Sympathy for the Devil

by Justin Gustainis

  "I'm assuming that nobody was running a George Romero film festival, that hour of the morning."

  "Nothing even close. Scariest movie on TV during that time was Pee Wee's Big Adventure, and I only mention it because that Pee Wee Herman dude creeps me out."

  "So Stark lied to you about the source of those voices you heard."

  "He sure as hell did," Masterson said. "The woman's voice, well I figure that was Mary Margaret achieving what people used to call one hell of a climax."

  "Nowadays, I think it's called 'coming your brains out,'" Morris said.

  "Yeah, that's a pretty fair description," Masterson said. "But that other one, I call it a man's voice for lack of anything better, but, Quincey... it wasn't anything human."

  "I'm sorry to have to intrude on your grief," Libby Chastain said. "But this shouldn't take very long."

  "It's all right, Miss -" the woman glanced down at the business card she'd just been given. "- Widmark. I've talked to so many insurance adjustors, one more doesn't make any difference. But I thought I had spoken to them all, by now." Evelyn Brooks looked to be in her mid-fifties. Libby saw iron-gray hair, severe-looking glasses, and, even now, the black dress of widowhood.

  "Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry it's taken me so long to contact you. Our computer system at the office has been giving us a lot of trouble - we're getting a new one in April, thank heaven - and notice of your husband's... passing didn't reach the Claims Adjustment Department nearly as soon as it should have."

  "The odd thing is, after you called yesterday, I went through all of Ron's policies. I thought I had every one set aside, but didn't find one for -" She looked at the card again. "- Massachusetts Mutual. I hope that isn't going to mean you came over here for nothing."

  "Not at all, Mrs. Brooks. I imagine the policy will turn up eventually. When it does, I'd be obliged if you'd tear off the last page, fill it in, and mail it to us. But it doesn't really matter. We have a copy of your husband's policy, and we wouldn't dream of denying the claim just because you can't produce yours at the moment. That's not the way we do business. We'll have a check for $20,000 in the mail to you in a few days. I just need to get your signature on a few things. You know how the bureaucracy works."

  Evelyn Brooks smiled sadly, and nodded. "Ron was in politics for twenty-two years. I know all there is to know about bureaucracy."

  Libby took the clipboard she'd brought with her over to Mrs. Brooks, and squatted next to her chair. "I'll need you to sign and date here, and here, and two places on this one - up here and at the bottom. Oh, and I'll need to see the, um, scene of the accident, if you don't mind."

  The older woman's face furrowed in confusion. "The... scene of the accident? You mean the bathroom?"

  Libby thumbed through the forms, stopped at the third one and seemed to scan it for a moment. "Yes, ma'am, that would be the bathroom."

  "What on earth for? The police were done with it last week. The contractor sent a man over, day before yesterday. He replaced the light switch and put up the new wallpaper that I picked out. To look at it, you'd never know that Ron..." Her face crumpled for a moment, but she held back the tears and regained control.

  Waiting until I leave. Libby thought. Doesn't want to break down in front of a stranger. Good for her.

  "I understand what you mean, Mrs. Brooks. It doesn't make a lot of sense, does it? But I just do what they tell me, until five o'clock, and I have to be able to say that I observed the location in question. I'll also take a few pictures with my camera phone. It won't take more than a couple of minutes, I promise."

  "Well, you have to do what you have to do," she said with a shrug. "Would you mind... going up by yourself? It's the second floor, at the end of the hall. I've been using the powder room down here. I'm... not ready to go in there, just yet."

  Libby stood. "Of course, it's no problem at all. In fact, would you mind if I took a minute to freshen up, while I'm there?"

  "Of course, honey. You take as much time as you want."

  The 'freshening up' would give Libby a few extra plausible minutes upstairs, if she needed them. And it would give Mrs. Brooks a chance to weep down here in private, if that's what she needed to do.

