Deal with the Devil

by Kevin Lee Swaim

“It is,” Henry said. “Do you understand?”

  “Knowing and understanding aren’t the same,” the man said wearily. “Get out of town, and take these two with you. There isn’t anything good coming.”

  “I can’t do that,” Henry said.

  “Would you please tell me what’s going on?” I demanded. “I hate this crap. Hiding the truth from us. We’re right here!”

  The old man grunted and fixed me with a glare. “I see that. You two been through some hard times, and I’ll allow that you’ve seen a few things, but it’s the devil you don’t know, isn’t it?”

  “What?” I turned to Callie, who was staring at the man with something close to shock on her face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The man turned to Henry. “The Magician, the Crone, the Scholar, and the Knight are all in Chicago? It’s not good, not good at all. What else do you want to know?”

  Henry nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” the man growled. He stood and gave us a dark look. “I’ve got no business with you. Or with them. Everyone has to make their own choices. Free will is a bitch.”

  “Indeed,” Henry said. He withdrew a twenty-dollar bill, and the man snatched it from his hand and shuffled away.

  Before the man was out of earshot, he turned back among the hustle and bustle of people worming their way through the station and said, “Don’t come back.”

  The man disappeared into the crowd, quickly lost among the throng of harried travelers.

  “What was that?” Callie demanded.

  Henry started to stand. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Callie shook her head. “No, Sheriff. Tell me what that was or Sam and I aren’t going anywhere with you.”

  I turned to look at her. Her face was pale, the freckles across the bridge of her nose standing out against her creamy skin. Her eyes were wide, and the green in them appeared ablaze from reflected light.

  I couldn’t tell if she was furious or scared out of her wits.

  Henry lowered himself back into his chair. “That was the first man.”

  Callie stared at him with such intensity I actually thought she might strike the vampire.

  “What is the ‘first man’?” I asked.

  “It’s a myth,” Callie snapped. “He’s not real.”

  Henry’s face was neutral. “I guess it wasn’t, then.”

  “God doesn’t make mistakes,” Callie said.

  “I don’t think Peter was a mistake,” Henry said. “More like a first try.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “His name is Peter, and he was God’s attempt at creating a living, thinking creature in his image,” Henry said slowly. “A man with a soul and with free will. He’s been here from the beginning.”

  “That … thing … is human?” I asked. “How old is he?”

  “Since the beginning,” Henry repeated. “He doesn’t get sick. He can’t be hurt or killed. He simply is. He’s a little rough around the edges, I’ll grant you. Unrefined, you might say.”

  “He cannot be real,” Callie said.

  Henry smiled sadly. “Because he’s not in your Bible? You think every bit of God’s work made it to the Bible? Why would anyone bother recording Peter?”

  “Because—”

  “More importantly,” Henry said, “why do you think it’s any of your business? I’m not claiming to know God’s will, but I know enough to know that I wouldn’t question it.”

  Callie shook her head but remained silent.

  “He didn’t seem to like you very much,” I said. “Or us.”

  “He has a gift,” Henry said. “Maybe it’s literally God-given. When he touches you, he sees everything you’ve ever seen. Ever. Memory is a funny thing. It fades over time, and it’s not always accurate.”

  “Something you learned in law enforcement?” I asked.

  Henry looked at me with an unreadable expression. “It’s just the way of people. Memory is … malleable. But not for Peter. He sees what really happened. Immutable memories. All of them. And with the understanding and wisdom of the ages. That’s why he lingers here, I think. He touches the people coming and going, thousands of them every day.”

  I thought about what Henry said and shuddered. If it were true, that would make Peter the most knowledgeable man that had ever lived. “Wouldn’t that drive him … insane?”

  Henry shrugged. “Who could tell?”

  “And that’s why he seemed so—”

  “How would you feel if you knew you were God’s trial run? Was he discarded? Did God kick him from the Garden? Nobody knows, and Peter hasn’t said.”

  “If—if that’s true,” Callie said, staring at the corridor where the Peter had disappeared, “he must hate God.”

  Henry raised an eyebrow. “I’ve crossed paths with Peter at least a dozen times over the centuries. I’d say that his relationship with God is complex.”

  “What did he mean?” I asked. “Those names. The Magician. The Crone. The…”

  “Seeker and Knight,” Henry said.

  “Yeah. Those.”

  Henry’s expression grew hard, and he turned to watch the crowd as he spoke. “There were thirteen Ancients. Un was the first. The Demon. The reason humans fear the dark. Un believed vampires were gods. He ruled for generations, before an army of humans rose and slaughtered him. That taught the other old vampires that no matter how powerful we seemed, it was better to remain in the shadows.

  “Now there are only twelve. The Scholar was the second Ancient. He seeks knowledge to benefit us all. The Queen keeps the King in check. The Magician acts on the Scholar’s wisdom. The Crone judges the Ancients’ failures and cleans up their messes. The Beast is a genius and a madman who terrorizes humans and vampires alike. The Kingslayer keeps the Ancients in line. The Knight fights for them. The Fool suggests terrible alternatives with a wicked grin. The Seeker discovers new things and works hand in hand with the Scholar. The Judge holds us to our laws. The King rules us all. And the Dragon…”

  I was staring at Henry with my mouth hanging open. It was more information than Henry had ever provided about the secretive group.

