Sympathy for the Devil

by Justin Gustainis

  "The one that says when a member of Congress croaks, the Bureau has to make sure that the death wasn't suspicious."

  "Even if he dies in a hospital? Seems like the COD would be pretty obvious there."

  "No, that's the exception," she said. "And I expect most of them do die in hospitals - either of illness or iatrogenic medicine."

  Fenton shook his head a couple of times. "You're using big words again. You know that just confuse us poor black folk."

  "You're a riot, Dale. I bet that routine went over really well at - where'd you go, Yale?"

  "University of Virginia - the 'Harvard of the South,' if that's not a contradiction in terms, and it probably is. I was in the same class as the chick who joined the Bureau and later shot that serial killer, Buffalo Billy. Clara Something."

  "Sterling, I think it was. Damn, I'd have liked to meet her. What was she like - at UVA?"

  "Didn't really know her," Fenton said. "Just to say 'Hi.' I was in a couple of classes with her, though - sharp lady. Very focused. I bet she'd have known that iatrogenic medical treatment is the kind that kills you, instead of making you better."

  She gave him a look. "Yeah, well, Mel's guy died at home, in some kind of freak accident."

  "Do tell."

  "Apparently he got up during the night and went into the bathroom. There was some water on the floor, and he was standing in it when he flicked the light switch. Got electrocuted. Pronounced dead at the scene."

  Fenton frowned. "That's not supposed to happen. That's why they make the damn switches out of plastic."

  "Yeah, I know. Mel said the light switch was all melted. She's thinking manufacturer's defect, or something. Accidental death, anyway - open and shut."

  "Except..."

  "Yeah, except she may have picked up traces of black magic at the scene. And that means the accidental death..."

  "Wasn't so damn accidental."

  Fenton scratched his nose a couple of times. "Why would somebody use black magic to kill a Congressman? Which one was it, by the way? You didn't say."

  "Ronald Brooks, Republican, New York 23rd."

  "That name rings a bell. Is he Chairman of Appropriations, or something?"

  "No, but he is - was - running for President."

  "That's right, seen him on the news - I remember now. So why would somebody use black magic to take out a dude who's running for President?"

  Colleen O'Donnell looked up at the closest Departures board, which was still showing their flight would be delayed. "Maybe they want somebody else to win," she said softly.

  Fenton was quiet for a while before saying, "Look, we're getting ahead of ourselves, here. This whole thing is predicated on the assumption that your buddy picked up that black magic at the Congressman's place. And you know what they taught us at the Academy about assumptions."

  "'When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me'," she quoted. "Yeah, yeah. That was probably clever as hell back in 1920, when somebody came up with it."

  "But you know I'm right," Fenton said. "Without the established fact that Brooks's house is where the black magic came from, whatever you're thinking is nothing but smoke."

  She nodded slowly. "Then I guess we'd better see if that fact can be established."

  He looked at her. "Colleen."

  "What?"

  "I know what you're thinking."

  "I bet you don't."

  "I sure as hell do - you want to go to the Brooks house and sniff around, literally. I understand the impulse, but we need to catch this plane, Colleen. We have got to be in Indiana tonight."

  According to the Indianapolis field office, local police had found the body of a female murder victim, strangled, with upside-down crosses carved, post-mortem, into her flesh in three places. That M.O. was the trademark of a serial killer dubbed 'The Reverend' who, over the last eight months, had left similarly mutilated corpses in Pennsylvania and Michigan. Fenton and O'Donnell had been working the case for Behavioral Science, and when word of the latest depredation came in, they had been ordered to get their asses over to Indianapolis, 'soonest.'

  "I know that," Colleen O'Donnell said.

  "We stepped in enough shit over that Idaho business to sink anybody's career, and it's only because the Office of Professional Responsibility couldn't prove any of the -" Fenton stopped talking and blinked a couple of times. "What do you mean 'I know that?'"

