A Friend of the Devil

by David Beers

  “Yeah. You’re crazy. But that’s okay.”

  Abel’s eyes flashed open, his head jerking to his left. She was still sitting there, legs folded beneath her. There were tears in her eyes, but she was also grinning.

  “If I’m fine as a frenzy, then you’re sane as a psycho. But that’s okay with me.”

  Abel leaned his head back against the ground and closed his eyes. Tears rested in them, warm, but they felt good.

  “We’ve got to work on your monikers,” he said.

  “Just work on hearing me bitch about Mrs. Heatherly. Remember this, Abel. Never interrupt me again.”

  And that had been it. The end of the conversation. They’d moved on and Abel was completely fine with it—preferred it actually. He didn’t want to dwell on this, and he thought Emi must have known it. He thought she moved on because she knew that’s what he needed.

  Later, of course, Emi would come to know the dead much better, but in that moment, she gave Abel everything he could possibly want.

  Chapter Eight

  Present Day

  Emi stood outside the interrogation room, watching through a one way mirror.

  Things had changed over the past 24 hours, the FBI’s muscle finally flexing in earnest. The media frenzy had exploded and every major news network was carrying the case in primetime. Assistant Deputy Director Clyde Hartwell had made a statement to the press.

  It went about as Emi expected.

  “We’re confident we will catch this deranged killer, and yada, yada, yada.”

  Yesterday, there had been 10 agents focusing on the case. This morning, that number had grown to 50, and that didn’t include the number added to Plains’s forensics team. The FBI might not catch killers before they got started, but when it rolled into action, it was hard for anyone to stay hidden for long.

  The past 24 hours had been spent interviewing everyone in the governor’s office. The governor himself had actually appeared with Hartwell at the press conference, offering condolences and pledging all of the state’s resources to help in the investigation.

  Emi didn’t care what the governor did, and truth be told, she didn’t really care too much what the rest of the agents did either. She thought the killer was sitting in front of her, on the other side of this mirror.

  Vince Demsworth.

  Brett wasn’t convinced, though he thought it was possible based on Demsworth’s original lie about not watching the news.

  “Him?” Hartwell said from her side. “That’s who you’re picking?”

  Emi nodded, but said nothing. She’d told Hartwell her thoughts earlier, with Brett listening.

  Demsworth didn’t have a lawyer with him and was sitting in his chair, both hands on the table. He didn’t look the least bit calm, though. In fact, he looked positively wrecked, and Emi knew her boss and Brett saw the same. The popular notion was that when the killer was caught, he was usually calm, above the fray, etc. That was just TV bullshit. Killers acted any number of ways, from collected to outright panic. Emi had seen them whistle right before they were placed under arrest, and she’d seen others weep and beg to be set free.

  Demsworth’s apparent devastation didn’t matter to her in the slightest, and she knew it didn’t matter to Brett either. It was the difference in his demeanor. When they’d first talked to him, he’d been collected.

  Now, he wasn’t crying, but Emi thought he might have been earlier.

  It’s all bullshit, she thought. Crying or not, he did this.

  Emi was chewing gum and she had a pocket full of it, too. The drinking conversation with Brett had gone by the wayside, but the drinking hadn’t. Emi had a slight buzz and she wasn’t going to let it end. She couldn’t, not if she wanted to be able to stand here and look at this man.

  Despite the weapons holstered to her and the two armed law enforcement officers next to her, Emi was terrified. Emi wanted to bolt from this place, to get away from this man. Earlier, she hadn’t been sure if it was the building or Demsworth, perhaps even both—now, she knew without a doubt. Demsworth was the problem here, and every muscle fiber inside of her wanted to flee from him.

  The small buzz kept her from running, helping to temper her fear somewhat. She didn’t understand it, but she was past the point of questioning. Emi was trusting her instinct on this. Something was wrong with the man in there, and that’s all she cared about.

  “You two ready?” Hartwell asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Brett answered.