  Two minutes later, Libby was in the bright, cheerful bathroom, door closed and locked behind her. She stood in what she estimated was the center of the room, turned to face east, and spread her arms out wide.

  Such theatrics were probably unnecessary, but it had been ten days since Brooks's death, and Libby wanted to be sure that she didn't miss any lingering taint of--

  And there it is.

  To the trained sensitive, black magic has a psychic odor that is like nothing else. For Libby, it was like the faint but recognizable smell of cigarette smoke you find in a room hours after the smoker has left. Except this stuff smelled less like tobacco than it did a rotting corpse.

  So. There are traces of black magic at the place where a man died, under circumstances that are looking increasingly more suspicious. The man was a senior member of the U.S. House of Representatives. The man was running for the office of President of the United States.

  What is wrong with this picture? Only everything.

  As Evelyn Brooks saw her to the door, Libby Chastain said, "Please let me offer my condolences once again. I think I know how awful this must be for you."

  As she spoke, Libby placed her right hand on Mrs. Brooks's shoulder in a compassionate gesture. Then she unobtrusively moved the hand to rest gently on the back of the older woman's neck.

  "I think it would be best if you forgot I was ever here," Libby said, using magic to give a little push along with the words. "Can you do that for me?"

  "Why of course," Mrs. Brooks said. "You called, I remember, but never showed up. I was quite annoyed."

  Keeping her hand in place, Libby began to move it in small, slow circles. "The burden of your grief will start to ease soon. Every day, your sorrow will be a little less. In three more weeks, it will be gone completely. Do you understand me?"

  Mrs. Brooks nodded. "Yes, I understand."

  "You will never forget the love you had for Ron, or the time you shared together. But starting in a short while, thinking of it will no longer make you want to cry. Does that sound like a good idea, Evelyn?"

  "Oh, yes, that sounds fine. Just fine."

  Another primary, this one in Pennsylvania. Mary Margaret Doyle sat on the hotel suite's couch with the Wall Street Journal while Sargatanas slouched in a chair across from her with his laptop. They had finished a bout of vigorous sex fifteen minutes earlier.

  Without looking up, Sargatanas asked, "So - feeling pretty good?"

  "You know I am," she lowered the paper and grinned at him.

  "Pity that I am about to spoil it."

  "What did you say?" Her smile fled like a frightened deer.

  "They've found the priest's body."

  She began shaking her head slowly. "No - no, that's not possible! I did everything you said, took every precaution, I never -"

  "Stop! If I thought you were at fault, your punishment would have already begun. But with the priest, you did exactly as instructed, thus demonstrating the truth of Hell's First Law."

  "What's that?"

  "'You can do everything right, and still lose.'"

  She thought about that for a second then said, "So if I did everything right, how did we lose?"

  "Before I answer that, keep in mind that lose is a relative term in this case. It would have been better to have the priest simply disappear, but the stupid police have no evidence to connect his death to you."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Everything is digitized now, including the reports filed by law enforcement agencies. That which resides in one computer can be retrieved via another, if the user possesses the necessary knowledge and skill. Needless to say, I do possess them. A touch of black magic is also sometimes useful."

  "I assume those same reports reveal why we were discovered so quickly," she said.
r />   "It seems a computer at the power company made note of the small electricity usage coming from the shopping mall that night, since there was supposed to be none at all. The next day, the police were sent to determine the cause. Some vagrant keeping himself warm must not be allowed to interfere with corporate profits, after all - even in a small way."

  "So they found what I... left behind." Her eyes narrowed in concentration as she said, "They won't have much to work with. I had gloves on the whole time, because of the cold, so there are no fingerprints. I took my tools with me and dropped them off a bridge into whatever that river is they have there."

  "The Penobscot."

  "Whatever. And, thanks to your glamour, I was not recognized by anyone."

  "So we are, as they say, in the clear." He looked at her for a moment. "You liked it, didn't you?"

  "Liked - liked what?"

  "Everything you did to the priest. Admit that you liked it."