  "I mean just what I said, Dale. Sure, I'd love to be on my way to Georgetown right this minute, but I realize that one more fuck-up could cost us our jobs. And not getting to Indy tonight would qualify as a major fuck-up."

  "So, you're planning on doing what, then?"

  "Something brilliant," of course." She sighed. "I just don't know what it is, yet."

  "I had a flash of insight," Quincey Morris said, "or maybe you could call it a revelation."

  "That sounds promising," Libby Chastain said. She and Morris had stayed up late, talking, and Libby had spent the remainder of the night in Morris's guest bedroom. This morning she had made tea, and they sat in the kitchen drinking it, the pale winter sun coming in through the window. The cottonwood branches it passed through caused the light to form ever-changing chiaroscuro patterns on the table where the two mugs sat, side by side like old friends.

  "It occurred during the four or five seconds it took you to walk from my couch and out through the door of the living room."

  Libby nodded, saying only "Um-hmm." It was a technique she'd learned from her therapist, a sister-witch who had a thriving practice in Manhattan. Libby had been doing therapy off and on for three years. Witches have problems, too.

  "I realized that only one part of my 'decision' to quit the business" - Morris had put air quotes around the word with his fingers, which gladdened Libby's heart - "was due to the guilt I felt over poor Hannigan."

  Another "Um-hmm." Libby knew that Morris's head was feeling better. The tea had a lot to do with that, especially because Libby had added a pinch of something from her purse and muttered a few words over the pot while Morris was out of the room. If Morris knew she had used a little magic to help him feel better, he might be angry with her; ergo, she decided not to tell him. Sometimes white witches tell white lies.

  "The rest of it," Morris went on, "was fear."

  "But you've encountered fear before, Quincey," she said. "We both have. I remember you saying that anybody who dealt with the stuff we do who wasn't afraid was probably crazy. And I agree."

  "Yeah, but that's not the kind of fear I mean."

  "What, then?"

  "It's being scared shitless that the next time the crunch comes, it'll happen again - I'll fold, like a bad poker hand. And somebody else will get hurt, or killed, because I let them down."

  "But what you described as happening during that exorcism wasn't a failure of nerve, Quincey." She covered his hand with one of her own. "It was an involuntary reaction to sudden, excruciating pain. And I think the operative word there is 'sudden.' It came out of nowhere, you said. And it had never happened before, not since you got the scar months ago. Am I correct?"

  "You know you are. So?"

  "So, something can only take you by surprise once. You're aware the potential exists now, and you'll be ready for it if it happens again."

  "You think that'll make a difference?"

  She looked at him for several seconds before speaking. "I know that it must. Therefore, I believe it will."

  "I reckon that'll have to be good enough."

  Libby stared into her mug, as if seeking inspiration there. She may have found some, because she looked up and said, "I don't usually invite myself to be somebody's houseguest, but how about if I hang out here with you for a while? After a spurt of activity in the witch business, things have gone kind of slow. I only have one appointment scheduled for this week, and I can easily postpone it."

  Morris gave her a lopsided grin. "You think I need a nursemaid?"

  "Not a nursemaid, but maybe you could use a friend. I can
help you put this place back together, and maybe we can do some meditation exercises to see if we can loosen up a few of those knots in your psyche."

  Morris nodded thoughtfully. "I don't think I ever asked you, Libby," he said. "Do you play Scrabble?"

  "I love Scrabble."

  "In that case," Morris said, "you can stay as long as you like."

  Suite 501 at the Hay-Adams hotel had a view of the White House and, beyond it, the phallic majesty of the Washington Monument. But Malachi Peters had not been interested in the scenery after one brief glance out the window. He spent most of his time staring at the screen of the Dell laptop he'd bought at Costco a couple of days earlier.

  He was still having trouble getting used to the idea that you could have access to such an immense amount of information without even getting up from your chair. Peters had been prepared to spend long hours at the Library of Congress, finding out everything he could about Stark, as well as the current presidential race. Then he had planned to hit News World, the greatest newsstand that ever was, and buy the current issue of every U.S. newspaper they had, along with every magazine that covered politics.