  Emi nodded, though she was ready for no such thing. She didn’t want to go in that room, not anymore than she wanted to remain standing in this room watching Demsworth. She only wanted out of here.

  “Let’s quit wasting time then.”

  Brett started for the door and Emi followed him. They stepped outside into the hallway and took a few steps toward the interview room before Brett stopped. He turned around to look at Emi.

  “How much are you drinking?” he asked.

  “Just a little. Enough to keep me from freaking out.”

  “You okay to do this?” he asked.

  Emi nodded, seeing that this wasn’t an inquisition, but rather, Brett was legitimately concerned.

  “I’ll take the lead, but you’re going to need to hold it together for Hartwell’s sake. We can deal with whatever this is later, but for now we’ve got to get through it, okay?”

  “Okay,” Emi said.

  The small flask sat inside her jacket pocket where it couldn’t be seen, and in that moment, she felt its weight. She wanted to pull it out and take a hit, even if it meant everyone inside knowing.

  She didn’t, though.

  Brett turned and went forward. Emi followed.

  Even though he had permission, Abel waited. He put off calling Emi, because despite what he’d decided in Thoran’s office, he still didn’t want to do it. He had no desire to bring her back into his life, and so for the next two nights, the dreams continued.

  It was on the second morning that he understood he could no longer wait.

  Last night’s dream had been by far the worst he’d ever seen. In his entire life.

  He’d been strapped to a chair, and Emi sitting in front of him. She was strapped down too.

  Abel knew they were going to kill her, just as they had every night previously. He tried to look away, struggling to turn his head to the side, but someone from behind grabbed him and forced him to look forward. He grunted and spit flew from his mouth as he fought, but it was useless—as it always was. They forced him to turn and so he did.

  The same naked woman from before was bent over at the waist, her face right next to Emi’s.

  “This is your fault,” she whispered as she stared at Abel.

  “Coward,” the person behind him said, sounding as if his vocal chords had been partially burned away.

  “Do you want to taste cowardice?” the woman said. Her eyes were black, soulless things, her teeth pointed daggers.

  The dead woman leaned into Emi’s neck, and Abel stared at Emi’s face—unable to look away. As the dead’s teeth clamped down, Emi’s face changed, pain and confusion rippling across it. A sick, wet sound filled the tiny room as the woman pulled away, her ragged teeth ripping a massive hole in Emi’s neck. Blood spurted out, splashing across the dead woman’s hungry face. She only blinked it out of her black eyes and then turned to Abel.

  Her mouth was full of raw, still bleeding flesh. Skin and meat poked from her lips, making her look oddly like a bloody fish.

  The woman came forward, her neck stretching impossibly long as she did. Abel’s arms and legs pulled against the restraints keeping him on the chair, his muscles and veins bulging against his own skin. The chair’s feet rattled against the floor, but other than that, moved not at all.

  The woman came closer, her mouth zeroing in on Abel’s as if she meant to kiss him.

  He tried to twist away, but it was impossible, and then the woman’s mouth was on his. A powerful tongue shoved the still hot flesh into
his mouth, forcing him to eat. The tongue stretched forward like a proboscis, overpowering his own and not allowing him to spit the meat from his mouth. Further and further it went, shoving Emi Lauren’s neck down his throat until Abel started choking.

  Abel woke up then, the feel of bleeding flesh in his mouth and throat. His back was arched up in his bed and stomach acid rising in his throat. He immediately turned to his side and vomited on the floor. He lay like that for a moment, staring at the strings of liquid hanging from his mouth and the small puddle in front of him.

  It was then—after being forced to eat his former best friend—that Abel finally knew the truth. It didn’t make sense, didn’t line up with anything he’d seen his whole life …

  … but yet it stared him in the face as bright as the sun.

  The dead were trying to save Emi.

  They wanted to break him. That would never end, but they were also trying to save her. He didn’t know from what, nor why, but if he didn’t act, then the message was clear.