  "Liked it? I found it appalling. I only did it because you ordered me to! You said it was essential to the plan!"

  "I see. You were only following orders."

  "Yes, exactly."

  "That excuse didn't play too well at the Nuremburg Tribunals, if I remember correctly."

  "At the what?"

  "Ah, my roommate Senator Stark was right - there are some gaps in that Vassar education of yours."

  "I might not know about that Nuremburg thing, but I know I did not enjoy what you made me do! I didn't"

  "I must have been mistaken, then. After all, anyone who could do that to a fellow human would be something less than human, herself. She would be a monster, don't you think?"

  "I am not a monster!"

  "Of course you're not. Now - what does today's Journal say about Senator Stark and his candidacy?"

  Chapter 25

  Libby Chastain stood near the front-facing window of her hotel room, which seemed to give her the clearest reception. You'd think a place like Washington D.C. would have cell towers everywhere. Maybe that was the problem - all the bullshit floating through the air was interfering with the electronics.

  Then Colleen O'Donnell's voice was in her ear. "Hey, Libby."

  "Hi, Colleen. Before the days of caller ID, I would have been inclined to credit you with precognition."

  "Caller ID? What's that?" Libby could hear the smile in her friend's voice and regretted that she was about to wipe it away.

  "I went to Congressman Brooks's house," she said. "Did a little song and dance for the widow and got into the bathroom where he died. You were right, Colleen."

  "Black magic." As Libby had expected, all levity was gone now.

  "Faint, but distinct. I'd know it anywhere."

  There was a silence that went on long enough to make Libby wonder if the call had been dropped. "Colleen?"

  "Sorry. I was trying to think about two things at once."

  "Which were?"

  "One is, why would someone use black magic to kill this guy?"

  "To make it look like an accident? If so, it worked pretty well."

  "Yeah, okay, let me rephrase. Why would someone want to murder Congressman Brooks and make it look like an accident?"

  "When you put it that way, it is a pretty good question."

  "And my second problem is, what are we going to do about it?"

  "What you mean we, kimosabe?" The comeback was automatic, since Libby didn't see anything funny in what they were talking about.

  "I meant the Sisterhood," Colleen said. "Although, now that you mention it..."

  I didn't need precognition to see THAT coming, Libby thought, but all she said was "Yes?"

  "Fenton and I can't just fly back to D.C. and look into this, Libby, much though I want to. We've got some good leads on this serial killer, and we have to run them down. Anyway, we're on pretty thin ice with the Bureau these days."

  "After Iowa, you mean."

  "Idaho."

  "Right - I'm always getting those confused."

  "Point is, we've got to be good little Special Agents for a while, instead of chasing down the forces of darkness as the whim strikes us."

  "I thought your boss was simpatico," Libby said.

  "She is, but her boss isn't, and his boss even less so."

  Libby sighed. "Say what's on your mind, Colleen."

  "I want you to look into this, Libby. For the Sisterhood."

  "I'm not refusing, but I wouldn't even know where to begin. I didn't go to the FBI Academy, remember? I'm not an investigator."

  "No, but you've got a buddy who is."

  "You mean Quincey."

  "I do, indeed."

  Libby chewed her lower lip for a few seconds. "That's not a terrible idea, Colleen. But money's an issue."

  "It is?"

  "I'll do it pro bono, since it's for the Sisterhood. But Quincey does this stuff for a living, and I happen to know he hasn't worked in a while. He'd probably take it on as a favor to me, but I'm reluctant to ask. I owe him enough, as it is."

  "You mean your life, and all that."

  "That's exactly what I mean."

  "Um. What do you think Quincey would charge for a job like this?"

  Libby told her.

  "Well, that's not unreasonable, considering he's a specialist. Look, let me talk to Rachel. The Sisterhood has a fund for emergencies, and this may well qualify, considering the possible implications."

  "There's a fund? Where did that come from? We don't pay dues, or anything. At least I don't."