  Peters had recalled that in the early 1980s, a 24-hour news channel had started broadcasting, and some people had said it was going to be the next big thing in TV. He'd hoped that the CNN channel was still in business; it would save him from having to wait until 6:30 every evening to catch the network news.

  Home computers had been on the market the last time Peters had walked the earth, but he remembered them as being expensive novelty items, good for playing games and maybe writing your novel, and little else.

  Peters had been amazed by the power and variety of the personal computers you could get today, often for very little money. And soon thereafter, he had discovered the Internet.

  He'd been prepared for a certain amount of technological advancement while he'd been gone, but he hadn't expected changes so drastic. He'd been utterly unprepared for the digital revolution, and it had just about blown his mind. That had lasted two hours. Then he had decided that he fucking loved it.

  Which didn't mean that learning to use this new technology had been easy. His new computer sat on the oak desk the Hay-Adams provided for its guests, and next to it were piled The Idiot's Guide to the Internet, PCs for Dummies, and several other books with insulting titles that promised to teach you the basics - just in case you were from Mars, or had spent the last thirty years in Hell, or something.

  There had been many times over the last three days when Peters felt like screaming in frustration, books or no books. But he was starting to get the hang of it now. Then, late on the third day, he discovered Internet porn.

  Things really had changed since the Reagan era.

  He shouldn't have been surprised. His memory was largely restored now, and he recalled reading somewhere that every new development in communications technology had always been immediately co-opted for three purposes: politics, commercial advertising, and pornography - not necessarily in that order.

  Once Peters learned how to use Google, he found that the stuff was everywhere. You were supposed to pay for it, of course, that was the whole point of companies putting it up there. But there were plenty of sites where porn was available for free, as long as you were willing to put up with the numerous flashing annoyances that Peters learned were called pop-up ads.

  Peters found online porn fascinating; he was, after all, male. The only thing that kept him from wasting hours looking at the stuff was the knowledge that eventually Astaroth would consider him to be slacking off, and Peters had no wish to find himself back in Hell. He was not unaware of the irony involved in worrying about whether a demon would get pissed off because some human was looking at pornography.

  Chapter 18

  The Presidential primary season dragged on. January gave way to February, and the snows of Iowa were replaced by the even deeper snows of Maine.

  In between had been New Hampshire - the first political test of the year in which actual delegates were at stake. In terms of getting a candidate closer to the nomination, the Iowa Caucuses were meaningless. But, because they represented the first chance that voters in this election cycle had to express a preference, the media had decided that they were important; therefore, they were.

  Stark had come in fifth in Iowa. It might well have been sixth but for Chesbro's tragic suicide, a few days before voting was to take place. This untimely death of a dedicated public servant had shocked and saddened his political rivals - in public, at least.

  But last place was still last place, and some of the pundits had already begun to compose Howard Stark's political obituary. New Hampshire should have been the last nail in the Senator from Ohio's political coffin, except that it wasn't - quite.

  Stark had managed fourth place in New Hampshire, ahead of New Mexico's Senator Ramon Martinez. This was unsurprising to many, since the Latino population of the Granite State wouldn't have filled the bleachers at a Little League baseball game. Martinez was expected to do much better as the primary season moved south and west. But fourth place was still an improvement over fifth and, as they say in Peru, better than even a small earthquake.

  Fernando Garrett, Stark's campaign manager, was not known in political circles as 'Doctor Spin' for nothing. On the night of the New Hampshire primary, once all the votes had been counted Garrett had explained what it meant, to any journalist who would listen or put him in front of a camera.

  "We're actually quite pleased with the result," he would say earnestly. "Of course, we didn't do as well as we had hoped, that goes without saying. But we find this result encouraging, for several reasons. First of all, it represents progress. Fourth place may not be great, but fourth beats fifth in any race I ever heard of - and don't forget, Senator Martinez was predicted to do very well here." Who, apart from Martinez's own camp, had made such a prediction, Garrett didn't bother to mention. Like most people in politics, he refused to be hindered by inconvenient facts.