  He might as well eat her himself.

  “Today,” he told Thoran. “I’d like to call her today.”

  The psychiatrist looked at him for a second, that same measured glance. Abel knew what he appeared like: frazzled. Maybe even cracking, but that’s because he was, goddamnit.

  “Okay,” Thoran said. “I’ll have Geoffrey set up everything. Just remember, Abel, the call will be monitored.”

  And now, two hours after waking up, Abel sat in front of a telephone. It was the first time he’d looked at one in years and years, and it felt a little bit like going back in time—though that didn’t make a lot of sense. If anything, his life now remained technologically regressed, as he had no real means of communication. Still, looking at the telephone made him think of 15 years before. Of answering it when Emi called. Sometimes crying, sometimes not. Sometimes only to say, “They’re fighting again. Can I come over?”

  “This should be her number,” Geoffrey said as he handed him a small strip of paper. “We’re not sure, of course, but it’s our best guess.”

  Abel took it, looking at the orderly.

  “This is a big step,” Geoffrey said. “I’m proud of you, Abel.”

  Abel didn’t respond. This wasn’t a step, but a plunge into an abyss. No one else knew it, but that was fine. They weren’t the ones dreaming. They weren’t the ones eating old friends.

  Abel picked up the telephone. He heard a slight click as the recording equipment kicked on. He dialed the number.

  Emi’s phone was in her pocket as she entered the interview room.

  Perhaps, at that single moment, things still could have been stopped. Perhaps everything that came after could have been halted, if but for one thing—her phone was on silent.

  And so Abel’s call headed to her voicemail, while Emi headed to sit in front of Vince Demsworth—or what was left of him.

  Something else had grown inside Vince. A cancer, maybe, though that term didn’t feel right either. A cancer eats until it kills. The thing inside Vince Demsworth didn’t want to kill its host, but simply use him to spread. A parasite, perhaps?

  “Hi, you’ve reached Emi Laurens. I can’t answer right now, but please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  Abel heard Emi’s voice and froze.

  Emi, he thought. Oh, Emi.

  The phone beeped and Abel knew what it meant, but he couldn’t find any words. He could only hear Emi’s voice echoing in his mind: Hi, you’ve reached Emi Laurens…

  A few seconds passed and then a brilliant panic rose up in Abel, knowledge that if he didn’t start talking soon, the phone call would disconnect—the recording ending. It didn’t even occur to him that he could call again, and so his words tumbled from his mouth.

  “Emi, it’s Abel. I need you to call me back. It would be really good if you could do that. I’m not in trouble, don’t worry, but I need to talk to you. I need to ask you something, if that’s okay. The number is—”

  His mind froze again, completely.

  The number is …

  Abel realized he didn’t know the hospital’s number. He’d never used it. Never given it out. Never even thought to ask for it.

  “Here,” Geoffrey whispered, handing him another strip of paper. This one had Geoffrey’s handwriting on it, not something printed from a computer.

  “Okay, Emi. It’s 404-645-2047. If you dial that, and … I don’t know. If you dial that you should be able to ask for me, I guess. Please just call me back when you can.”

  Abel placed the phone in the receiver.

  He looked to Geoffrey, feeling lost. He hadn’t expected to get a voicemail. But, truthfully, he hadn’t thought much. He’d only known he needed to do it.

  “Hey, that’s fine,” Geoffrey said, clearly seeing Abel’s discomfort. “She’ll call back, and if not, I’m sure Dr. Thoran will let you call again.”

  Abel was sure of neither. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, his mind already extrapolating to the worst case scenario: she didn’t call. The dead didn’t stop. Emi died and Abel lost his mind.

  “Do you know anything about her, Abel?” Geoffrey asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.

  “No.”

  “She’s probably pretty busy right now,” Geoffrey said. “She works for the FBI and if it’s the same person, she’s been all over the television the past day.”

