Name of the Devil

by Andrew Mayne

  “Is that a real thing?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “It’s an example I just made up. My point is that there are a billion ways to mess up our perceptions.”

  “I think you may have missed your calling. Could the sheriff have ingested this accidentally?”

  “You were there, what do you think?”

  “If there hadn’t been an unexplained explosion and bodies in the trees, just violence, I’d say maybe. But everything together doesn’t quite match the behavior of one man on the worst trip ever.”

  “No, it does not,” agrees Ailes. “This suggests something larger.”

  “How much larger?”

  Gerald snorts.

  I glare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He knows where you’re going next.”

  “Where’s that?”

  A map pops up on the screen, replacing the graph. The center is a town called Tixato. I’ve never heard of it.

  “Why would I be going there?” I ask, trying to figure out their private joke.

  Ailes starts talking in his professorial voice. “In any crime scene you find a thousand pieces of evidence that are interesting, but lead you down false alleys. A blond hair from a dead prostitute gets tracked in because the cleaning lady lives in a bad apartment building. A Syrian passport found in a plane crash is actually from an overnight express envelope and not a terrorist onboard. Odd things that seem like one-in-a-million occurrences. In reality, every event has a million different one-in-a-million occurrences. The important ones are those that connect to other one-in-a-million events without an obvious reason.

  “That molecule we found in Jessup’s tissue? It’s not a synthetic. There are only a dozen places in the world where the bio databases say animals that could produce it might live. Tixato is one of them.”

  “So why Tixato? Because it’s closest?”

  “Because of those mud samples you brought us. From the footprint you found in the tree. Our other one-in-a-million fact. Guess where it comes from?”

  I see where this is headed, or more literally, me. “Tixato too?”

  “Exactly. Tixato. Tixato, Mexico.”

  10

  I’VE BEEN MEANING to ask my grandfather about what happened after the Buick followed me home for a while, but now just doesn’t seem like the time. My flight leaves shortly for Mexico, and Grandfather has his own agenda he seems to be dancing around.

  We were able to meet at the airport as he was flying in and I was flying out.

  He takes a puff of his cigar, exhales and makes it vanish in a cloud of blue smoke. Behind us, an airport police officer is walking through the crowded lounge trying to figure out where the smoke is coming from. She gives the Belgian college students piled around their backpacks and trays of Chinese fast-food and cheese-dripping pizza slices a suspicious look. They smile innocently back.

  “My stepfather was an asshole,” Grandfather says. “A pious man. I don’t think he ever read a book in his life, besides the Bible. And even then, I think he only read it selectively. We lived on a tiny farm in the middle of Oklahoma. The world seemed so big, yet our lives so small.”

  “That’s why you ran away to the circus,” I reply. He’s told versions of this story a thousand times in my presence.

  “The circus makes for a more romantic story to how I became a magician. The truth is a little more complicated. I guess my point is, I wasn’t running to something, just away from that tiny, narrow, little life. I know what it means to run away.” He looks right at me.

  “I never ran away,” I retort sharply. Although, truth be told, I’ve been avoiding my family since I was twenty. I don’t call myself Jessica Blackstar anymore. Born into that legacy and everything that came with it, I realized that world wasn’t for me. Ironically, the last time I spoke to my grandfather at any great length, was years ago in Mexico, when I almost died. And now, my plane leaves in an hour to take me back.

  Grandfather’s cigar rematerializes at his fingertips and he takes another draw. Hand to chin, it’s his reflective pose. He’s got dozens of them. Combined with his strong features, which evoke those of an aging 1940s matinee idol, he has presence. These are traits he taught himself. He wiped away the Okie farm dirt to create a polished, erudite man who can, in a simple sentence, convince you that he alone possesses the greatest secrets of the universe—and all that it takes to witness them is the price of admission.

  I try to imagine my grandfather as a young teenager, sitting in a dark movie theater alone watching movies, trying to pronounce his words like Richard Burton and Cary Grant.

  “I know you too well, Jessica. You’ve always had that defiant look about you. Tell me, are you happy in the FBI?”

  My happiness has never been a topic of discussion. “I enjoy my work.”

  “Even when it almost gets you killed?”

  “I don’t remember our business being all that different.”

  “The illusion of mortal danger isn’t the same as the reality.”

  “Suffocating at the bottom of a lake seems like more than an illusion to me.”

  He shakes his head and looks away. “Things were under control . . .”

  “No, they weren’t.”

  “I’ve never wanted anything more for you than your happiness,” he says, with too much conviction. It sounds like a line from a play.

  “But that’s the problem,” I explain. “You can’t see what makes other people happy. You only understand your own. You think someone without ambition is wasting their life. You have Dad convinced he’ll never amount to anything because he can’t live up to your legacy.”

  Grandfather rattles the ice cubes around in his glass of scotch as he stares up at the massive modern art mobile dangling overhead in the cavernous atrium. “Do they accept you?”

