Libby went at once to Finlay's chair, while Ellie tended to Arkasian.
Libby squatted next to Finlay, which put her face approximately level with his. She touched the side of his face with her palm and softly said a word that no one else in the room but Ellie Robb would recognize. Keeping her hand in place, she said the word twice more. Then she took from a pocket a small square of cloth, which she unwrapped to reveal a single leaf of clover. She picked it up and reached toward Finlay's still-open mouth. "I'm just going to put this on your tongue," she said. "Leave it there, don't swallow yet." She put the clover leaf in place then lightly touched her fingers to the underside of Finlay's jaw. "Close your mouth, Father."
Ellie Robb was doing more or less the same thing with Arkasian, who now had tears and snot dripping on to his shirt.
Libby rose and went behind Finlay's chair. She gently wrapped her hands around his skull and uttered a sentence in that unrecognizable language. She left her hands there for a few seconds more, then bent and whispered in Finlay's ear, "Now, swallow."
Finlay did as he was told. Then he slowly pulled his head back and took in a deep, deep breath. He let it out, and gazed around the room - without looking at Ashley too closely, perhaps for fear of what he might see again.
Arkasian seemed also to have responded positively to Ellie's spell. He'd found a handkerchief and begun mopping his face. His expression was pensive.
Ellie Robb touched Libby's shoulder and spoke softly to her for a second or two. Then both witches resumed their seats.
Ashley gave an exaggerated shrug. "Don't blame me," she said. "I warned them."
"Yes you did, Ashley." There was no anger in Libby's voice or manner. "I think it was important that we had this little... experiment, unpleasant though it was for these poor guys." She glanced toward Ellie, who nodded. "Although several of us here have bits and pieces of information, the definitive proof of Stark's nature comes from you and Mr. Peters," Libby said. "Now there should be no doubt as to your veracity. What you did was necessary, and you softened the blow as much as you could. I thank you for that."
Ashley stared at Libby, and for once there was no instinctive hostility in her face. She looked at Libby for a few seconds, then turned away.
Libby turned to the two men who had just been treated. "Jerry? Father Finlay? You guys okay now?"
Finlay rubbed a hand briskly over his face, as if waking up from a deep sleep. "Much better, thank you Libby. And please, call me Marty, all of you." He looked over at Libby. "You know the theological implications of what I just experienced, not only from Ashley but also from your... spell? Was that what it was?"
Libby nodded. "A minor one, but useful sometimes."
"I'm going to have to think about how that fits into my belief system."
"I don't think my beliefs are incompatible with most of yours, Father," Libby told him. "We'll talk sometime, if you like, once this business is done."
Morris looked at Arkasian, who was still cleaning himself up. "Jerry? You okay, podner? Would you like a glass of water?"
"Water? Yeah, that'd be good." Arkasian's voice sounded phlegmy. "Thanks, Quincey." As Morris stood, Finlay asked, "Could I have one, too?" and received a nod in return.
"I guess," Arkasian said to nobody in particular, "I'm gonna have to have to start going to church again."
Ashley shook her head in mock disgust. "I was afraid that would happen."
Arkasian turned her way curiously, and she smiled at him, then winked. He gave a bellow of laughter that went on awhile and threatened to turn into hysteria. "Jerry!" Libby said sharply.
He stopped, and looked at her.
"It's okay now," she said. "Everything's going to be fine."
Finlay looked across at Ashley. "Frankly, I prefer your present form, which is really quite attractive. If you'd keep that one in place, I'd be grateful."
"I was planning to," she said.
"I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel about you," Finlay said. "In theory, or maybe theology, you're my bitterest enemy, a representative of something I've been fighting my whole adult life."
"Yeah, I know," she said. "I've been dealing with some stuff like that, myself." She glanced toward Libby. "But we've all got bigger fish to fry right now, don't you think, Marty?"
"Yes, absolutely."
"So why don't you just think of me as a hot chick who comes from a really bad neighborhood, and leave it at that. Okay?"
"I'll do my best."