  Callie had been researching the Ancients for years and knew next to nothing about them. Her face was pale, and her eyes were big and shiny. “The Dragon?”

  “The Dragon brings about the end.”

  “The end of what?” I asked. “Humans?”

  Henry turned to me, and his eyes were hooded. “Humans. Vampires. The Dragon exists to end us all.”

  * * *

  We made our way back to the parking deck and followed Henry’s Suburban through the heavy traffic, heading south for a meeting that Henry said would give us “perspective.” When we stopped at a red light, I glanced over at Callie. She was staring straight ahead, her jaw clenched so tight that the muscles in her neck stood out.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Without looking my way, she said, “I just learned there is a … a man? Can I even call it that? A creature of God that came before us and isn’t in the Bible.”

  “I don’t see why that’s such a big deal—”

  Her head whipped around, her auburn hair swinging like golden fire in the noon sun. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re not Catholic.”

  The light turned green, and Henry sped off. I gunned the engine and followed. “I don’t understand any of this. I thought the Bible was literally God’s word. No room for error and all that.”

  She sighed. “It would take me hours to explain Catholic doctrine. I’m not in the mood.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I’m not angry with you, Sam. I’m just … tired. When we get back to Iowa, we’re going to have a conversation.”

  “About what?”

  “Your immortal soul.”

  I grunted. “After everything I’ve done, I’m not sure it matters.”

  “Of co
urse it matters, Sam. Don’t ever say that. Not ever.”

  “Okay,” I said hastily. “It matters, I guess. I just don’t see the significance—”

  “You’re a good man, Sam, but it’s not enough.”

  My voice came out gruffer than I intended. “After all I’ve done, God can cut me some slack.”

  There was a long silence. “It doesn’t work like that. You’ve faced terrible things, nightmarish things, but it’s … you have to get baptized.”

  “Baptized,” I spat out. “I think I was baptized in that church when I killed my daughter.”

  Callie turned to me, and the look on her face was heartbreaking. “You didn’t kill her, Sam. She was already dead. What came back wasn’t her. Not really. You had to do it.”

  I kept the Chevy close to Henry’s Suburban through the southbound traffic. “A man is supposed to keep his family safe. I failed my daughter. I failed my wife. I’ve failed everybody, yet I keep on going. Maybe I should get baptized. Maybe I should give myself to the Lord, but I’m not inclined right now. I’m too angry.”

  “Sam—”

  I tried not to say it, but the words came rushing out. “Save it, Sister. Save it for those who really need your pity.”

  We drove the rest of the way in silence.

  Chapter Four

  The once-white house was a dirty gray in the bright sunshine, just one in a long line of homes that had probably once been neatly kept but now appeared on the verge of being condemned. A rusted chain-link fence circled the postage-stamp-sized yard, and a black pit bull stared at us with dangerous intent as we made our way up the cracked sidewalk.

  “What are we doing here?” Callie asked.

  “There’s someone I want you to meet,” Henry said.

  A group of young black men kept a watchful eye on us from farther down the street. They started to head our way, but Henry turned and gave them a stare that sent them scurrying back the way they came, quickly entering the house where they loitered and slamming the door behind them.

  “They going to give us any problems?” I asked.

  “They can tell I’m police,” Henry said with a shrug. “It’s like they can smell it.” He knocked at the door, and an old black man with thin white hair opened it and peered out. “Mr. Johnson? My friends would like a word with you. Would that be all right?”

  The old man frowned, then nodded and motioned for us to enter.

  I turned to Henry and whispered, “What are we doing here?”

  Henry turned and stared at the empty street. “Just speak to him, Sam. I’ll wait.”

  “You’re not going in with us?” Callie whispered.

  Henry shook his head.

  I glanced at Callie, who appeared as confused as I was, then followed the old man inside. The front room was straight out of the seventies, and the only thing to break the illusion was a flat-screen LG television sitting on an old steamer trunk against the wall. The old man waved us to a pair of chairs the separated the room from the kitchen and took a seat in a threadbare recliner, settling into it like a ninety-year-old arthritic man.

  Which, come to think of it, he may very well be.

  The room smelled of worn furniture and musty newspapers, and the temperature was just a little too warm for the ancient air conditioner clunking away in the kitchen window to keep up with.

  “What’s your name?” the old man asked.

  “I’m Sam Harlan.”

  The old man grunted. “And the pretty lady?”

  “This is Callie,” I said.

  Callie smiled at the man, and for a brief second, my heart melted as I remembered her twin sister, Katie.

  Katie and I had felt something for each other, something more than affection, but I had just lost my wife. Shortly after, Katie had been murdered by a vampire. My jaw clenched so tightly that my teeth cracked together. I must have been making an odd expression, because Callie’s eyes tightened around the corners. Before she could speak, I asked, “What’s your name?”

  The old man gave me an appraising look. “Davis Johnson, but most folks just call me Dave. You looking for my grandson?”

  I blinked. In fact, I had no idea what I was supposed to say to him. “Tell me about your grandson.”

