Demon Dance

by Brian Freyermuth

  Like Ann and Cate did, a nasty voice whispered.

  I ignored it and dove back into the ocean of data. I wasn’t hoping for much, mainly because I was one step away from being a computer Luddite, but I found a few tidbits about the battles between Beth and Senator Helms. The senator wanted to close the halfway house, but that usually didn’t lead to murder.

  So I pulled up some old news on the senator himself. He started out as a young and promising lawyer and quickly rose up the ranks to become a senator in the last six years. Since then he plowed through the competition, usually passing bills that no one else could pass. No scandals and no investigations. He was one of the luckiest senators alive.

  I also found rumors that the good senator was going to run for president next November. Nothing substantial, of course, just the murmurings of an anxious press.

  As for the torched penthouse, that was a bit slippery. A faceless corporation owned most of the building, but there was nothing in the news about who owned the actual penthouse. Either the owner was powerful enough to gag the press or the place wasn’t supposed to exist in the first place. Either way, the lack of information spoke volumes.

  Only one article actually held something interesting. A spokesperson from a group called Codex Security gave an interview blaming the fire on faulty wiring, which was your standard cover-up when the truth was beyond the realm of normal understanding. Information on Codex was scarce, but one detail caught my eye. The security firm was based out of Boston.

  The thought made me ill. If someone from the Boston fiasco was mixed up in this, things could get bad indeed.

  I needed more information, so I grabbed my cell phone. I really didn’t want to get anyone else involved in this, but the playground was filled with quicksand and I needed a rope. So I called Jessie.

  Jessica Parker lived in a one-bedroom shack in La Jolla down in sunny California. Her general disregard for normal society displayed itself in her multi-colored hair and enough piercings to set off metal detectors just by winking in their direction. Her computer skills had saved my bacon a few times, and I had kept in contact with her over the years. I hated bringing her into this. But like I said, the quicksand and I were becoming real close.

  “Hello and welcome to the goddess of all things digital,” Jessie answered. “How may I service you?”

  “You know, you should be careful how you answer the phone,” I told her. “You might have a telemarketer at your doorstep wanting to take you up on your offer.”

  “Who says that wouldn’t be fun?” she said, a laugh lingering below her words. “I could use the video camera and make a million bucks. ‘The Hacker and the Salesman.’ Now that’s porn for ya.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “I think your boyfriend would be a bit angry.”

  “Sam? He’d only be upset if I didn’t invite him along. So what does my favorite superman need from me today? More computer Intel for the new book?” Her gum popped on the other end of the line.

  “Not quite.” The dim sunlight brought nothing to mind but Caitlin’s burned corpse. I closed my eyes.

  “Nick, you still with me?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I need help.”

  “Serious?”

  “I need help tracking down a murderer.”

  “I thought you were out of the biz.”

  “I was—until the victim ended up being Caitlin.”

  Silence followed that statement. When she spoke again, her voice trembled. “Cate’s dead?”

  “Yeah, and I need to find out who did it.”

  “Nick, I’m so sorry…”

  There it was again. “Jessie, please,” I told her, my own voice cracking. “I can’t grieve right now. I need you to help me.”

  She took a deep breath into the phone. “You know I will, sugar. Anything.”

  I opened my eyes again and sat up. “I need to check out a group called Codex Security. I need to know any links they have to a senator named Joseph Helms, and I need to know any connections they might have to the Carpathians.”

  “Oh man, you mean that Boston thing you told me about? You think it’s that nasty?”

  “I don’t know, but I need to be prepared. I also need you to find the owner of a penthouse in downtown Seattle.” I recited the address from the computer. “Can you do it?”

  “As sure as the sun shines down on us lowly mortals. I take it you wanted both intels yesterday.”

  I had to smile at that. Jessie always bounced back quickly. “Something like that,” I told her. “I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

  “Got it and caught it, Superman. There’s nothing in the world that doesn’t leave a trail.”

  “Thanks, Jessie.”

  “No problem. You just keep yourself alive and kicking, you hear me? I’ll be pissed if I have to give your eulogy. It’ll make my mascara get all runny.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I mean it, Nick,” she said, all laughter gone. “You be careful.”

  I promised her I would and hung up. As I sat in my bed, watching the morning rays splash across my ceiling, my mind spun over every piece. The silence in the media told me a lot, but none of it made sense. The cover-ups pointed a big red arrow at the good senator.

  You know those movies where the intrepid hero walks into the bad guy’s office and demands to speak to him? After lots of threats and witty repartee, our hero strides up to the villain's desk and proceeds to dress him down in spectacular fashion.

  Seeing Senator Helms was like that, except for the actual getting in to see him part. In real life, getting to see the rich and powerful was like running through a maze with no exit. A call to his office gave me the usual runaround. The senator was busy, leave a message, and his assistant would be happy to receive any e-mails.

  A call to my publishers fixed that. They were surprised I wanted to interview the senator; I usually didn’t delve into political thrillers, but my books made enough money for them to humor me. They would make the arrangements and call me back.

