Libby Chastain was almost to the kitchen when she heard him say, "It'll also explain why I'm getting out of the ghostbuster business. For good."
Iowa in January is about half as charming as Hell with the fires out. That, at least, was the opinion of Hugh 'Bat' Masterson, and since he had already spent the last three days amid the snow and ice of the Hawkeye State, he figured he was entitled to it.
Masterson slid the Glock 9 into his belt holster and then slipped on his jacket. A quick glance in the motel room's mirror told him that no telltale bulges were visible.
Not that if fucking matters. We're supposed to be armed, and everybody knows it. Who cares if some fucking farmer sees the outline of the piece underneath my coat?
Masterson was in a bad mood, and had been ever since getting word that he was assigned to the Stark protection detail. In the Service, the person you were assigned to protect was a good (if unofficial) indication of your place in the agent pecking order. The most highly regarded agents were assigned to the President, or POTUS ('Eagle' in the current radio code, although who all that cryptic stuff was supposed to fool was something Masterson had never figured out).
Using that logic, you might assume that the Vice President's security detail should be the Number Two most prestigious job, but you'd be wrong. Although the role of the Vice President had improved since John Nance Garner had declared his job to be 'Not worth a bucket of warm piss,' the VOTUS (more code) assignment was a long way from being the second most important job in Washington. That fell to the Secretary of State, followed (in most administrations) by Secretary of Defense.
At the bottom of this artificial hierarchy were the wannabe presidential candidates every four years. Most of the men (and, occasionally, women) who tried for the brass ring in primary season were second rate pols, who often stayed in cheap hotels, ate cheap food, and felt free to disregard the security protocols.
And even within this motley crew there was a hierarchy. The two or three candidates believed to have a realistic chance at their party's nomination got the best of the available agents, while the others got whoever was left.
Which is how Masterson, after nine years in the U.S. Secret Service, found himself assigned to Senator Howard Stark, the darkest of this season's dark horses.
Unlike most of the agents assigned to this Ninth Circle of Secret Service Hell, Masterson wasn't a fuck-up. He wasn't lazy, sloppy, careless, or a drinker. He never blabbed to the press (or to anybody else) about any protectee's life, either personal or political.
All he had done to get himself in the shit was to politely decline a drunken sexual proposition from a President's teenage daughter, late one night at Camp David, just over three years ago.
The next morning the young lady, who in Masterson's opinion was mean and petty even when she wasn't hung over, had told Daddy that Masterson had propositioned her. Questioned by his boss, Masterson had told the truth. Since there'd been no witnesses, that made it one of those 'he said, she said' situations. But you can imagine that 'she' was believed in places where it counted. Since the White House wanted to avoid any whiff of scandal, Masterson had not been fired. As a civil servant, he'd have the right to a formal hearing if they tried to kick him out, and who knows what might get put into a transcript somewhere?
So instead of being discharged, Masterson was pulled from the White House detail and given the crappiest jobs available within the Executive Protection Service, in the hope that he would quit in disgust. But he had stubbornly refused to give them the satisfaction. So here he was in the boonies, for the famed Iowa Caucuses - the first formal test of the presidential candidates' popularity, even if only a handful of delegates were at stake - helping to protect Senator Howard Stark, in the unlikely event that someone thought him important enough to assassinate.
Stark's entourage was small (in Masterson's view, a reflection of the guy's slim chances for going all the way), which at least meant there were fewer people to keep track of. Fernando Garrett had signed on as campaign manager, probably attracted more by the depths of Stark's pockets than any realistic expectations of his success. Garrett had been a big wheel in John McCain's campaign a few years back, but had quietly bailed after spending fifteen minutes with McCain's hastily-chosen running mate. Masterson figured Garrett would also abandon Stark's ship once it was clearly sinking, a condition that would probably develop the morning after Super Tuesday - the day in February when twelve state primary elections were scheduled.
Martin Kane had signed on as Stark's domestic policy advisor. Kane, a thin guy who wore bow ties and seemed perpetually constipated, was supposed to be a big deal in the Poli Sci department at Ohio State. Masterson figured the professor was planning to get a book out of his campaign experience, however long it might last.
And Stark had managed to lure Gwen Galindo as foreign policy advisor. She was a hard right-winger who'd been U.S. representative at the U.N. three administrations ago, and never let anyone forget it. It was Masterson's conviction that she could not get out three consecutive sentences without one of them beginning "When I was at the U.N..." She was brilliant, hard-working, and had the personal charm of a rabid pit bull. It was a running joke among the Secret Service detail that Dr. Galindo (as she insisted on being called) would be incapable of ordering lunch at Burger King without finding a way to piss somebody off.
Before leaving his room, Masterson pressed a small button and spoke into the radio clipped to his lapel.
"This is Bat. Is Kingfish still in his room?" Masterson had suggested the Senator's code name to the rest of the detail. Several of the other agents had read All the King's Men in college, and agreed that the designation was appropriate, so it stuck.
A voice in his earpiece replied almost immediately. "Affirmative. Attila is with him."
