Requiem for the Devil

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  And always there, her face, her hair. Gianna. I remembered the nights we lay together, pressed in heat, and I felt in my throat a longing so thick I felt I would choke.

  I turned to Michael.

  “What does she want?”

  “She is beyond all desire, Lucifer. She now lies in the palm of yours.”

  My decision. I pictured her two paths, one in glory, the other in chains, and the two possibilities flickered back and forth like a choppy newsreel, until I wasn’t sure which was Heaven and which was Hell.

  “Don’t do this,” I said. “Don’t tempt me with this choice.” My breath came heavy, and I leaned against the staircase’s iron railing. “Gianna . . .” I gripped the cold steel and half-turned to Michael. “I won’t play your game, with her soul as the pawn. I won’t choose.”

  “Then I can’t promise what will happen to her. She’s a borderline case—cared for the poor, but was full of wrath and lust.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Gianna, a borderline case?”

  “Loving you will either damn her or save her, but I can’t say what His final judgment will be. It depends.”

  “It depends?” I advanced on him. “On what? On whether he’s in an Old Testament or New Testament kind of mood?”

  “Do you want her or not?” Michael said.

  “I don’t know!” I turned back to the church and stared up at the stained-glass window, now dark. “I need time to think about it.”

  “There’s no time. She’s in limbo as it is. Soon she’ll become aware she’s dead and begin to feel alone and afraid. One of us has to be there for her.”

  I closed my eyes. How could I exist after this, no matter what my decision?

  “Take her,” I said. “She’s better off with you. I mean, you’re . . . who you are, and I’m . . . who I am.”

  “Are you sure? You can’t ever get her back, not even part-time.”

  “I know, and no, I’m not sure. So go now, and take her, before I change my mind.”

  “Suit yourself.” I heard Michael take a few steps away, then stop. “You did the right thing, Lucifer. I’m surprised. There may be hope for you yet.”

  “What?” I lifted my head slowly and turned it to face him. “You mean it?”

  He gave me a long, level look and said, “No.” Then he was gone.

  I stared at the place where Michael had stood, his last word echoing in my ears. A rumbling began at the bottom of my chest. Smoke filled my brain and seeped out of my pores.

  Enough.

  In one leap, I mounted the staircase. I slammed open the church doors and stalked down the aisle toward the altar.

  “Wake up, God, it’s me—Satan! Yes, I’m talking to you. No more minions, no more messengers, just you and me.”

  I vaulted onto the altar. “You’re going to listen to me, you chicken-shit murderer! You didn’t pull the trigger, but you let her die. She believed in you, trusted you. She loved you, and you betrayed her! I want you to come down here and explain it to me. NOW!” I snatched the wooden crucifix off the wall and hurled it to the floor. The cross split down the middle, and Jesus’s disembodied head spun off into the corner.

  I leaped to the floor. “You like human sacrifices, right?” I ripped open the cabinet on the side wall and pulled out a plate of communion wafers. “Transubstantiation: not just a good idea—it’s the law!” The plate now oozed with warm pieces of human flesh. I plopped it on the altar.

  “And let’s not forget the refreshments.” I pulled out the decanter of wine and shattered it against the choir box. The walls of the church began to bleed—at first seeping, then pulsing red like slit arteries.

  “You eat, drink, and shit misery, and then your people blame it all on me!” I strode to the top of the stairs next to the pulpit, my boots squelching in the cascades of blood. “Okay, Daddy, it’s time for you to see the monster you created.” The flames started at my feet and shot forward and sideways in both directions. I listened, felt, for any connection, any anger directed at me.

  Nothing.

  “Listen to me! Listen to me, Goddammit! Keep ignoring me, and the whole world will look like this. Your precious humans will drown in blood and fire. And you’ll do nothing! You’ll sit there on your big God couch, a beer in one hand and a remote control in the other, and when their weeping bores you, you’ll yawn and change the channel. Or maybe you’ll smack me around before letting a few of them live. And they’ll praise your mercy and feel lucky to be chosen, never daring to question your wisdom—your infinite, ineffable insanity!”