  This left me with nothing to do but wait. I paced around the apartment for a while and even tried to write. Note the word “tried.” Finally, luck smiled on me when my publisher called back. The senator had a lighter schedule, so he could fit me in for a few minutes that afternoon.

  It was time to see what the lions were hiding.

  <><><>

  I couldn't rely on public transportation for something this important, so once again I dragged my old pickup out of its crypt. I'm surprised it still ran. As for parking downtown, well, that was always like finding water in a desert, but I managed to find a place about a block away. I sat in my old truck for a moment going over various scenarios in my head before taking a deep breath. No use procrastinating. I popped a few aspirin from a small bottle in my pocket and grabbed a couple of dollars for the meter.

  I had other items as well, all hidden in various pockets throughout my jean jacket. If he was the one sending No-Eyes after me, I was going to be prepared.

  Senator Helms’s local office was twenty stories tall, with various agencies all crammed together. The outside had the newly cleaned sheen of dark marble, even if the buildings around it displayed various forms of cryptic graffiti. Someone should probably report the state of the neighborhood to the senator, I thought as I walked up to the front doors. Although he might be too busy with his demon rituals to care.

  The black marble motif continued inside the lobby. Dark walls streaked with white lined a cold stone floor the color of bleached bones. A reception desk lay discarded in the corner, the only occupant a pink sign that read “out to lunch.”

  I waved at the security guard. With no response, I turned my attention to the stainless steel elevator doors in the center of the room and, more importantly, to the plaque of names hanging next to them. Senator Helms had confiscated the entire top floor. I figured as such.

  After pressing the button, I smiled warmly at the security agent once more and saw him pull up a walki
e-talkie as the doors opened. Announcing my presence, no doubt.

  The elevator ride gave me time to prepare. The brass knuckles were still in my pocket, along with a thin cigar case and a small vial of holy water, blessed at the Vatican itself. The cigar case would help in a fast getaway, and the vial, well, there wasn’t much that could withstand water from the source.

  I also rubbed the dragon scale Coyote had given me. Oberon had said I would need it, and while the dragon's poems were atrocious and he held some nasty grudges, he abhorred lying.

  A small ding heralded my arrival, and I tensed. Call me paranoid, but two demon attacks in as many days will do that to a person. Yet when the metal doors slid open, no snarling demons rushed in. Instead the sounds of Mozart and the soft typing of the receptionist came to greet me as I stepped out.

  The woman up front didn’t look like Satan’s assistant. Pale blond hair fell to the shoulders of her nice powder-blue pantsuit, and as I approached her she looked up and gave me an actual smile. One that reached her eyes. Color me surprised.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

  “I’m here to see Senator Helms.”

  “Name, please.”

  “Nick St. James.”

  “Please have a seat, Mr. St. James. The senator will be with you shortly.”

  Now I’ve never been one to paint the Bad Guy with broad strokes, curling mustache and all, but I definitely expected something different. Maybe a touch of coldness in the workers. Maybe a touch of fear. What I didn’t expect was a nice young woman who hummed “Hey Jude” by the Beatles as she typed.

  The waiting room didn’t give up his secrets either. Two deep couches and two chairs faced the main desk, all of them covered in emerald-colored leather. A bamboo end table held brand new copies of Field and Stream and Backpacker magazine. Beautiful black-and-white photographs of Washington decorated the beige walls, and I recognized the majestic falls of Snoqualmie in one and the rain forests of Olympic Park in another.

  I was intent on finding the hidden meaning behind the photograph of a startled deer when the senator’s door cracked open. I usually don’t eavesdrop, but this wasn’t a social call, so I concentrated on the sound, tuning out everything else. It took a moment, but the last part of the conversation came to me.

  “…you have to help me with her,” a woman said. “She’s completely out of control. Your father-daughter campaign trip obviously didn’t help.”

  “Elnora, please. We’ll deal with this at home. I have an appointment,” a man said. I assumed this was the senator.

  “You always have an appointment. It’s all very convenient, Joseph, but this isn’t over. We will discuss this when you get home.”

  A woman stormed out of the office. She was in her forties and striking, with deep brown hair and dusky skin. Her dress looked like it cost as much as my rent, and her hair curled perfectly on top of a head that equaled my own six-foot height. She raged with fluid grace.

  The woman’s dark eyes flashed as she turned. A frown lightly turned down her lips as she took me in before she dropped her gaze from mine. I took the entire encounter and filed it away in my mind as she rushed past. She never looked back.

  You know, in my old job I was perfectly fine when the villain walked into a room, kicked a puppy, and laughed with an evil chuckle. It made the job easier. The problem with life is it rarely mimics the stories we tell.

  Case in point: The door opened and a well-dressed man in his forties stepped out into the reception area. His graying brown hair was clean and neat. His skin was a little pale from too much time spent in the gray Seattle winter, and his blue suit was wrinkled on the left leg. He offered me his hand and a warm smile.

  “Mr. St. James, so nice to meet you. I’m sorry I don’t have much time to spend in this interview, but I’ll give you what I can.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “It won’t take long.”

  “This way.” He gestured into his office. “Maggie, hold my calls for the next half hour.” His receptionist nodded and I disappeared into the lion’s den.