  “Andre is a good kid,” Davis said. “He’s a little wild, on account of him being a numbksull, but he’ll grow out of that. His dad had a heart attack … well, not too long after the towers fell. My son, Randall, was a postman. He was carrying a package up two flights of stairs when they say he keeled over. Didn’t nobody get to him in time. Not the police. Not the ambulance. Randall’s wife done up and got breast cancer the following year, the bad kind. She didn’t make it six months.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Me and the wife, we took Andre in. We raised him, made sure he got schooling, even played with him in the park. Andre had a good home, until my wife got sick. She had heart failure, and that damned oxygen bottle didn’t help. Andre was in junior high by then. After … well, you must have guessed what happened to my wife. Then it was just the two of us. He’s a good kid, Mr. Harlan. I just want him back.”

  “Do you have a picture of Andre?” I asked.

  Davis reached for a gold picture frame on the table next to his recliner and passed it to me. “Will this help? This picture was taken last year.”

  I took the frame from him and inspected the young man sitting on the concrete steps. Andre was young, maybe seventeen, and his toothy smile made him look even younger. I gingerly handed the frame back to Davis. “Nice-looking boy.”

  Davis held the frame against his chest. “He took after his mother. He’s young. Not even shaving regularly yet.”

  “Where do you think Andre might have gone?” Callie asked.

  Davis shook his head. “I dunno. He’s been involved in a little tomfoolery. Got caught stealing a pair of shoes. I caught him once with marijuana, but I don’t cotton to none of that stuff. He straightened right up after I talked to him. Never no gangs or nothing like that, and no drinking. I know too many people that get lost in the bottle.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  “About a week ago,” Davis said. “He got himself a job at the McDonald’s. Gonna save some money to go to community college. I told him, better to save up money than get these loans I hear about…”

  I nodded. “He was on his way to work?”

  Davis nodded. “A few blocks from here. Rides his bicycle. He never showed up, his manager said. The police don’t want to do much. They said he’s probably at some girl’s house or hanging with his friends, but Andre didn’t have a girl. Not a regular one, at any rate. And his friends said they ain’t seen him. You got to help find him, Mr. Harlan.”

  “What makes you think we can help?” Callie asked.

  “The man out front said he used to be a sheriff and that now he is a private investigator. He showed me his license and everything. Told me you two were good at finding missing people.”

  “We are,” I said quickly, “but we don’t have much to go on. You say his friends haven’t seen him? Do you have anything you can tell us?”

  Davis shifted uncomfortably in his recliner and carefully placed the framed photo of Andre back on the table. “I don’t, sir. I wish I did. I’m hoping you folks can help. Andre is … he’s all I got left. Ain’t much in this neighborhood anymore. Our children, they’re everything to us. I know you know what I’m sayin’, Mr. Harlan.”

  My thoughts drifted back to my daughter, my sweet Lilly, and how I’d plunged a knife into her heart after she had died and risen as a vampire. “Yes,” I murmured. “I understand.”

  “Thank God,” Davis said. “I just know you can help.”

  I stood and took his hand, squeezing it gently. “We’ll do our best. Thank you, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Call me Dave,” the old man said. “You just find my grandson.”

  Callie stood and took the old ma
n’s other hand, but didn’t speak. We let ourselves out and stepped into the bright sun. The temperature was hovering in the nineties, and while the humidity wasn’t enough to make it sweltering, it was quickly rising.

  “Do you think we can find his grandson?” Callie asked.

  “I think we’ll try.”

  As we headed back to our vehicles, Henry asked, “What did Mr. Johnson say?”

  “We’re supposed to find his grandson. And you’re a private investigator.”

  Henry nodded. “I am many things when I need to be, and you probably won’t find his grandson. He’s the last reported young man to go missing.”

  I jerked to a stop. “He could be dead? Why get the old man’s hopes up?”

  Callie’s jaw worked, and she started to speak, stopped, then said, “You wanted us to see Davis Johnson for a reason.”

  “That’s right,” Henry said. “Over a thousand young men have disappeared in the past six months. A few have been found. Their bodies were torn apart and drained of blood. I wanted you to meet Mr. Johnson so that you would understand just how many people are waiting on their sons. Their grandsons. Their nephews, or brothers, or friends. Every life matters, Sister. Every person loves and is loved. I wanted you to meet Mr. Johnson so you would know what is at stake. People are counting on us.”

  He spun on his heel and headed for his Suburban, stalking down the street like an animal looking for prey. It was a terrifying transformation, and I looked down and found Callie clutching my hand in hers, squeezing tightly.

  “He’s right,” she said. “We must put a stop to this.”

  * * *

  Henry slowed in front of me. We were several miles south of downtown, and the landscape resembled a war zone. Empty weed-filled lots stretched around us, broken by the occasional brick building or warehouse. The road was more potholes and broken pavement than navigable street, but we didn’t travel far before Henry pulled into a dirt parking lot in front of a massive six-story brick building that was at least the size of a city block back in my hometown of Arcanum.

  I pulled up next to Henry’s Suburban as Henry exited his vehicle, slung his massive sword across his back, and waited patiently for us.