  There was still no sound under or above the roar of the flames and the rush of blood. I thought of Gianna’s face, by now blank and serene, full of light and empty of life. By now she would not even remember me.

  I yanked loose the altar gate and smashed it against the pulpit. A shower of sparks rained around me.

  “You bastard, you could have had anyone, everyone else, why did it have to be her?” I sank to the floor. My fingers tore at the flaming, blood-soaked carpet. “Why Gianna? Why now? Why?!”

  There was still no answer. Pieces of blazing ceiling fell around me. I tried to speak one last plea, but the smoke and the screaming had scorched my throat. When I heard the fire engine howl outside, I slunk out of the church into the shadows.

  I stood on my balcony and burned. Cathedrals, synagogues, mosques—ravished by flames. The night sky was orange with the glow of my vengeance. Sirens wailed as an overtaxed fire department tried in vain to keep up with me. Soon fire trucks from Maryland and Virginia would flow in to assist—just in time for their own churches to burn, unrescued.

  Even if it took months, I would destroy them all, all over the world, or be destroyed in the process. So far I’d reduced to rubble all the houses of worship in the Northwest and Southwest quadrants of the District. As they got farther away, I had to concentrate more deeply, and I barely heard the phone ringing on several different occasions.

  After two hours and ninety-eight churches, my legs weakened, and my extremities began to chill. I sank to my knees on the balcony floor, clutched the bars, and thought of Gianna’s face in her last moment of life. Three distant churches exploded at once.

  I gasped for breath and pushed on. My teeth chattered so hard I bit my tongue and tasted my own blood. If only it had been my blood on the sidewalk instead of hers . . .

  Another four churches vaporized.

  “Lou!”

  Beelzebub was at my side. I gazed up at him, bleary-eyed.

  “Lou, I saw on the news about the churches, and I figured it had to be you. What the hell are you doing?”

  “They killed her, Bub.”

  “What? Killed who?”

  “They killed Gianna.” I hiccuped on a clump of swallowed tears and incinerated a seminary. “Help me, Beelzebub. I want to burn them all. Help me.”

  “My aim’s not so good, remember?”

  “I don’t care!” I clutched at his shirt. “Burn everything. Please, I’m so tired now. Just burn it all.”

  He nodded. As Beelzebub raised his eyes to the crimson horizon, I collapsed against him and slipped into unconsciousness.

  36

  Solvet Saeclum in Favilla

  “Lucifer, make him stop crying.”

  Beelzebub’s violent shaking shattered my dreamless sleep. I jerked to a sitting position in my bed.

  “What?!”

  “There’s someone on the phone for you. Marc something-or-other.”

  Marc . . . Marc . . . who’s Marc . . . Where was I . . . What year was it? I picked up the extension on the nightstand.

  “Hello?”

  “Louis . . .” Marcus’s voice was choked with tears. Reality slammed through my bleariness and crushed my chest. Gianna was dead. I had watched her die.

  “Marc . . .” I couldn’t speak. Beelzebub left the room and closed the door.

  “Lou . . . I’ve been trying to call all night. They came to my house . . .”

  “Who?”
I pictured an angel of God, a twisted grin on his face, delivering the news.

  “The police here, and a social worker. The detective in D.C. thought I should hear in person. I spoke to him . . . he said you were there.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tears cascaded down my cheeks. “Marc, I couldn’t do anything to save her. I wish it had been me. I’d give anything if—”

  “Lou, it’s not your fault. Please . . . I have to come down to identify the . . . to identify her.” His voice disintegrated, then recovered. “Will you come with me?”

  “I can do it for you. I’ve already seen her.”

  “It has to be a family member. It’s cruel, but it’s the law. Meet me there in an hour, okay?”

  “All right. Marc . . . be careful.”

