil said softly, "God banished his wife when he grew jealous of her worshipers—there is no Goddess in Heaven now. He ordered his son killed so that he could experience the pain of loss. He's never been human, Dan. He doesn't know what it means to grieve, to be helpless, to yearn for something that no one can give you, to be willing to offer everything you have for just... one... miracle." The devil shook his head slowly. "God doesn't know. But I do. I was there. I stood in your shoes. I remember now. And I remember why I didn't repent when I had the chance. God took my family on purpose, just as he took yours."

  All the old bitterness, the fury, the hatred of God and his own life, the envy of those who still had their loves, the desire for revenge in any way he could get it, flooded Dan again, as fresh and sharp and strong as those feelings had been the moment Francie breathed out and didn't breathe in again.

  The tears streamed down his cheeks and he whispered, "Why couldn't he have taken me?"

  "He could have, but he decided you needed to suffer more than Francie. He decided you weren't a good enough person."

  "I would have given anything I had to save her. Anything."

  And the devil said, "I know, Dan. I know. But would you give anything to have her back?"

  Chapter 44

  Honorial crouched next to the monitor that showed the devil and Dan Cooley in Dan's living room, so angry he almost couldn't form words. "He's lying!"

  God glanced over at him. "Of course he's lying. Did you expect him to tell the truth?"

  "But he's lying about you. He killed his own wife and child—he did terrible things to the other two. And he's blaming you for all of that. You don't give humans diseases. You don't take lovers away from each other. You gave them each other so that they wouldn't be alone always, so that their lives wouldn't be so hard. Diseases and pain and death are all a part of life—they have nothing to do with you." Honorial sputtered to a stop when he saw the strange look God was giving him.

  "Honorial, do you need a vacation?"

  The Data Processing angel flushed and turned away from his Creator. "Your Glorious All-Seeing All-Knowing Awesomeness, please don't mock me."

  "I'm not mocking you, honest to me." God vaulted onto the half-wall that ran around part of Honorial's workspace and sat there swinging his legs and absently braiding and unbraiding a
section of his beard. "I'm wondering if I've been working you too hard since I instituted Operation Tarheel. How can you possibly be surprised that he's lying to Dan? He's lied about everything from the moment the two of them met—and he arranged their meeting."

  "But he was doing better! He tried to save your daughter Maralee's life in the parking lot when the bomb killed her."

  "No, he didn't. He put on a good show, but had he wanted to save her, she'd still be alive."

  Honorial said, "But he saved Dan's life."

  "Which only proves my point about Maralee. He led both Janna and Meg into damnation—Janna through greed and laziness, Meg through idealism."

  "But saving Dan's life was a good thing."

  "Was it? Maybe. Maybe not. It all depends on why the devil did it. Even good things can be done for evil reasons. See how things turn out with Dan before you say that with such assurance."

  Honorial frowned. "I began to hope that devil would repent. He seemed so different. He seemed so caring."

  "He spent his life seeming to be something that he wasn't. I didn't expect him to change so quickly or so easily."

  Chapter 45

  Janna stood on the balcony of her apartment, staring down at the patio far below. In the daylight, the bed of concrete and stone was far too beautiful to do what she planned to do—with its surrounding borders of hostas and river birches and with the little black fountain in the very center, it looked like a little Garden of Eden. Had she decided to jump in daylight, she would have left a dreadful mess.

  But in the blackness of the storm, the concrete was a pale flatness, amoeba-shaped, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding beds of plantings. She wouldn't have to think about her blood on the aggregate, because the pounding rain would wash away the blood. Wash away her mistakes. Wash away the future that she'd sold out from under herself. She'd take the quick road to Hell, and skip a lifetime of looking like a great success and feeling like a bitter failure.