'Attila' was short for 'Attila the Nun,' the agents' radio code for Mary Margaret Doyle. The Secret Service seemed to have an inordinate number of Catholic School graduates - or 'survivors,' as Masterson called them.
Masterson's own private name for her was 'Schoolgirl.' He had silently bestowed it the day he had followed Ms. Doyle into her room, during one of the Senator's periodic visits to New Hampshire. She'd been talking to him about security for the next day's scheduled speech, and hadn't stopped as she unlocked the door and went inside. Masterson had figured it would be rude to stand in the hall and let the door close on him, so he'd gone into the room behind her.
He was paying attention to what Ms. Doyle was saying (her tone implied there might be a quiz later), but Masterson was also trained in observation. A glance to the right took in the bed, and Ms. Doyle's suitcase, which lay open, its contents strewn across the bedspread. The same glance allowed Masterson to notice the black garter belt with matching stockings that had been laid out for Ms. Doyle's use, along with one other item of interest.
Masterson had amused himself once or twice by flipping through a Frederick's of Hollywood catalog, and he was pretty sure he knew a pair of crotchless pantyhose when he saw them.
Ms. Doyle had her back to Masterson while sorting through some papers, and by the time she turned to him his eyes were on her, his impassive face giving no hint of the titillating little display he had just seen.
He saw Mary Margaret Doyle's eyes flick toward the bed for an instant, but there was no break in the stream of instructions she was issuing. However, Masterson had thought that some color had appeared on her cheeks, and she had been even more abrupt than usual in dismissing him from her presence.
Being a professional (as well as a man who had already gotten in big trouble once by pissing off the wrong woman), Masterson had said nothing to the rest of the detail about his discovery. But from that point forward, the prim, proper, and ice-cold 'Attila' was always 'schoolgirl' for him. Although he'd never attended Catholic school himself, Masterson had enjoyed private schoolgirl fantasies since he was a teenager.
Crotchless pantyhose? Yowza!
Chapter 15
Quincey Morris
drank the last of the water and put the glass down on his coffee table. His hands were not quite steady. That fact alone alarmed Libby Chastain almost as much as the account of the exorcism that Morris had just finished.
"What happened to the poor girl?" Libby asked.
Morris made a face. "She's in the psych ward at the nearest hospital."
"Psychiatry can't cure demonic possession. They won't be able to help her there."
"Yeah, tell me about it. But it was either that or jail. The cops couldn't just walk away from what... happened."
"Did they give you a hard time?"
"They thought about it. I spent hours under interrogation, until the lawyer the Jesuits hired showed up. But we had permission for the exorcism, and the parents backed us up on that. And the bottom line was that Susan hadn't been harmed - apart from some rope burns, which were clearly self-inflicted."
"The only one really hurt was your priest friend."
"Hannigan. Her fingers just destroyed his eyeballs. Went all the way through into the sockets."
Libby shuddered. "The poor man."
"Yeah. So now he's blind," Morris said, "and there isn't a damn thing they can do to fix it - I checked. Corneal transplants, sure. They do 'em all the time. But not the whole eyeball - too many nerve connections, or something."
"Quincey..." she began.
"On the plus side, I understand that the Bible was the first book ever put into Braille." Morris's voice was bitter. "So, at least Hannigan won't lack for reading material - once he learns the system, that is."
"Quincey, listen..."
"And if you're about to play some variation of that popular golden oldie, 'It's not your fault,' do us both a favor, Libby, and don't. Just fucking don't."
Since that is exactly what she'd intended, Libby Chastain sat silently, chewing her lower lip. She began to run through the options in her mind. You can't use magic (the white variety, anyway) to change what someone believes, especially if it's deep-seated. It is sometimes possible, to bring someone out of a deep depression using magical means. Several of Libby's sister witches were practicing psychotherapists, their patients never knowing the role that magic played in their recovery.
"And if you're thinking about using a little magic to 'help' me, don't you even fucking think about it - not if you want us to stay friends."
Well, shit. Her long personal history with Quincey Morris, and the closeness that had resulted from it, was often a source of comfort to Libby Chastain. But at the moment it was a major pain in the ass. Morris knew her so well, he could predict everything she was likely to do or say, and reject it out of hand before she could even speak or act.
Okay, then, Plan B. "All right, Quincey," she said. "I won't try to influence the way you feel about what happened. But given the events as you describe them, I'm having trouble understanding why it's all, or even mostly, your fault. But I'm willing to be convinced." She folded her arms across her chest. "So, convince me."
Morris looked at her, then looked away. "I don't reckon I have to convince you of shit, Libby. It's my life, and my decision. Why don't you just go home?"
"Not so fast, cowboy." Libby let some of the anger she was feeling come to the surface. "Do you know how much money our little partnership brings me every year? It varies, sure, but it's never so little that I'm not gonna miss it. A lot. You think I just wave my hands over the electric bill, mumble some Latin, and it pays itself? I wish."
All of which was true, even if it was pretty low on Libby's list of concerns right now. She paused, took a breath, and went on.
"And I won't even mention the fact that you're planning to deprive me of the chance to hang out with a guy I happen to like and admire, despite the fact that, at the moment, he seems to've thrown an elaborate pity party, with himself as guest of honor. If you're gonna take all that away from me, then you owe me a fucking explanation, Quincey Morris. So, go on - explain."