Morris returned from one of the bathrooms with two water-filled glasses and gave one each to Finlay and Arkasian. Then he resumed his place in the front of the room.
"We know from Ashley and Mr. Peters what some of us had suspected: that Senator Howard Stark is possessed by a demon. As I understand it, this possession took place about eighteen months ago. Mr. Peters, perhaps you and Ashley could fill in some of the details."
"Just call me Mal, okay?" the big man said. "Okay, then. Ashley and I have been told, by those who would know, that it happened last Halloween, in Rhode Island. Some guy named Hassan el-Ghaffar did a summoning. I guess he'd done it successfully before, and Stark was coming down from Boston to watch him do it again. I think he had visions of a battalion of invincible demons wearing the uniform of the U.S. Marines, someday. With Stark getting all the credit, of course."
"But it was a set-up," Ashley said. "Stark had - has - this woman who he's depended on for years to run his political career. Mary Margaret Doyle. I don't know how she did it, but she arranged to betray Stark during the summoning, which called up the demon Sargatanas."
"This Doyle woman broke the circle after Sargatanas had been summoned," Peters said. "I guess most of you know what that means - he was freed. But instead of just killing everybody present, he took possession of Stark's body. He and this Doyle chick killed el-Ghaffar, then went off to rule the world, or try to."
"I guess I'm the only one here who isn't part of the club, so to speak," Arkasian said, "so I hope you don't mind some dumb questions. Here's my first one: why would this demon Sargatanas want to possess Stark, as opposed to taking over anybody else?"
"Because Stark was already running for President," Peters said. "With Sargatanas's 'help,' he could succeed. As you can see, he's pretty close already. Maybe you've noticed that funny things have been happening to a lot of the Republican politicos who were competing with Stark for the nomination."
"Okay, here's my next dumb question," Arkasian said. "Why does whoever sent Sargatanas want him to be President? So he can turn America into a bunch of Satan-worshippers?" He looked at Ashley. "No offense."
"I'm not offended, Jerry - in fact, that sounds like a pretty cool idea -- but the stakes are much bigger than that," Ashley said.
She and Peters then explained about the competing factions in Hell - one planning humanity's destruction, another fearful of the consequences if the plot succeeded.
When they had finished, Finlay said, "This is fascinating - or it would be, if the danger it poses wasn't so great. The Church has never really considered the possibility of factions in Hell. I guess we always assumed that it's the evil analog of Heaven - or of what we believe Heaven to be. There'd be one supreme authority, Satan in this case, and everybody else does what they're told."
"Even Heaven has its factions, Marty," Ashley told him. "Well, once, anyway. That's why Hell was created - to exile and punish the losing faction, of which I was one, sad to say."
"I was surprised by that at first, too," Peters said, "but she's right. The relationships among the top demons in Hell is worse than Renaissance Italy during the time of the Borgias. Plots and counterplots, schemes and conspiracies - it never stops."
"Part of it's boredom," Ashley said. "You've got these supremely intelligent creatures without a lot to do. I mean, tormenting damned souls is fun, but it gets old after a few thousand years. And so we've turned on each other. Some of us, anyway."
"You guys need cable TV or something down there," Arkasian said wit
h a shrug. "I'm just sayin'."
"Oh, we have it now," Ashley told him. "But all we get is The Jerry Springer Show."
Arkasian looked startled, before he realized she was kidding him.
"Old joke," Peters said. "They do have them in Hell, you know."
"I know, Morris said. "In fact, I've come across that one before, myself."
Ashley looked at him closely. "Yes," she said. "I bet you have."
"Perhaps we could all return to the matter at hand," Libby said. "So, we know that Stark was possessed against his will, that the demon within him is ruthlessly seeking the Presidency, and that if he succeeds he will do his best to destroy the world - and might well manage it. We also know that at least one faction in Hell opposes this plan, which is how Ashley and Mal got here. The important issue, is seems to me, and the reason why we're all here, is what we do about it."