  “Who?”

  “Your peers.”

  He says the word “peers” dismissively, drawing it out. Uncle Darius liked to point out that Grandfather could add more syllables to a word than there were letters. “We get along great.”

  He raises a bushy eyebrow. Grandfather’s judicious use of words is matched by his scrutiny of how other people choose them. “‘Great’ . . . Do they accept you? Do you get invited to watch Sunday football? Drinks at the bar after work?”

  “I get asked.”

  “Mostly by men looking for something? Husbands wanting to step out on their wives?”

  I shake my head and roll my eyes. “You’re a bastard,” I try to say the words calmly, but fail.

  He inhales his cigar and swiftly sleeves it as the police officer walks past our table. She looks over her shoulder, smelling the smoke, and Grandfather gives her a smile before turning back to me. “I know what I am. Do you know what you are?”

  “A cop.”

  “Like that fool?” He points to the airport officer. “Hopelessly wandering around here, trying to figure out how to confront me? While I enjoy my smoke, she’ll keep circling me, ignoring that man over there on his way to the Philippines to engage in illegal acts with minors. Or our Middle Eastern friend three tables over sitting next to his veiled wife who has bruise marks on her wrists. Are you that kind of cop? Ignoring the things you feel helpless about?”

  “I’ve told old fools to put away their cigars and I’ve put away murderers and wife beaters.”

  “You’re a garbage woman with a badge,” he replies, swiping his hand in the air.

  “I see it differently.”

  “Is there any less trash in the world?”

  “Statistically? Yes. Crime rates are down. Are you arguing against the profession of law enforcement?”

  “No. Just you being in it.”

  “Because I’m a woman?”

  “Hardly. I’d stack you up against just about any man I know. No. Because you’re,” his voice ha
lts for a moment. The carved scowl softens. “ . . . because you’re my granddaughter.”

  “Every woman is someone’s granddaughter.”

  “None of them are a Blackstar.”

  “Well, actually, I’m a Blackwood.”

  “I left that name back in Oklahoma on the farm. You should too. You’re not like them. You’re not like any of them.” He waves his cigar around, gesturing at the world. “You’re special.”

  “The FBI is where I belong. I’ve never felt better about what I was doing than now.”

  “But do your peers really accept you? Do they consider you one of them?”

  No, I think to myself. I’m still the outsider. Knoll and Ailes respect me. I get along with the others, but I’m not a part of their social circles. They’re polite, to be sure, but nobody tries to set me up with their friends. The female agents keep their distance. I could be resentful, but I know it’s not them. It’s me.

  “What would you have me do?”

  “You’re famous again from that whole Warlock business. You’re interesting. At least for a moment.”

  The way in which he says “famous again,” as if it’s everyone’s ambition to see their name on a magazine. “Then what?”

  “Write a book. You could probably get a television show while you still have your looks. Run for office. It’s a great place for photogenic people who grow old. Anything. Just something bigger. It’s an opportunity.”

  “Then what?”

  “Don’t be childish. The Attorney General has less experience and intelligence than you. You could pass the bar, run for Senator, and have his job before you’re forty.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  Grandfather smiles. “For you, it should be. These people, they know nothing about themselves, much less how people like us think.”

  I’ve never heard my grandfather speak of success like this before. “I thought you were going to try to convince me to do Broadway.”

  “I know you well enough to see where your heart is. I recognize my own stubbornness when I see it.”

  “Then why can’t you accept me doing this?”

  “Because . . .” He pauses for the right words. “Because it’s too small.”

  “Small?”

  “Small for someone with your talents.”

  This is his special way of giving a compliment. He tells you you’re so good, you must be failing at something larger. “I’m good at it.”

  “I’d bet you’re one of the best. You are my flesh and blood. That’s why you need to do something that challenges you. Something where the payoff amounts to more than putting some sad person in jail for doing something to another sad person.” He points to the retreating airport police officer. “Let her take out the trash.”

  “Wow.” I shake my head once more. “I knew you had an ego. I just had no idea.” I was a fool for thinking we could have a simple talk without drama.

  “It’s not egotistical to want something better for you than I had. Magic must seem silly to you now. It does to me. But to that boy back in Oklahoma, it was everything. Our adolescent dreams shape the adults we become. I should have dreamed bigger. I think I really could have made something of myself.” His voice trails off as he looks away.

  “Could have?”

  He stubs out his cigar in his empty drink and gets to the point. “Even the man that defies death has to acknowledge that it’s just a trick.” He sighs. “I’m sure you guessed. I have to go into the hospital. The doctors say it’s treatable. I’m optimistic. But it just puts things in perspective . . .”

  “And that’s why you wanted to talk to me?” I notice he conveniently waited until my flight was about to be called to deliver this news. I have a million questions now, but I know him well enough to know he’s said all that he’ll say on the matter.