Morris snatched the empty water glass from the table and threw it against the far wall, where it shattered into a million pieces. Then he turned and looked at Libby again, and the expression on his face was one she had never seen before - at least, not directed at her. For the first time since they'd known each other, Libby was afraid of Quincey Morris.
She let none of it show.
I know he despises men who hit women, so he won't strike me. Probably.
But she still offered a quick prayer to the Goddess that Morris would maintain control, for reasons apart from the obvious one. If he does whack me, things will never be the same between us, no matter how many heartfelt apologies follow. It will change everything.
All of this went through Libby's mind in about two seconds, as Morris glared at her. Then he raised his right fist - and slammed the wooden back of the sofa, hard.
"Fuck!"
The fist came down again. "Fuck!"
And a third time. "Mother fuck!"
Libby was hoping that he hadn't broken any of the bones in his hand when he said to her, in a voice that shook a little, "If it was anyone else but you, Libby - anyone, damn it - they'd be lying on the fucking floor right now, bleeding."
Libby Chastain just nodded. She believed him.
Morris continued to look at her, but the redness of his face had begun to recede. He was breathing like a sprinter who had just run the 440.
Gradually the breathing slowed to something like normal, and his face resumed its usual hue. He looked down at the coffee table, where, Libby noticed, three flies were nosing around in a few drops of spilled tequila. All at once, Morris's hand was a blur as he swept across the little puddle and brought it up, closed into a fist.
He opened the hand slowly, and Libby could see a single fly crawling across his palm for a second, before it flew off.
"Well, Tex," she said, "you've still got the fastest hands in the West. That ought to count for something."
Morris looked at her, and the anger that had been in his face was replaced with a look of infinite sadness. "You don't get it, do you, Libby?" he said. "There once was a time when I'd have got all three."
Libby let a few seconds pass before she said, "So, are you going to talk to me, or what?"
From The New York Times:
(Jan. 23) Ames, Iowa. Representative Francis 'Frank' Chesbro, considered one of the stronger contenders for the Republican party's presidential nomination, was found dead today in his hotel room, two days before the start of the Iowa Caucuses.
Mr. Chesbro's body was found by a member of his campaign staff not long after 11:00 last night. The aide called emergency services, but Mr. Chesbro was pronounced dead upon arrival at the Ames Medical Center. A time of death has not yet been released, nor has the cause of death been named by officials.
A member of the Medical Center's staff, who asked to be anonymous because she was not authorized to speak to the press, said that Mr. Chesbro apparently died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
In recent days the Chesbro campaign had been plagued by allegations that he had engaged in a homosexual affair while a young man. The flap began with an article in the National Tatler, which was published on Monday and contained censored photos purporting to show a young Mr. Chesbro engaging in sex acts with another man. The Chesbro campaign vehemently denied the claims made in the Tatler, although the Congressman had refused to discuss them personally, either on or off the record.
Mr. Chesbro was a member of the Mormon church, which considers homosexual activity to be abnormal and sinful. Last year, he voted against a bill that would have made it easier for gays and lesbians to adopt children. The bill was defeated.
Mr. Chesbro is survived by his wife, Evelyn, three grown children, and two grandchildren. Funeral arrangements have not yet been announced.
Martin Finlay took a sip of wine and looked across the kitchen table at the woman he loved. Five feet two, eyes of blue, as the old song went. Mind like a razor, which the song neglected to mention. And freckles. He had fallen in love with the freckles first. Th
e rest had come soon after. "You make a nice dish of ravioli, Judith," he said. "Lovely sauce."
Judith Racine (never 'Judy,' a name she had hated since childhood) brushed a wing of black hair out of her eyes, took another bite, and swallowed. "It's a credit to my culinary skills, truly," she said. "Well, there was some help from Mr. Prego - if there is a Mr. Prego."
"Probably mythical, just like Mrs. Butterworth and Betty Crocker," he said. "Besides, prego is Italian for you're welcome."
"You would know that. Oh, that's right - you studied in Rome for a while, didn't you?"
"Yep, two years at the Gregorian University, when I was in my twenties."
"Were you fluent in Italian by the time the two years was up?"
"Well, I learned prego, and that you're supposed to say it after somebody says grazie. Not too much beyond that. My classes were in English, with a heavy sprinkling of Latin. And I lived with a bunch of other American and Canadian priests, so my exposure to the language mostly involved listening to cab drivers swear at each other."
She nodded, put her fork down, and pushed her plate away. "Something's bothering you. Care to tell me about it?"
He picked up his wine glass again, swirled the contents around a little, but did not drink. "I handed in my request to be released from my vows today."
"Did it go badly with what's-his-name, Voytek?"
"No it went better than I dared hope. He was very understanding, very compassionate."
"That's not what's bugging you, then. So, what is it? Second thoughts about leaving?"
"Uh-uh, no way. I've decided how I want to spend the rest of my life - and I'm going to spend it with you."
"Then I've run out of guesses, Marty. You'll just have to tell me."
Sympathy for the Devil Page 12
