"For a while, yes."
"You left when, exactly?"
"Middle of my second year."
"Not for academic reasons, surely?"
"No, not hardly," he said. "I received a job offer that was too good to resist, so I didn't - resist, that is. That's what all this auld lang syne is leading up to, I assume? A job offer?"
"That remains to be seen," she replied coolly. "Now, tell me about this offer you received at Harvard. Who made it?"
"A guy I'd met through my roommate. He was from Texas, originally, and the guy he introduced me to had started making a name for himself in political circles down there. By the time I knew him, he was a major player, even though he was only five or six years older than me."
"His name was..."
"Karl Rove."
"George W. Bush's personal Machiavelli? How interesting! What kind of position did he have in mind for you?"
"I don't think there ever was a formal job description. So I asked him, 'Karl just what are you hiring me to do?' And he looks at me, and this big grin spreads across his face, and he says, 'Whatever is necessary, boy. Whatever is necessary.'"
"And so you took the job."
"Yes, and I spent the year 2000 doing whatever Karl Rove thought was necessary. Officially, I was assigned to what's called 'Opposition Research.'"
"Is that a synonym for what used to be called 'dirty tricks'?"
"I'm sure I wouldn't know," he said.
"Well, you must have been good at it, since it launched your career as a... political consultant. So, what did you do for W's campaign?"
"There were actually a couple things that I'm -"
"Briefly, if you please." She was looking at her watch.
"All right," he said tightly. "How about one word? Do you think that might be brief enough for you?"
"That would depend on the word, wouldn't it?"
"Then suppose you try this one: Florida."
"The state that decided the election."
"That's the one."
She leaned forward, for the first time. "The Democrats demanded a recount."
"Indeed they did. And a Federal District judge agreed with them, much to the dismay of Jim Baker, whom Daddy Bush sent down to handle things. You never heard such language."
You might be surprised, she thought. Then, aloud: "The Supreme Court overturned the ruling though, didn't they? They stopped the recount, and, since Bush was ahead, he was declared the winner. Game over."
"Exactly."
"You're not telling me that you got to somebody on the Court?"
He gave her a tiny smile. "No, that was reaching a little too high, even for Karl. Or me."
"What, then?"
"The Supreme Court's ruling was based on the conclusion that the recount process was unreliable. Machines were breaking down, ballots were getting lost. In some places, every vote for Gore was challenged as soon as it was counted. The Court had it right: it was a mess."
"And that was you."
"Me, and a few guys I brought down with me. And some local help that we picked up. We had no shortage of cash to spread around."
"So, you screwed up the recount, giving the Justices..."
"The excuse that some of them were looking for. Just because we couldn't get to the Court directly doesn't mean that the Bushes didn't have friends there."
She nodded. There was silence in the room for a few seconds, then Mary Margaret Doyle said, "Valerie Plame."
If she was expecting a reaction, the only one she got was a slow raising of Nestor Greene's eyebrows. "Yes? What about her?"
"During the run-up to the Iraq war, somebody leaked that she was CIA. The White House's revenge for the Op-Ed her husband wrote, claiming that the 'weapons of mass destruction' were a myth."
"Yes, I remember."
"That was you, wasn't it?"
The gentleman planter accent was back as Nestor Greene said, with a smile, "I have no knowledge of any such operation or activity, madam. Nor, if I had, would I be presently disposed to discuss it."
"What's this - a holy gangbang? Oh, what fun!"
As before, none of them responded to the taunts, and once the girl was secured, Hannigan began the ritual again. Morris thought that the priest may have been right about the demon's hold beginning to loosen. Its blasphemies were fewer this time, and uttered with somewhat less enthusiasm.
When it came time for the sprinkling of holy water, Hannigan did what he had done all the other times. He removed the wand-like aspergillum from the small silver bucket holding the holy water (the aspersorium) and shook it over the girl's form. But this time, the circular tip came loose and flew under its own momentum a short distance through the air to land softly on the girl's stomach.
Hannigan stopped chanting and made that small, annoyed sound with his tongue again. He closed the prayer book after marking the page with a ribbon, and came around the bed.
What happened next took only a few seconds, but had several discrete, identifiable steps - identifiable, that is, after it was too late.
One: Susan Kowal's head turned toward Morris. In a voice that was an exact match for Libby Chastain's, it said, "Quincey!"
Two: Without thinking, Morris turned and looked at the girl. Like all of them, he'd had a long and stress-filled day, and was not at his most alert.
Three: Morris locked eyes with Susan Kowan, and those eyes were not human at all. What he saw in them cannot be described in words, but an approximation would be to say that Quincey Morris was given a brief, unfiltered glimpse of Hell.
Four: Rev. Paul Hannigan reached the side of the bed where Morris knelt and bent forward, reaching for the small sphere that was the sprinkler's tip.
Five: Susan Kowal's form twisted slightly away from Morris's side of the bed, causing the sprinkler tip to roll off her chest unto the bed, on the side opposite where Hannigan was now bending over.
Six: The scar on Morris's neck began to burn, far more painfully than it had that wild night in Idaho when he had been touched by Hellfire. To Morris, it felt as if a red-hot branding iron were being applied to the side of his neck - and then it got worse.
