Name of the Devil

by Andrew Mayne

  I loved the mysteries of my family’s house, but not the rise and fall of our family fortunes. The drama between my father and my grandfather instilled a fear in me that even when I became an adult the conflicts wouldn’t end. I was afraid I’d be trapped in their dysfunction forever—always in their shadow.

  I walk toward the hallway leading away from the bedroom. There are six doors. One leads to a closet. Another leads to the laundry room and garage. The third goes to a bathroom.

  I open the first door on the other side of the hallway. There’s a small bed frame in the middle of the room. The walls and shelves are bare. A child’s dresser stands to the left of the entrance, its empty drawers slightly ajar. It’s too sparsely decorated to even be a guest room. This feels like the room where the audiotape was made. The tape recorder probably sat on the dresser, a foot from my head. Above the dresser is an empty frame, probably belonging to a mirror that had been the target of a childish tantrum.

  There’s no headboard on the bed frame or bookshelf. I go to the far wall to get a closer look and run my fingertips across the surface. I can’t find a trace of nail holes. The paint doesn’t reveal the telltale signs of something that’s been covered over.

  This was where Marty was killed. But the absence of a bunk bed suggests this isn’t the room where they said he died.

  Everyone involved in the events that night had their own reminder. Groom had his audiotape. Dr. Kinder had Marty’s corpse. The Alsops had absence.

  I venture down the hall to see the other rooms. The next door leads to a water-heater closet. The last door leads to the room where they’d said Marty was found dead after toppling over in the bed and getting tangled in the mattress and blankets.

  Sparsely furnished like the other room, the bunk beds are still in there. Pushed against the far wall, the mattresses are covered in plastic. I step inside and try to imagine how they could have conceived of Marty getting trapped. The room is much longer one way than the other. If the bed was where it stood now, I’m not sure how he could have been trapped. Placed against the wall by the door, it might have been possible.

  I look around for evidence of moved furniture. At the opposite end I spot scuff marks suggesting how the bunk beds had previously been positioned.

  My flashlight catches something. Blood rushes to my head as I experience the sensation of a missing puzzle piece landing squarely in the center of my field of vision.

  Of course.

  How could I have been so stupid.

  It’s right in front of me.

  49

  I’M LOOKING AT a metal vent about eighteen inches across and twelve tall. Painted the same beige color as the wall, it’s easy to miss at first glance. Underneath the vent are faint abrasions from when the bunk bed’s railing had been pushed directly below.

  I slide the bunk bed back across the floor so it’s directly below the vent and climb up.

  The four screws that originally held the metal grille in place are missing. I set my flashlight on the mattress and pry it free using my fingernails, then pick the light back up and aim it inside. A long duct goes over the water-heater closet and to the other bedroom, where there’s a matching vent opening.

  The mysterious voice didn’t come from a levitating Marty or even an echo off a bookshelf or headboard. It came from here.

  I push my head into the crawl space. Layers of doodled drawings line its sides along with randomly placed stickers. There’s a Yoda, a Princess Leia and a herd of colorful ponies. Candy wrappers, picked clean by insects, litter the narrow floor.

  Like my own corridors, this was a secret place. This was where a child could peer unseen into another room to watch the adults acting like scared buffoons. I pull myself forward along the duct and see the outline of the bed frame emerge below the vent.

  Remembering the geography of Gerald’s reconstruction, I see that the slats of the vent slope downward, aiming sound toward where the bed was that night. Anyone of adult height would just see the grille and not the grinning face behind it.

  Relying on a little too much experience in tight spaces, I carefully back myself out of the duct and call my digital historian, disregarding the hour. This is too big to wait.

  Probably a night owl himself, he picks up right away.

  “Max!” I shout into the phone.

  “Hello? Jessica? Is everything okay?”

  “Marty Rodriguez . . . is there anything in his foster records about having a sibling?”

  “What? Oh, hold on. They didn’t always keep those items on there. Let me check. Give me a second. Um, here it is. No.”

  Evidently, he was up. Or he sleeps next to his computer.

  “Damn.” I think for a moment. “Can you see if the Alsops had any other kids staying with them?”

  “One second. I can check the reduced lunch schedules. Wait. I have to do a cross search. What’s with the number you’re calling me from?”

  “Long story. I’ll explain over dinner.”

  “Oh, cool. Um, here we go. Interesting.”

  “What?” I ask impatiently.

  “There are records of Marty being signed up in the government lunch program multiple times with another child, including in Hawkton. Neither actually enrolled in the school. Got the name here, which is interesting. It’s another Rodriguez. If they were cousins, they might not have put that in the record. Or even if they were half-siblings. Sometimes they leave things out, maybe because of incest or other extenuating situations. Other times they’re just sloppy. No shock there.”

  “This other Rodriguez, what’s his name?”

  “Her name. She’s a girl. Hold on. Martha Rodriguez. Her name is Martha. I’m not sure how we missed that. It’s a safe bet they’re probably brother and sister if they moved them around together.”