  “Among other reasons. I like to see your face. Even when it’s scowling like it is right now. In my advanced age, I’ve begun to realize my single greatest accomplishment.”

  “What’s that?”

  A smile forms. “You. Somehow this family of misfits brought us you.” There is a goddamn tear in his eye. Is this what old age does to you? I don’t know how to respond. His large hand reaches out and pats mine.

  “Jesus Christ, are you getting soft?” I try to make it sound like a joke.

  “Don’t count on it. I just don’t want any of us to die with regrets. It’s bad enough to live with them. I’ve got plenty.”

  I give him a hug as my alarm goes off. “You’re a complicated bastard,” I tell him before walking to the gate.

  “Jessica,” he calls out. “Should we be worried about this hellmouth thing on the news? You’re not involved, are you?”

  I pause for a moment. “No,” I lie.

  “Good. Risking your life once was enough.”

  “Twice,” I correct.

  “Yes. I guess our Mexican debacle counts too. Did you know I almost died there once? And your uncle spent some time in prison there. Nice place usually, except for us Blackstars. We always seem to have bad luck there.”

  I’ve only told him I was heading out of town on business, not where.

  “Let me know if you need anything.”

  HE RETREATS DOWN the walkway. Suddenly his gait becomes clumsy. He bumps into the man he singled out as a wife abuser. He drops a lit cigar into the man’s pocket before moving on. A minute later, the police officer walks by again and corners the man as his pocket spews smoke.

  Grandfather looks back and gives me a wink.

  11

  “DO YOU KNOW why they call it the Caves of the Dead?” asks Dr. Moya as he sloshes through knee-deep water. His body is just a short silhouette in the blue glow of his flashlight. Giant daggers of shadow slide across the walls as we pass stalactites stretching from the ceiling to the surface of the water. Moisture glistens their ragged edges making it feel like we’re in a reptile’s mouth.

  “I thought it was just ‘cave’ and not ‘caves’?” I protest as the cold water pours over my borrowed boots, soaking my socks.

  “There are many Caves of the Dead here.” He points his light toward a dark passage. “Some of them are connected. Maybe all of them. But, back to my question.” Dr. Moya speaks perfect English. Educated in Mexico and the US, he’s got that Socratic way of asking you questions instead of telling you things.

  With Ailes, it’s earnest. With Grandfather, it can be condescending. I think Moya is just being himself.

  Apparently, my FBI badge didn’t impress him. I’d asked him about the source of the psilocin variant we found. His answer was to take me into the cave to help collect his sample kits. With his research assistant filling in at a nearby school for the underprivileged, he drafted me as an able-bodied helper. If I wanted his assistance, I would have to climb down the thirty-foot ladder.

  I admire his pragmatism.

  “Is it the Caves of the Dead because of all the dead things they find down here?”

  I can see Moya’s cherubic smile in the shadows. “All caves have dead things. Every cave could be called the Cave of the Dead. Skeletons were piled as tall as you at the mouth of this one when we first found it. Jaguars, cattle, coyote, a hundred other animals that fell down the hole and died.”

  “Didn’t they find human remains in one near here?”

  “Si. Where the church stands. The priests there took those bones and buried them nearby and renamed their cave “The Healing Cave.” A little girl said she saw the Virgin Mary bathing her feet there once, and people have been coming there ever since. The church does quite well by the traffic, you could imagine.

  “But no. The Caves of the Dead are much older than that. The people who lived here before, the Yucatecan, used to come down into the caves when they needed advice. Not the kind you got from throwing chicken bones on the ground or eating peyot
e with the elders. The Caves of the Dead was a place for matters of war. A shaman would be chosen to make the journey. He wouldn’t always make it back.”

  “They’d get lost down here?”

  “They’d lose their minds. The Iluicatl michin, as the ritual was called, was supposed to open a door. On the other side you could see the realm where the dead lived. If the Old Coyote was digging many graves above, then you knew they were about to be filled. Sometimes the Old Coyote didn’t want the shaman to return and kept his mind down here. The man who came back had the same body, but was filled with the spirit of the trickster and did wicked things.”

  “The trickster?” Black Nick had used that phrase.

  “A native term for the devil. In primitive cultures good and evil weren’t as black and white. Even the Greek and Roman gods were capricious.”

  “What was this ceremony?”

  Moya turns out his light. The cavern is completely dark, darker than black. “What do you see?”

  It’s cold and damp. For the briefest moment I’m afraid this man could try to cut me or do something that’ll require a violent response on my part. “Nothing.”

  “What do you hear?”

  “Water dripping.”

  “What else?”

  There’s a faint splash. “Just water.”

  “Would you describe this cave as a living place or a dead place?”

  “It feels somewhere between.”

  “That’s what they thought.” Moya flicks on his light, revealing a smile. “But to get to the other side, they needed the Iluicatl michin.”

  “And what was that?”

  “It’s what you came here for. It’s the source of the chemical you asked me about.”