Name of the Devil

by Andrew Mayne

  I hand my work to Knoll to check. He stares at it for a minute before speaking. “You believe him?”

  “That’s a question for Dr. Chisholm. My gut says he’s not lying about this.”

  Actually, my guts are twisted in a knot right now.

  We’re getting sharp looks from the others in the room because we haven’t shared the transcription.

  I hold up my notepad. “The code says, ‘You will know it when it is me.’”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” snaps Arron.

  “Hawkton isn’t him,” I reply.

  “And you believe him?” he asks skeptically.

  “I believe he’s a homicidal megalomaniac. Emphasis on the megalomania. He wants the world to know how smart he is. If Hawkton was him, then he’d either keep his mouth shut or take credit.”

  “So why doesn’t he come out and say it?” asks Kinsey.

  “Because he still denies being the Warlock,” Knoll answers. “Heywood insists he’s an innocent man, wrongly framed. He’s only hinted that he’s connected to the Warlock.”

  “So he tells you,” Arron points to me. “You certainly attract the weirdos. They love you.”

  “This one wants to murder me,” I remind him.

  “There’s a lot of that lately,” he says, almost as an accusation.

  I keep my inner voice buried deep. Screw you. I didn’t ask for any of this.

  “Why didn’t he kill you in the warehouse?” Kinsey prods. There’s a skeptical tone to his voice.

  “He implied it was under surveillance. But, yes. I believe he could have killed me, but chose not to. That was also when he thought he was way ahead of us and we didn’t stand a chance of catching him.”

  “But you did,” says Kinsey.

  “We did,” I correct him. “We did. But he still held me responsible and tried to have an associate kill me. I have no doubt he’d try again if he had the chance. He hates me.” I saw it in his eyes when I last spoke to him. It’s why I sleep with a loaded gun under my pillow. It’s why I spend Friday nights in jujitsu classes. It’s why I survived my trip to Tixato.

  His anger is what keeps me going. I’m afraid if I stop, it’ll all be over.

  “If he hates you so much, then why did he want you to find that message?”

  “For starters, I didn’t, you did. I never would think to look at my Wikipedia page. Second, the message isn’t necessarily for me. There’s a whole cult of people now out there, obsessed with deciphering his messages and reading into his murders. I’m sure they’re all over his case like ghouls looking for any clue or new detail.”

  “Can I offer a theory?” interjects Dr. Chisholm from the corner of the room. I never even saw him enter. “He did it on your page because you’re the only one he respects. Yes, he hates you and wants to kill you, but you’re also the one who outsmarted him. Putting this message in an image of you, on your page, is a way to subvert you. An extension of a magic ritual using a personal object. He’s using you to get his message out. He’s trying to tap into your power.”

  “My power?”

  “Heywood is all about mystical iconography.”

  “Do you believe him?” Knoll asks bluntly.

  Chisholm ponders the question. “Yes. In this instance. He gains nothing from telling us this. It only reinforces his sense of ego. The Warlock never wanted to make his methods appear material, of this world. Nothing he did was personal,” he nods to me, “until Agent Blackwood interfered with his plans. Hawkton is extremely personal.”

  “So we don’t need to worry about the Warlock anymore?” Kinsey seems confused.

  Chisholm raises an eyebrow. “Quite the opposite. This stunt tells us he’s still got influence outside the walls of his cell. He wasted a good gimmick just to tell us not to be fooled. I’d be relieved if he tried to take credit. Now I’m even more convinced he has something else planned. But not now. Not for a while.” Then Chisholm turns to me. “Given recent events, I think you need to be even more careful. If he can change a web page while in maximum security, he can just as easily ask one of his acolytes to try to reach you again.”

  They’re coming at me from all sides. What started as a joke of a meeting about the Benny Hill efforts to catch Damian has turned into a stark reminder that even if I ever get to the bottom of Hawkton, there’s an evil man biding his time, waiting to kill me.

  47

  I SET THE HAT and blond wig on the table next to Gerald’s computer. I have a growing collection of disguises, a sign of how complicated my life has become. He gives them an amused glance and shakes his head. “They find the sniffer?”

  “Three so far.” Because of the X-20 threat and the new developments with the Warlock, I’ve been ordered to wear a disguise any time I’m out in the open at Quantico. I’ve been living in the office and sleeping in the dorm. There’s no telling if the drone we found was the only one. Now, nobody doubts their connection to the attempted bombing.

  “You’d think the FBI would keep better track of stuff like that around here,” replies Gerald. “We’re supposed to be the counter-surveillance experts.”

  “We also live in a country where law enforcement is generally trusted and government agents aren’t active targets of criminals. X-20 is from a different part of the world. Snooping on agents coming and going isn’t new for them.”

  “The location is,” Gerald points out. “I mean, here of all places? Does upstairs finally acknowledge their connection to Hawkton?”

  This is still a frustrating point for me. “Tenuously. We need more evidence. I’m hoping there is something in the exorcism tape we’ve missed. Maybe another person.”

  “Besides the pope?” Gerald arches an eyebrow.

  “You don’t buy it either?”