"My instructions were to kill him," Peters said. "I already told you that. Once Stark dies, Sargatanas will be returned to Hell."
"But that way, an innocent man is killed," Ellie said. "I can see how that might not unduly concern the agents of Hell, but it certainly bothers me."
"It bothers me and Libby too," Morris said. "That's why we brought in Father - uh, I mean Marty. If he can conduct a successful exorcism, then Sargatanas also goes back to hell, right?"
"Yeah, that's right," Peters said. "They don't care about Stark himself. Astaroth's bunch just wants Sargatanas back home, before he can do something to provoke Armageddon."
"Killing him is still the simplest and best way," Ashley said. "You guys of the white always make things so damn complicated."
"We won't be party to murder, Ashley," Libby said. "That is, unless there is absolutely no alternative. If it came down to the choice between Stark's death, and the destruction of all the world and its people, then, okay. It's justified."
"But even then," Ellie said, "all Libby and I could do is step aside. We cannot use our power for murder, no matter what circumstances seem to justify it."
"But killing Stark isn't the only option," Morris said. "And since, I gather, the increased security around Stark has made assassination virtually impossible, you all need us to help you carry out your mission. Which means you have to do it our way."
"Yeah, yeah, I accept that," Ashley said, sounding weary. "That's why Peters and I showed up. But, boy, I'm never gonna live this down in Hell, even if it succeeds."
"Perhaps," Finlay said, with the tiniest of smiles, "You could tell them that an angel made you do it."
Chapter 40
The killer known as The Grocer's Boy was not the only one who had been following the news of late, waiting for Bob Leffingwell to keel over. To Nestor Greene, the subject of the man's health, or lack of it, had become a matter of great interest bordering on obsession.
Unlike the professional killer he'd hired, Greene didn't have to change his daily habits in order to keep track of what was going on in the world. He was a news junkie - partly from sheer interest in the great chess game where everybody cheats, and partly out of necessity. After all, he never knew what event in politics or world affairs would provide him with a new client - or a new target.
When Leffingwell was still alive, a week after Greene's meeting with The Grocer's Boy, a knot of tension had formed in his chest, just below the breastbone. With every passing day that found Bob Leffingwell still above ground, the knot seemed to grow a little bigger, a little tighter. Greene had even consulted his physician, to be sure that he wasn't developing some kind of heart problem or esophageal disorder.
Dr. Endicott had performed an EKG right there in his examining room, the results proving normal as could be. He'd even given Greene a piece of the long ribbon of paper that the machine had disgorged, showing the activity of his heart - "in case you ever need to prove that you have one." Dr. Endicott knew something of Greene's work. He was a skilled physician, but in Greene's view, over-fond of his own wit.
Dr. Endicott had also probed Greene thoroughly, both with his fingers and verbally.
Was Greene experiencing undue tension lately?
No, not really.
Was he worried about anything, either in business of his personal life?
No, everything was reasonably copacetic, for an election year. His personal life was confined, as usual, to high-class whores, a fact Greene neglected to mention.
Had Greene been having trouble sleeping?
No - as always, he slept like a rock.
There was barely a word of truth in any of Greene's answers. Even though he knew at some level of his mind that lying to your doctor is extraordinarily stupid, the habit of playing the cards close to his chest was deeply ingrained in him - even when, as now, those cards seemed to be pressing a little too firmly for comfort.
Part of what was wearing on Greene was the uncertainty. He'd always had a low tolerance for ambiguity, and the present situation might well be used to illustrate 'Ambiguity' in some future encyclopedia of politics - or psychology.
Had The Butcher's Boy just changed his mind, figuring he was under no obligation to Greene since he had demanded no money in advance? Had he taken one good, hard look at the security surrounding Leffingwell and decided, "No not for me, too dangerous. There's easier ways of earning fifty grand."
Or had the killer's past caught up with him? You can't kill people, even mobsters, without making some other people mad - maybe that was especially true with mobsters. Could be, somebody who took one of The Grocer's Boy's hits as a personal affront had tracked the guy down and dished out a good, lethal dose of the killer's own medicine. Greene could have seen a news story about the killer's comeuppance and never even known it, since he had no useful name to go with the face he'd seen, and people got themselves murdered all the time.