  “Can you get me a photograph?”

  “One second. After we talked last time, I got some school yearbook publishers’ databases. I’ll take a look. I can match them to the lunch database and the school, so that should rule out the false positives . . . hold on . . . I think this is her. I’m sending it to the number you’re calling me from.”

  I stare at Gerald’s phone, willing the image to come quickly. There’s something at the back of my mind, a mental tickle. I don’t want to encourage it. It could still be a coincidence . . .

  The phone chirps. I click on the icon and open up the new message containing the image. Her face is similar to Marty’s. There’s a serious look to her. She stares straight ahead. Like Marty’s Polaroid, this photo captures a child who is unsure what new disappointment the adult world is going to bring her.

  I know this face somehow.

  “I’m not sure how we missed her,” says Max, frustrated.

  “I told you to look for boys because of the library books. I just assumed the ‘M’ was a boy. It could have been her. Hey Max, do those schoolbooks list anything like nicknames?”

  “Yeah, hold on. Let me pull up the image of the page. Not all the text is entered. Here we go. Martha ‘Marta’ Rodriguez.”

  “Holy shit.” I lean back and almost fall off the bunk bed.

  I’ve been so blind.

  She was right there.

  “Are you okay?” Max is concerned.

  “Yeah! I got to go. Thank you!”

  I jump to the ground and buckle to my knees.

  Marty’s death had a secret witness.

  Marta Rodriguez.

  His sister.

  Sister Marta.

  I know her.

  I’ve met her face-to-face.

  I shook her hand.

  The saintly woman of Tixato, helping the orphans, is Marta. In her expensive blouse and nice watch, I wrote her off as just a woman from a wealthy family trying to do some earthly good.

  She is wealthy, but she didn’t inherit her money. She ea
rns it the old-fashioned way: she’s a criminal.

  Sister Marta is close to, or very likely the center of, X-20.

  X-20 . . .

  It was right here that Martha “Marta” Rodriguez watched from her hidden passage her brother get murdered.

  That day was October 20.

  10-20.

  X-20.

  I look around the barren room. One of the most vicious criminal cartels we’ve encountered was born here on that night.

  Who knows what dark thoughts Marta had before then, or what traumatic experiences she’d already endured, but after what happened here, her only connection to society was severed. She watched her caregivers, the law and even the church kill the one person that understood what she was going through.

  No wonder she’s bitter. I’d be raging like hell if that happened to me.

  Marta was probably even the real mastermind behind Marty’s “possession,” the misguided prankster who read magic books and studied how to manipulate people. She knew someday she’d have her revenge.

  And she will let nothing, not even me, stand in her way.

  50

  I RACE DOWN THE Alsops’ gravel path so I can refill Gerald’s tank and make it back to Quantico before the rush hour traffic starts piling up on Virginia’s highways. The glossy metal of a black car reflects back from the road directly in front of the open gate. I slam on the brakes and come to a halt. Stones ping the underside of Gerald’s car.

  As the dust settles, my headlights catch the man as he gazes back at me, unfazed. Older, dressed in a well-cut suit, he takes a drag off his cigarette but otherwise remains perfectly still as he blocks my exit.

  I put my hand to my gun and scan the surrounding field to see if there’s an ambush waiting to happen. I’ve been caught off guard like this before. However, something about his casual demeanor tells me this isn’t the church in Texas all over again.

  I exit the car with my hand on the butt of my pistol, leaving my headlights on in his face. He gives me a polite nod as I walk toward him. “Good evening, Agent Blackwood.” He speaks with a trace of a European accent.

  He obviously sees past my thin disguise. I glance around to see if there’s anyone else nearby. The shadow of a driver is visible through the passenger window. “You have me at a disadvantage,” I reply.

  “Perhaps. Did you see anything interesting in there? Any old ghosts with stories to tell?”

  “Who are you?” I still have my hand on my gun at my side, ready to draw.

  “That’s not important.” He takes an arrogant puff of his cigarette. “Let’s just say we have a mutual friend in Rome.”

  “I don’t know anybody there.”

  The man makes the smallest of smiles. “Well, let’s just say he thinks of you as a friend and is grateful for bringing a certain person to his attention.”

  I decide to stop dancing around the issue. “So the Vatican knows there might be a plot against the pope?”

  “Yes. By my presence, you can assume they treat this credibly. The question now is a matter of opportunity and method. Our mutual enemy is rather unconventional. Recent events in your own neighborhood have our friend concerned that others may be hurt.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past these people.”

  “Nor I. That’s where you can be of assistance.” He delicately reaches into his pocket with his free hand and removes a DVD case. “Between you and me and the moon, there’s a bit of a spiritual debate among our friend’s inner circle. I’m hoping you can discreetly offer a professional opinion.”

  “Religion isn’t my strong suit.”

  The tip of his cigarette glows bright orange in the dark as he inhales. He lets out a stream of smoke that drifts across the headlights like a dark blue phantom.