  “I believe that you have credible reason to believe that it’s him. I just think the chain of connections is quite . . .”

  “Tenuous . . .” I add. There’s a lot of that with this case.

  “Yes. The ‘T’ word. Christ. Who knows. I mean, they did try to kill you twice and also one hundred other people. It’s just . . .” He shakes his head.

  I don’t want to say it out loud, but if Ailes were here, he’d back me. He’d find some way to prove my theory through computational or logical jujitsu. Gerald is a good guy. He’s bright and every bit the thinker that Ailes is, but he’s just not able to make that extra leap.

  “What do we have with the reconstruction from the audiotape?”

  “Here’s what we’ve got so far. We matched the voices to multiple people in the room.” He presses some keys and 3-D people appear in a virtual room on his screen. “We can tell approximate location and position.” Gerald points to the characters. “Here are the Alsops, Jessup, Curtis, McKnight and our other person we’ll call ‘Peter.’” Little captions with their names float above their heads.

  “As in Peter the Apostle? I guess that’s better than nothing.”

  “Like I said, I’m prepared to believe you. I’ve added a child on the bed for Marty.” He clicks the mouse and a bed with a small child appears in the room. “As you can see, the people are gathered around him. There’s likely some heavy blankets being used to hold him down. People tend to thrash and claw in the middle of an exorcism and you don’t want to take your chances.”

  “Is there room for anyone else in the room?”

  “Possibly. But watch this . . .” Another click and footsteps appear on the ground like tracks in fresh snow. They all end at people who already exist in the scene. “We matched any footfalls on the tape to the locations of the people. Someone else could theoretically be in the room if they were still and didn’t say anything during the recording.” He hits some more keys and circles radiate from the mouths of the people and various other points in the room. “These are all the audio sources. We can track just about every single one to some
body or an object in the room.”

  It’s almost like time travel. “How are you able to get this much information? What’s real?”

  “Ears.”

  “Ears?” He’s picking up Ailes’s Socratic style. I need to check if I’m starting to do that too. It can be annoying if not done right. At least Gerald is sincere.

  “Your ear is more than a funnel for sound. It shapes sound and changes it as it goes through the cartilage. It’s how we can tell whether something is above or below us, and not just to what side. We actually hear in three dimensions. Even with one ear.

  “Our brains know what a voice is supposed to sound like. It’s pretty good at guessing if that sound bounced off your earlobe first, or the top of the ear.” He waves toward his computer. “We estimate dimensions and make a virtual room, and tell the computer how human voices behave. We plug in what kind of flooring, etcetera, and then it makes some guesses. Let’s take a look? Right now it’s going to show us the sources for all the voices for the whole tape.”

  Circles bounce from the virtual people. Occasionally one appears to hover several feet over the bed. “What’s going on there?”

  Gerald looks sheepish. “I was afraid you were going to ask about that. This is more art than science. I have almost all the voices tracked to the virtual people. But I think we got a glitch.” He clicks his mouse and Marty’s body floats up to the bubble.

  “I’m pretty sure he wasn’t levitating,” I reply.

  “I know. I know. The computer is assuming he moved. But they have him under blankets and are pressing down on him. The bed would creak if he stood up. My guess is an echo bounced off a bookshelf or the headboard, confusing the algorithm. There are so many assumptions going into this.”

  “Because levitation would be ridiculous.”

  “Right? I mean, it’s not like a ten-year-old kid could pull that off.”

  “I could . . .” I give him a sly grin.

  “Uh, there’s that. Say, didn’t you find the kid because he bought a book on ventriloquism?”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t actually throw your voice. It’s just a way to synchronize it or change the volume to make it sound farther away.”

  “Oh. That would have been convenient. Anyhow, I didn’t pull the levitation out of the simulation because something about the voice seems to be throwing everyone off too. Whenever it appears, they all get a little more agitated. It seems to coincide when the pitch changes. If you listen to the tape, it really is creepy.”

  “Could someone else be speaking, other than Marty?”

  “They’d have to be in the room, and it’s real close to Marty, so I don’t see how that could be possible.”

  “Could they be under the bed? Hiding from them?”

  “No. We’d be able to tell from the audio sample. I don’t know how they couldn’t see another person unless the lights were out, which I don’t think they were. Although, we do hear them describe a flickering.”

  “This was peculiar.”

  “Old houses?” Gerald responds.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve been reading up on poltergeists and possession. This kid seemed to know all the tricks.”

  “He’d been doing his homework at the local library. To be honest, I really feel for him. Kicked around from home to home, this was his only way to get attention.”

  “He sounds like a psychopath on the audio. I don’t think I’ve heard someone say ‘fuck’ more times in one minute.”

  Gerald had never been backstage with Grandfather when something went wrong. “True. And he’s getting away with it. The adults are convinced he’s not in control of himself.”

  “I guess I had it easy. Is that the point of acting like this?”

  “I don’t know. A kid like that has so little control over his life. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to sleep in the same bed the next night. Maybe doing this allows him to feel like he’s got some power. Making the adults look like idiots gives him that.” I had an uncertain life, but at least I had regular fixtures in Grandfather and Dad.