Or was the heart-attack-in-a-bottle drug that Mary Margaret Doyle had provided for him defective in some way? Greene had no way of knowing where she had obtained it, or under what circumstances, or even what it was. It was not like the ever-efficient Ms. Doyle to fuck up like that, but she was only human. Wasn't she?
Thoughts of Mary Margaret Doyle eventually sent him to the post office. She'd said she was going to pay him another fifty thousand, the implication being that she wasn't going to wait until she'd read Leffingwell's obituary to do so. That was all to the good - if she was willing to pay him for failure, he was happy to accept it.
He wondered if it might be a good idea to go away for a while. Greene's finances had improved significantly of late, thanks to the nasty, well-paying tasks he'd been performing on Ms. Doyle's behalf. Maybe he should take a vacation until the election was over. Then the issues of Leffingwell's death and Stark's candidacy would be moot, one way or the other. She wouldn't take the trouble to exact vengeance by that point. Would she?
Greene had always wanted to visit Brazil. He had a smattering of Portuguese, and he thought he could pick up the rest fairly quickly. Languages had always been easy for Greene, who spoke four. He could work on his grammar while basking on the beach at Rio de Janeiro, enjoying the scenery offered by whatever genius had invented the thong bikini, and sampling the local talent.
At the post office, Greene was gratified to find the smudged, once-white card informing him of a package that was waiting. Even the line to the counter - long and slow-moving, as usual, did not spoil his good mood. It had to be from Mary Margaret Doyle. She was his only client these days, and his former associates had never shown any burning desire to keep in touch.
As Greene inched closer to the head of the line, he was using his meager knowledge of Portuguese to piece together in his mind the sentence, "How much for half-and-half?"
Bob Leffingwell was feeling good about things. Last weekend's round of six primaries had ended with Leffingwell taking first place in four, leaving Stark to suck hind tit with the other two. Martinez was still a distant third, and his catching up with the front-runners now was not only politically unlikely, but mathematically impossible.
L
effingwell had been thinking that matters had reached the point where he ought to have a quiet conversation with Martinez, or one of his top advisors. It was time for Ramon to face reality and cut the best deal he could before going into the convention. Besides, being the first Latino Vice President, although not quite the social leap forward that Barack Obama's election to the White House had been, was still enough to guarantee you a prominent place in the history books.
The campaign was not on the road today, for once, which meant Leffingwell was able eat all of his lunch in one sitting. But, wouldn't you know it, even a fairly leisurely meal had stimulated the acid reflux that had plagued him during the campaign.
Fortunately, there was a cure - or at least a temporary palliative. He called a five-minute break from the meeting he'd been having with Charteris and a few other top-level people in the living room of yet another hotel suite and made a beeline for his bathroom.
The toilet kit was where he'd left it after shaving this morning, and the bottle of Gaviscon was inside, just as he'd remembered. Leffingwell shook the bottle, like you were supposed to, and drew a glass of cool water from the tap. Thus prepared, he unscrewed the maroon cap from the plastic bottle. The manufacturer said you were supposed to take two tablespoons worth, but Leffingwell never traveled with a spoon or measuring cup. One substantial swallow usually did the trick.
He was bringing the bottle to his lips when one of his aides called from the living room, "Senator! Phone for you! It's O'Brian, from your Senate office. Says it's urgent."
Leffingwell lowered the bottle and shook his head at the reflection in the bathroom mirror. Never a minute's peace. "I'll be right there," he yelled through the slightly open door.
Then he brought the bottle of Gaviscon to his mouth, tilted his head back, and took a big swig.
The Grocer's boy watched Nestor Greene's Jaguar pull into the post office parking area, and chose a spot for his own car that gave him a clear view of the lot's only entrance/exit. He'd see the Jag when it left.
Sympathy for the Devil Page 33