  “Precisely. But that’s all they’re capable of seeing. I’d like to interject a more secular viewpoint into the discussion.”

  “Over what?”

  He holds up the disc. “Watch the video. When you’re finished, call the number inside. We might be able to arrange some kind of trade.”

  “Trade for what?”

  “Answers.”

  I point back toward the house. “Did your friend tell you what happened in there? Did he tell you the part he played?”

  “I’m aware that things are often more complicated than they appear on the surface. Our friend is a good man. Sometimes good men find themselves in difficult situations.”

  “A difficult situation? A dead child is more than a difficult situation.” I glare at him.

  He casually waves his cigarette in the air. “Dwelling on the sins of the past won’t help us stop the evils of the present. Our mutual enemies have shown us that many more children may die before they’re done.

  “I’d like to take something back to our friend tonight. I’ll give you a piece of information if you’ll give me one in return.”

  “What is that?”

  “I understand that the church explosion wasn’t caused by any conventional method. I’m told it appears as if someone had spontaneously combusted. Given the amount of damage, I find this hard to accept. Yet, there hasn’t been a counter-explanation put forth.”

  They’re confused by how it happened. I can’t reveal too much about what we know. I have to parse my words carefully. “You can engineer an unconventional explosive from anything that burns, even cocoa powder. We have no reason to believe there was anything about this explosion that can’t be explained rationally.”

  He nods, as if he’s already come to this conclusion. “And the sheriff’s behavior? Was it psychological or pharmacological?”

  I’m not telling him about the psychoactive fish. That’s too important of a lead. But I can allude to the explanation. “My guess is both. A predisposition toward one made him especially vulnerable to the other. If your friend is having delusions, I’d be concerned.”

  The man nods toward the disc I’m holding. “Let’s just say we are concerned.”

  “What’s on here?”

  “The contents of the disc are as important to us as the method. If there is an explanation, then the content is irrelevant. If there isn’t . . . well, that would be of great concern.”

  “What do you have for me?”

  “A name,” he replies with a certain amount of gravity.

  “What kind of name?”

  “If you’re dancing around in the moonlight by yourself, it’s obvious to me that your superiors don’t take the casual connections you’ve made between Hawkton and Tixato very seriously. Am I correct?”

  “Perhaps . . .” That may change when I reveal Marta’s existence. Or at least it should.

  He nods. “Jackson Lamont is a man you’d like to speak with.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He knows our mutual enemy. Currently, he’s in a federal prison in Virginia. With some encouragement, he might provide you with the information you need.

  “But please, your attention to the video would be greatly appreciated. Mr. Lamont will only be able to confirm what you already know. I doubt he’d be able to help you find our mutual enemy now.”

  “Why is that?”

  The man checks his watch. “An hour ago Interpol declared her a suspect in an unrelated crime, one she didn’t actually commit.”

  “Why did they do that?”

  “It was a favor . . .”

  “To your friend in Rome?” I ask.

  “No.” He looks right at me. “This was a favor to you. I’d like her to leave you alone. As long as she thinks only you know the relationship between her and these events, you are a liability. Your superiors don’t even have the evidence to name her a person of interest. Fortunately for you, someone owed me a favor.”

  I get the feeling that exchanging favors with this man could lead down a perilous path.

 
He gets into the town car and it drives away, leaving me alone in the dark.

  I have no idea how long he’d been waiting for me to show up. Having already been inside once, his friend in Rome understood the significance of this place. I suspect he figured it was only a matter of time before the connection between Hawkton and the pope became evident to someone else.

  51

  “IS THAT HEBREW?” asks Gerald, furrowing his brow as I play him the DVD of the pope, who is visibly shaken and speaking almost incomprehensibly. To me, it’s obvious he can’t understand why he’s saying what he is.

  “No. According to the text file, it’s a version of Aramaic.”

  “Like Bible-times talk?”

  “Earlier.”

  “Does it say what he’s saying?” Gerald takes a seat next to me at the conference table.

  I push the printout I made toward him. I’ve been trying to follow along in the video to discover when exactly the pope goes off track. Unlike Reverend Groom, he doesn’t gaze off to one side. He just looks disturbed and angry with himself.

  “Whoa,” remarks Gerald as he reads the transcript. “This is some level thirty D&D bullshit here. The kind of thing you hear a demonic kid say in a found-footage horror movie.”

  “Only it’s the pope saying it.”

  “Do you think he’s being fed lines like Groom?” he asks.

  Our current theory is that Groom was told over his earpiece that his wife was going to be killed if he didn’t do exactly as he was told. We may never know what was really said, but at least it’s plausible.

  “I don’t know. The pope isn’t in the habit of doing television mentalism and magic tricks. So I doubt he’s wearing an earpiece that can be jammed.”

  “What about a hearing aid?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. I’m putting together a list of questions. Here’s the other part.” I open up a directory and show Gerald other similar clips of the pope giving speeches and interrupting himself, apparently against his will, to utter the strange phrases.