  “You sure he’s not bipolar?” asks Gerald.

  “That’d be a question for Chisholm. To me, this is a kid putting on a show. You sure that other voice is an echo?”

  “Or a levitation. Without the actual room layout, it’s hard to know for sure. Remember, all of this is a virtual reconstruction from a crappy, thirty-year-old audiotape. We make a lot of assumptions—like the room is square, a certain size, there’s not drapes.”

  “Would photos of the room help?” Gerald sometimes thinks a little more theoretical than practical.

  “Yeah. You have some?”

  “Give me your car keys.”

  “What?” He stares at me, confused.

  “I can’t use my car because they’ll be following me if they have the chance. Also, I’ll need a spare phone.”

  Gerald tries to convey a stern look. I can see concern in his eyes. “You can’t be serious. You shouldn’t even be leaving Quantico.”

  “Gerald, not too long ago over a hundred people almost bought it because of what X-20 thinks I know. Maybe it’s time I just figured that part out for certain. Forget the pope, they’ll kill anyone in their way.”

  He reluctantly pulls the keys from his pocket and tosses them on the table along with his phone. “Just bring it back with a full tank of gas.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, heading to the door.

  “Hey, don’t forget your disguise. And, uh, be careful.” He waves the hat and wig.

  “Oh, those. If you hear from Ailes, try not to worry him too much.”

  48

  MY HOPE THAT Hawkton would feel any less creepy now that the sheriff’s reign of terror has come to an end is sadly dispelled by the fact that any rural town in the dead of night is raw fuel for nightmares.

  Set in the middle of twenty acres, the Alsop farmhouse is away from central Hawkton. That would explain why having a foster child went unnoticed. The back end of the property sits on the county line. An open gate sits across the entrance from the road. Their gravel driveway winds between hills, gradually slanting up. A rope with frayed ends dangles from a tree, a chew toy gnawed by a giant. I assume a tire swing was once attached.

  In the moonlight, the property is quietly foreboding. Small things with glowing eyes jump into the tall grass as my headlights catch them off guard.

  In better days, in better light, I imagine this wouldn’t have been such a bad place to grow up. To a foster kid shuttled around from home to home, the Alsops’ property would be filled with wide-open spaces for adventures.

  But life on a farm eventually grows dull. If the Alsops were anything like the other denizens of Hawkton I’ve met, I can’t imagine the slow pace of life here being something a kid with a hyperactive imagination would be able to stand for very long. A basic magic trick or two, learned from a book, would have shown Marty how easily these churchy folks could be conned.

  When I was in college, my freshman roommate was a sweet girl studying biology, who I’d thought was sheltered, a bit naive, but not stupid. However, when she found out about my background in stage magic, she reacted as if I’d confessed I was Hitler’s niece. She even told me she’d pray for me. Try as I did to explain to her that invisible thread and palmed cards weren’t the same as drawing pentagrams in the basement and letting a goat have its carnal way with me, she didn’t—or couldn’t—see the difference. In her eyes, pretending to have supernatural powers was the same as being in league with Satan himself.

  She and I passed the remainder of the semester as polite friends. She spoke no more of my magic, and I politely ignored the sounds that came from under her blankets when her equally devout study partner “accidentally” fell asleep in her bed.

  I pull Gerald’s car to a stop a hundred feet from the Alsops’ ranch-style house. There are
no lights on. The security light above the porch doesn’t even activate as I come within range of the motion detector. The power must have been shut off.

  Still wary of eyes in the sky, I put on the wig and hat. To anybody watching, I’m not sure how hard it would be to figure out what was going on. Either I’m me, or some cheap woman wearing slept-in clothes who stole an FBI agent’s car and drove three hundred miles.

  The front door opens with a quick jiggle of my bump key and pick. In a town like Hawkton, locked doors are more of a formality than a necessity. The real theft deterrent is kept loaded in the corner.

  The floorboards creak as I enter. My flashlight reveals glimpses of a house arrested in time. It’s the 1980s, complete with pine paneling, thick carpets and garishly upholstered furniture with hideaway drawers to conceal remote controls and hold drinks.

  It’s the kind of place that keeps Thomas Kinkade in business, I think, then I realize I’m making too smug of an assessment. My own taste in art doesn’t extend beyond my Pinterest page.

  The television is an old-style tube set in the middle of an entertainment center. Photographs framed under glass reflect my light back at me. Smiling kids that look like Mrs. Alsop open presents and mug for the camera. These were probably her nephews and nieces.

  Beyond the family room lies the master bedroom. I peer inside and see their bed, all made up and waiting for them to come home. Did they make the bed together? Or did Mrs. Alsop push the pillows back into place every morning as her husband went about his daily business?

  The house is silent, even more so than you’d expect in the still of the night. The trees and the hills baffle the noise of the wind. The croaking of frogs is muffled by the tall grass. I can understand why the Alsops looked forward to the sound of some other voices here besides their own. It’s a lonely place, miles from anywhere.

  They must have thought this could be a great home for an unfortunate child. Under different circumstances I think they would have been right. Their devout beliefs aside, I think I would have been comfortable here. This place has the stability I always desired.