  All sorts of knickknacks filled the modest office to bursting. Northwest Indian masks and various carvings adorned the golden walls and shelves of the many bookcases. An ancient Middle Eastern vase sat next to a Chinese stallion carved from dusty jade. Another shelf held an entire row of Celtic crosses, cracked and lined with age.

  “You have quite a collection, Senator,” I said. “The stallion is Zhou Dynasty, I believe.”

  “You know your artifacts,” the senator said with a surprised laugh.

  “I’ve done some research into ancient cultures over the years,” I said as I continued to scan the shelves. “My line of work kind of makes it necessary.”

  “As a writer, you mean.”

  I stopped and glanced at him, but the statement seemed sincere. “Of course.”

  I noticed a set of black marble figurines lined up on glass shelves. “Pre-Germanic?” I asked, motioning to the statues.

  “I picked them up about a decade ago on a trip to Europe.”

  My eye caught a set on the bottom shelf, and I leaned closer. A frog, a cat, and a man, all carved from ivory into a single totem. It seemed familiar.

  “So your publisher tells me that you’re writing a book on the Northwest political system?” the senator asked.

  I disengaged myself from the relics. “Not quite as grand,” I told him. “More of a political thriller.”

  “Your publisher obviously likes you quite a bit, Mr. St. James. They called me directly.”

  I shrugged. “My books sell enough to make them happy.”

  “So what can I help you with?” he asked as he gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

  “I’ve been reading up,” I said as I sat down in the leather chair. “You began as a city councilman at thirty, and you stayed in the local scene for about five years. Then, six years ago you won a Senate seat out of nowhere. That’s a pretty big jump. What’s your secret?”

  Helms smiled. “You’ll be disappointed in the answers, I’m afraid. Mostly I have a good campaign manager, with a bit of pure luck mixed in. Nothing more.”

  “You’re being too modest,” I said. “You’ve passed laws that couldn’t get traction while placating the other side. Are there any tips you can give the main character on how to get things done in Washington?”

  The interview progressed like that for a bit, with me asking him various policy questions and the good senator replying with the usual vague answers. But as we talked about my imaginary book, my mind was busy with a catalogue of a different sort. Senator Helms wasn’t the usual smooth-talking salesman that so many politicians have devolved into these days. While he kept his answers vague, I caught traces of bitterness toward his colleagues. One he called a “nice enough man, except for his ignorance,” while another he referred to as a “great political figure in every sense of the word.” The underlying meanings were obvious.

  He also kept his eyes locked on mine, which showed his confidence. Yet although he spoke frankly and seemed down to earth, I could tell that nothing of the true Joseph Helms leaked through his façade, with the exception of a few rare moments. During the conversation he glanced down at the pictures of his family, usually with a softening of the eyes.

  At one point during a lull I asked, “May I?” I gestured at the photos and he waved his acquiescence. I stood up and looked at the two pictures on his desk.

  His family dominated one photo. I recognized his wife, Elnora, as the woman who had stormed out of his office. A thin, frail smile teetered on her lips in the photo. The couple stood side by side at the top of a mountain trail, each one wearing shorts and T-shirts. A teenage girl stood to their left, a bit distant but smiling just the same. The girl got her sharp nose and mouth from her mother, but her eyes from her father.

  The wife and daughter stood a bit apart from Helms, as if craving the distance. Maybe the wife didn’t have the confidence of her
husband. That’s fine. The daughter was definitely at an age to want to keep her distance. Once again, I filed away the information for later use.

  On the other side of his desk sat a faded photo of a boy dressed in overalls and a baseball cap next to a distinguished gentleman in a suit. The suit struck me as odd considering the lake and forests spread out behind them. The boy held a fishing rod on his shoulder, and from the look of the clothes I placed it somewhere in the early sixties. The senator and his father perhaps? I wasn’t sure.

  “Was there anything else?” the senator asked.

  I looked up from the photo, and for an instant a dark cloud covered the man’s eyes, but it disappeared so fast I might have imagined it.

  “Just one,” I told him as I sat back down. “You’ve handled your share of controversies, yet you’ve always come out on top, like when you tried to close the homeless shelter.”

  To my surprise, the senator smiled. “The shelter incident was blown out of proportion. The owner and I had a simple misunderstanding, that’s all. And like the adults we are, we settled it without having it blow into something bigger. That’s been my philosophy for most of my career. Always nip things at the bud, so to speak.”

  “But how did you manage to nip them off, Senator? The shelter is still open.”

  “What goes on behind closed doors usually stays that way. You more than anyone should know that.”

  A warning claxon went off in my head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course you do.” The senator’s smile never grew colder while he spoke; instead he gave off the impression of a grandfather chastising his ten-year-old grandson. “You were born Nicholas St. James, in a small town in Colorado. You attended Boulder University but dropped out in your sophomore year. Your mother is still alive and living in Vegas, but your father is unknown. Ten years ago you started a private investigation business in Southern California, and five years ago you came up here to write after your wife died. I’ve done my research as well.”

  “I take it that there’s a point in this?” I asked, my voice free of any suspicion.