Seven: Hannigan, seeing where the tip had gone, did what anyone else would have done in such circumstances - he leaned a little farther forward, so that he could reach across Susan Kowal.
Eight: Morris, with a grunt of agony, released his grip on Susan Kowal's right arm and clutched the site of the burn on his neck.
Nine: With the speed and determination of a striking black mamba, Susan Kowal's right hand, two fingers extended, streaked toward the priest's face, less than two feet away.
Ten: those straight, rigid fingers reached Paul Hannigan's eyeballs - and kept right on going.
Chapter 9
Peters stared at the man sitting across from him. "Who are you? What are you?"
"You have no memory at all, do you?"
"Not of anything before the last half hour or so." Peters looked up at the other's deceptively benign face. "I've been getting flashes. Faces. Sounds - screaming, mostly. Otherwise, I can't remember shit. I've been looking through the stuff in my wallet - at least, I assume it's mine, since my picture's on the driver's license. But it might as well be something I found on the street. None of it means anything to me."
The 'priest' nodded slowly. "Yes, we were afraid of that. It's so rare to send one of you back, we weren't sure how the transition would affect you. One theory held that you'd arrive incurably insane, although it seems that's been avoided, at least. Those among the brethren who might know the effects for certain are precisely the ones we couldn't ask, lest they find out about our little... project."
Peters held his head in both hands, as if afraid it was about to explode. "Look, if you're trying to drive me crazy, congratulations - 'cause you're well on the way. If you want something from me, and I guess you do, you'll have to explain it in terms that I can understand. For pity's sake -"
The priest gave a laugh that was utterly devoi
d of humor. "You're speaking to the wrong one about pity, I'm afraid."
"So, that means you're... the Devil?"
The other sighed heavily. "I'd forgotten what stupid creatures you Eve-spawn are, since I rarely converse with any of you, back in my domain. Do you actually think yourself worthy to receive the attention of the Lord of Darkness, you impudent maggot?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't -"
"I am Astaroth, a Crowned Prince of the Netherworld. If we were back there, you would address me as Lord Astaroth. But one shouldn't stand on formality on this side, I suppose."
"So, 'back there' is Hell?"
"There may be hope for you yet. Yes, Hell, Gehenna, Pandemonium, Hades - 'where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.'"
"That sounds like a quote, the last part."
"It is. Mark 9:48, to be precise. Now let us move on to more important matters."
"Matters like what I'm doing here."
"Exactly. You were sent back because we - some of us - thought you could be useful. In your first sojourn on this plane, after all, you were a professional murderer."
Peters' eyes narrowed. "You mean, like a hit man?" He was thinking about the pistol and silencer in his coat.
"In a sense. You committed your murders - sixteen, all told - in the service of the United States government, which allowed you to rationalize them to yourself as acts of patriotism. Of course, at your Judgment, that excuse worked about as well as it ever does - which is to say, not at all. You were judged guilty of Murder without Repentance, and your soul was turned over to us. All very routine. That was in 1983, as you reckon time on this side."
"And you've sent me back here, because you want me to kill somebody else."
"Indeed. There is no shortage of murderers in Hell, as you might imagine. But one capable of carrying out an assassination skillfully, dispassionately, and on command is harder to find - and many of them are in areas that are under the control of... others. Since we wanted an American, in order to blend in, you were determined to be the best of those available."
"And who is it you expect me to skillfully and dispassionately kill?"
"A Senator, who would be President. His name is Howard Stark."
"So, what did you think of our political mercenary?" the demon, Sargatanas, asked.
"I think he'll do," Mary Margaret Doyle said, slipping off her shoes. "He's had quite a lot of experience with the rougher side of the business, and he seems to be utterly without scruple. Oh, and he needs the money. He hasn't had a job worth mentioning since Bush left office."
"He's unwilling to compromise his... principles and work for the Democrats?" He sounded amused at the prospect.
"His only principles are the ones printed by the U.S. Mint. No, he's radioactive. He did one too many dirty jobs for the Bushies - mostly for Cheney, I understand - and word got around town. When you're so dirty that even Karl Rove won't take your calls anymore..."
She presented her back to him, lifting her hair off her shoulders. "Help me with this zipper, will you? I want to shower and change before the fund-raising dinner."
"Hold still a moment. There."
"Thank you."
"The only thing I dislike about human politics is that it sometimes makes me homesick," the demon said.
She was bent over, sliding her pantyhose down her calves when suddenly she felt him, pressing against her. "Why don't you stay like that for the moment," he said, his voice suddenly husky. "In fact, you might bend over just a little more."
When a Member of Congress dies without a physician in attendance, the FBI is called in. The investigation may involve no more than a couple of witness interviews and a quick read-through of the autopsy report, but the Bureau always gets its two cents in.
Such routine tasks, when they occur in or near the nation's capitol, are given to the D.C. field office - which is an entirely separate operation from the main FBI Headquarters in the Hoover Building. Special Agents Blaise and Garvin got the job by virtue of being the only team in the office when the Special Agent in Charge got the call.