  "Secondly, I think it's important to remember that candidates from the Midwest, like Senator Stark, have traditionally not done well in New Hampshire, which may help to explain why Governor Lunsford was able to capture First Place." Although it was true that Lunsford was from Massachusetts, it was also true that in three out of the last five elections, at least one Midwesterner, either Democrat or Republican, had taken First in New Hampshire. Another inconvenient fact, easily ignored.

  "And finally, I'd like to point out that donations to the Senator's campaign prior to this primary are four times what they were as we were heading into the Iowa Caucuses just a few weeks ago. I think that demonstrates clearly that Senator Stark's message is getting out to the American people, and that many of them are responding by making contributions, small and large, to his effort to restore real leadership to this country. No, I don't have the precise figures, but the campaign will be releasing its financial disclosure forms in due time." Garrett was telling the truth, technically, since Stark's Iowa campaign had been financed almost entirely by the Senator's own fortune (his family had once owned more than half the ships transporting iron ore across the Great Lakes). Consequently, the $11,400 in contributions the campaign had received between Iowa and New Hampshire represented a significant gain - in percentage, if not in actual dollars.

  And now the political battleground had moved deeper into New England. Voting in the Republican Party's Maine Municipal Caucuses would begin the day after tomorrow, and the GOP's Presidential contenders were giving speeches at every venue that would have them. None of the candidates had yet stood up to orate during the breakfast rush at the Derry IHOP, but Bat Masterson figured it was just a matter of time before one of them started promising that under his administration, French toast would be renamed American fried bread.

  Senator Stark had managed to draw a pretty fair crowd at Bannerman High School's auditorium in Castle Rock this evening. With five Republicans going at it, and the Democrats due in for their own shindig in just
ten days, you'd think the people of Maine would be speeched-out by now. But apparently their appetite for political oratory was nearly endless.

  Either that, or Stark was starting to catch fire.

  And maybe he was. One thing was clear to Masterson: over the last few months, Stark had made substantial improvement as a public speaker.

  Once he found out that he was being assigned to Stark's protection detail, Masterson had tracked down and watched the only available footage (courtesy of C-SPAN) of Stark giving a speech - one he'd done for some Christian Right group in Boston last October. Masterson didn't give a damn about the oratory - he was interested in the crowd. He was looking for someone in the audience acting hinky. If he'd found something, Masterson would have made a screen capture of the image. It would then be enlarged, examined, identified if possible, and kept in the Secret Service 'potential threat' file - just in case. But as far as he could tell, the Bible thumpers had liked Stark just fine.

  Stark had gone over well with the fundies because he'd told them what they wanted to hear. The speech itself earned a 'B-minus' in Masterson's opinion - adequate for a U.S. Senator, but nothing destined for the history books, or the White House, either. Among other problems, Masterson had thought Stark to be afflicted by what he privately thought of as 'Ted Kennedy Disease': a tendency to shout your way through an entire speech, so that every idea, from the mundane to the exceptional, was given the same frantic emphasis, which amounted to no emphasis at all.

  But it seemed that Stark had got himself some lessons. His gestures were now compelling without seeming stagy, his eye contact with the audience was much improved, and he was finding nuances within the spoken words that had apparently escaped him completely just three or four months ago.

  I don't know who the Kingfish's new speech coach is, but the sumbitch is good, Masterson thought. This guy might just have a shot at the brass ring, after all.

  The speech concluded a few minutes later. Stark remained at the podium a little while to accept the applause, then he left the stage to shake hands with people in the audience. The media had covered several of Stark's events earlier in the day, but they were apparently elsewhere this evening. Masterson noted the absence of network video cameras, and he didn't see any of the print journalists or bloggers whose faces had become familiar to him.