  "Me, neither. But quite a few of the Sisters have successful careers, and they've been generous, over the years. I don't know how much is in there, but there certainly ought to be enough to pay Quincey's fees and expenses. Your expenses, too, for that matter."

  "So, I should talk to Rachel?"

  "No, I'll do it, since I'm the one proposing that we hire your boyfriend."

  "He's not my boyfriend, Colleen. You know that."

  "Just an expression. I should have an answer for you later this evening, then you can get in touch with Quincey. Sound good?"

  "All right, Colleen. I'll talk to you later."

  Libby's flight back to New York didn't leave until morning. As she unpacked her suitcase, she hummed quietly to herself. Any fan of old cowboy music would have recognized the tune as 'Back in the Saddle Again.'

  Quincey Morris leaned back and looked at his old friend.

  "So, okay," he said to Masterson. "Let's see what we know. We've got a member of the U.S. Senate, who also happens to be one of the strongest contenders to become the Republican Party's candidate for President -"

  "Yeah, about that," Masterson said.

  Morris looked at him. "What?"

  "I don't know how much attention you've been paying to the campaign so far -"

  "Not much. I've had other stuff on my mind."

  "All right, but you might want to take a good, hard look at how Stark got to be somebody with a real shot at the nomination."

  "There's only one way, isn't there?" Morris said, frowning. "You run in the various state primaries and pick up delegates for the national convention. The guy with the most delegates at the convention is the nominee. End of story."

  "Yeah, except when this particular story started, Stark was at the back of the pack."

  "'The Un-Magnificent Seven', right?"

  "Uh-huh. And if you were going to rank their chances, Howard fucking Stark was the consensus choice for number seven."

  "Seriously?"

  "A year or so ago, there's seven of them, with Stark as ass-end Charlie. Then what's-his-name, Brooks, gets electrocuted in his house, and suddenly there's six."

  "I don't remember anybody claiming there was something hinky about the guy's death. It was supposed to be some kind of freak accident, right?"

  "That's what everybody says. Leaky pipe, water on the floor, defective light switch and bzzzz - Ron Brooks is off to that great quorum call in the sky."

  "And you figure he had some help along the way. Bas
ed on what evidence?"

  "Bear with me, Quincey. It only makes sense if you look at the whole picture."

  "Okay, then." Morris spread his hands. "Paint me a picture."

  "So Brooks is an accidental death, and the seven becomes six. Then Frank Chesbro blows his brains out, just before the the Iowa caucuses."

  "Really? I don't remember that."

  "You don't? Jesus, Quincey, it was all over the news."

  "This was in January?"

  At Masterson's nod, Morris said, "That explains it. I had some other stuff going on then. Took up all of my attention, for a while. Why'd this fella do himself in - anybody know?"

  "Well, I'm pretty sure the photos of him sucking dick had something to do with it."

  "Dear God," Morris said. "Yeah, I reckon that'll do it, all right."

  "Happened when he was in college. I don't know if Chesbro was gay, or just trying it out back then. But he was unwise enough to let somebody take pictures."

  "Unwise is right."

  "Person or persons unknown dug up those photos and provided them to that piece-of-shit rag The National Tatler. They put little black bars over the naughty bits when they published, but pretty soon the original photos were all over the Internet, and the black bars disappeared."

  "Destroyed the poor bastard, and his family too, I reckon."

  "That's for sure. I mean, there's stuff you can do when you're young and maybe explain away later - like DWI, or smokin' some weed."

  "Especially if you don't inhale."

  "Especially that. But you can't get caught with another dude's cock in your mouth, even if it was forty years ago, and expect to be President. Not yet, anyway."

  "I think I'm starting to see where you're going with all this," Morris said. "Okay, so Chesbro's dead, and that leaves five, including Stark."

  "Two more of them are alive, physically, but in serious trouble politically. In Lunsford's case, somebody dug up evidence -"