  Abel’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Come over here,” Geoffrey said. “I’m sure it’s still on. She works in Georgia, or at least she’s there now.”

  The two of them were in the employees’ quarters, and Geoffrey led him into a break area. A small, flat screen television hung from the wall. Geoffrey picked up a remote and flipped through the channels.

  “There,” he said. “Is that her?”

  Abel stared at the television screen, slowly walking forward without realizing he was doing it.

  Words scrolled across the bottom, but Abel paid no attention to them. A news anchor was talking in a small box in the corner, though the sound was off. Abel didn’t even glance at him. He kept his eyes on the woman on the right of the screen. Someone was at a podium, a black man, and he was surrounded by a multitude of people that Abel didn’t recognize.

  None of them mattered.

  Just the woman on the left side.

  Because that was Emi Laurens. Older, clearly, but there was no doubt about who she was. He moved closer and closer, forgetting about Geoffrey behind him. Forgetting about the phone call and the entire hospital.

  It was hard to see her in detail. Difficult to see the lines on her face or what was going on inside of her eyes, but Abel didn’t care.

  He might have reached up and touched the screen if Geoffrey hadn’t spoken.

  “You okay?”

  That stopped him, realizing how he must look to Geoffrey.

  “Yeah. I just haven’t seen her in years.”

  Abel’s vision pulled back some, and he began reading the words scrolling at the bottom of the screen.

  “Do you know what’s happening, Geoffrey? Why she’s on the TV?”

  “You really haven’t been paying attention in the common area, have you?”

  Abel shook his head, not turning from the television.

  “I’ve told the nurses they should change the news right now, but they just leave it on. This stuff is rolling all day, if you really want to understand it. There’s some kind of serial killer down there from what I can tell. She’s the agent over the case, I think.”

  Abel turned around then.

  “You’ll let me know if she calls back?” Abel asked.

  “Sure, me or whoever’s on duty. We’ll make sure you get the call, though there will be someone monitoring it, and it’ll be recorded.”

  “I know, I know,” Abel rushed. “Can I go back to the common area? I want to watch this.”

  “Sure,” Geoffrey said, though his face didn’t seem to like the idea. He
’d said sure, but his face said it didn’t like what it saw in Abel.

  Chapter Nine

  Emi closed the door behind her and looked at the back of Vince Demsworth’s head.

  He turned around as Brett moved across the floor, first finding him, and then his eyes landed on Emi.

  She chewed her gum, not blinking.

  “Hi, Mr. Demsworth. You know my partner and I,” Brett said as Emi followed him to the table in the middle of the room. “This interview is being recorded by the camera behind me, and you’re here of your own accord, right?”

  “That’s correct,” Demsworth said. His voice was a whisper and he stared at the table like he might start crying.

  “We’d like to discuss the night before last—the 24th, and the preceding day.”

  “Sure,” Demsworth answered, still not looking up. “Of course.”

  “You were the last person to see Ms. Beatty leave the office, is that correct?”

  “I was the last person on our floor, yes. I don’t know if she saw anyone else when she left.”

  “What did Ms. Beatty say before leaving?”

  Demsworth answered, his despondent act coming through with full force. He was faking, Emi held no doubt about it, but would anyone else think so?

  No. Not possible. They’d believe him—at least they would believe he felt something.

  Emi didn’t think that was the case, though. Every fiber in her told her this was a very, very dangerous place to be. That just by sitting in here, she might lose her life.

  Has life been so awfully grand? Abel asked. Something you can’t pass up?

  When had Abel said that? Emi remembered, even as she stared at the man in front of her. She’d been 15 or 16, and Abel had been talking about suicide.

  What did she tell him?

  You need to live, Abel. We both do.

  And that’s when he said it: Has life been so awfully grand? Something you can’t pass up?

  And the answer for both of them was simply no. Life had been hard, nearly unbearable and something other 16 year olds couldn’t understand. Yet, she’d wanted to keep going, and the reason why? Hope. Hope that in the future things might be better.