Melanie Blaise was the senior agent of the pair, so she was the one who showed FBI creds to the police detective guarding the door of Brooks's house.
Her partner Bill Garvin, followed her inside. Physically, they were an odd pair. Melanie Blaise, who had barely made the Bureau's minimum height requirement, wore her raven-black hair as long as the Bureau regs would permit and still had the wiry build of the gymnast she had been during her four years at Ohio State. Garvin was six-two and a weight-lifter in his spare time. His blond hair was cut well within the official limits.
Their walk through the house was slow and thoughtful. Eventually, they climbed the stairs leading to the bathroom where Brooks had died. The hallway was well-lit by sunshine streaming through a skylight overhead.
Garvin looked toward the darkened bathroom at the end of the hall. "Power off, you reckon, Princess?"
Once, during a long stakeout, Melanie had mentioned that her parents had paid for a genealogy search when she was small, and found that the family was very distantly related to some minor European royalty. Garvin had been calling her 'Princess' ever since - in private. She had threatened to eviscerate him if he ever did it around anyone else.
She looked around, found a light switch, and flicked it. Nothing. "Power's turned off."
"Good," Garvin said. "One guy's been electrocuted around here already, which is one too many. Don't want to add to the total."
The floor of the Brooks' bathroom was still wet. Although light came in through a small window, they got out the flashlights they always carried and scanned the room carefully, noting the still dripping pipe joint under the sink. Then they looked at the light switch, now a small mass of melted, blackened plastic.
"My Mom used to warn me about turning on a light with wet hands," Garvin said. "But then, my Mom believed the Weekly World News." He shook his head. "I didn't think it was possible to fry yourself with a light switch, even standing in water, like Brooks was."
"It isn't," Melanie said. "At least, it isn't supposed to be. I did a quick Internet search before we left the office. The stuff they make light switches out of these days doesn't conduct electricity."
"Except that it does. Or it did."
"Must have been a manufacturer's defect. That, or the electrician installing it screwed up. Either way, Mrs. Brooks has the basis for a nice, fat lawsuit, whatever consolation that holds."
"I reckon so." Garvin was from the Tidewater area of Virginia, and Southernisms sometimes crept into his speech.
They checked to be sure the house's security system was functioning, although the likelihood of an intruder having something to do with Brooks' death seemed slight, under the circumstances.
Back at the office, they did a quick 'Rock, Paper, Scissors' to decide who would stay late and write up the brief report about Representative Ron Brooks's death. Blaise's scissored fingers beat Garvin's flat-handed paper. "The victory's yours, Princess," he said, and pulled up a chair.
"Good," she said. "I'm meeting someone for a drink, and now I won't have to call and say I'm running late."
Garvin turned on his PC and waited for it to boot up. "New boyfriend?"
"I wish. It's Colleen O'Donnell, from Quantico." Melanie Blaise pulled on her black overcoat. "We were in the same class at the Academy. She's in town giving a deposition at Justice. We're gonna have a few drinks, and" - she flashed him a wicked grin - "badmouth our partners behind their backs."
"Quantico, huh? She's teaching at the Academy now?"
"No, she's in Behavioral Science."
Garvin blinked. "Oh. One of them."
"Yup, one of them. And if your ears start burning half an hour from now, at least you'll know why. Ciao."
Chapter 10
The Early Part of the week was busy for Libby Chastain. Monday brought her a client whose daughter had run away two years ago. The parents had already tried the police, the FBI, and a series of p
rivate investigators. Finally, they called Libby.
She used several personal objects the girl had left behind as the basis for a complicated scrying spell. Then she went to work with a series of maps and a magically-charged pendulum. Hours of work over a map of the U.S. turned up nothing, so Libby widened her focus to North America, and got a hit. Juarez, Mexico.
It took her a while to find a detailed map of Juarez on the Internet. She printed it out, then went back to work. The pendulum stopped at a point that could represent anything within a four-block area.
So she went to Google Earth. Who needs magic when you've got technology?
Libby printed out the image for the area she wanted, uttered a brief incantation, and picked up the pendulum again. Its thin point swung, hovered, then stopped - over one, specific house.
To be sure, Libby did it twice more. Same house, each time.
Later, handing over the printed satellite image to the parents, Libby said, "I won't sugar-coat this. She's in a bad part of town. A twenty-year-old girl, alone, far from home - she could be in a pretty bad situation down there. You should be prepared for it."
"Maybe she was only visiting that area," the mother said tentatively. "It's possible that she lives somewhere... nicer, isn't it?"
"Possible, but not probable, I'm afraid. I scryed the image three times over a 24-hour period." Libby tried to make her voice gentle. "I got the same result every time."
"I suppose you want your money," the father said. Fear and worry had made him rude. Libby was used to such reactions, and didn't fire back.
"No, Mr. Deshayne. Not yet. You've paid me half in advance, as agreed. You can send me the rest once you get back from Mexico."
I hope what you find there doesn't make you wish you'd stayed home.
Back in her condo, Libby said a prayer to the Goddess, asking for the parents' safety and success on their journey. Then she checked her calendar, and found the rest of the week empty.
Sympathy for the Devil Page 8