  I hung up the phone and placed my hand on the cold pillow where Gianna had last laid her head. I wanted to crawl under the bed and waste away, to die swamped in my sorrow. But I’d promised my comfort, or at least my presence, to her family.

  When I shambled out of the bedroom, Beelzebub was setting the table.

  “I made you an omelet,” he said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You should eat something. You’ve hardly got any strength left after last night.”

  Last night . . . flames and fury. I crossed to the balcony window.

  “It’s all over the news this morning, worldwide,” he said. “The mayor’s practically declared martial law, rounding up every gang member off the streets and questioning them about the biggest arson ring in history.” He placed two cups of coffee on the table. “They’re going after the Satanists, too.”

  “Good.” The morning sky was dim with soot and smoke. My stomach wrenched. “How many people died?”

  “None, so far as they know.”

  “None?”

  “Lots of minor injuries, nothing life-threatening. Weird, huh? They’re calling it a miracle.”

  “A miracle.” I leaned my forehead against the glass. “I guess that proves your theory wrong, that God doesn’t care. He does care. He just doesn’t care about us. If he did, Gianna would still be alive.”

  “I guess.” Beelzebub sat at the table. “Come on, Lou, you’ve got to eat.”

  “This is what you wanted, right?”

  “What?”

  I opened the sliding door and went out onto the balcony. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, my ever-patient father? To break me, to crush me into nothingness. You gave Gianna to me just so you could take her away.” I faced the sun, my tears freezing on my cheeks. “You treated her like a toy, handing her to me so I could finally love something, so I’d finally have a chink in my armor. But she was more than a toy to me, and she should have been more than that to you. You used her to shatter me.”

  I sank down onto one of the chairs, for the first time feeling as old as I really was.

  “Are you happy now? I’m broken and empty. I’ve nothing left but a tiny ember of hatred for you. But it’s dense, like a neutron star, and it will never stop burning until the day you put me out of my misery. If you’re as merciful as they say, you’ll end me right now.”

  I let my face drop into my hands, and sobbed without tears. Beelzebub touched my shoulder softly, then placed his hand on my head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Beelzebub accompanied me to the police station, where I made him wait outside. The place was swarming with reporters clamoring for news on the church-burning story.

  “Which way to the morgue?” I asked the officer at the front desk. She pointed down.

  As the elevator doors opened on the bottom floor, I saw Marcus sitting on a bench outside a door marked “Morgue.” He raised his red eyes to meet mine.

  “Lou . . .” He collapsed into my arms. We sobbed together and held each other up.

  A medical examiner came out of the door and asked if we were ready. Marc wiped his nose and nodded. As we passed through the doorway, he gripped my arm.

  “I can’t do this, Lou. I can’t.”

  “Then let’s call one of your brothers.”

  “No.” Marc ran his hand through his uncombed black hair. “I’ve got to be the one. I’m the oldest. I’ve got to be the strong . . .” He took a deep breath. “Thank you for coming with me.”

  We followed the medical examiner around a corner to a stretcher. Under a bright white fluorescent light, the doctor pulled the sheet back from Gianna’s face.

  Marcus stared at her for a long moment, then suddenly became calm. “She looks . . . so peaceful.”

  “She is peaceful,” I said.

  He reached to touch her face, then stopped. He looked at the medical examiner. “It’s her,” he said. “It’s Gia—” his voice choked “. . . it’s her.”

  The doctor nodded, then covered Gianna’s face again. She handed Marcus a small paper bag.

  “Here’s your sister’s jewelry,” she said. “Her clothing is being kept for evidence right now.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Have your funeral director give me a call as soon as you’ve made arrangements.” She handed him her card. “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Keefe, for your loss.”

  We left the morgue and stood in the hallway.

  “I guess I’d better call Mom and Dad now,” Marc said.

  “You haven’t told them yet?”

  “I wanted to . . . I guess I wanted to make sure. I just need a minute first.” He sank onto the bench, opened the paper bag and peered inside. “Oh, God.” Marc reached in and pulled out a topaz earring. “I gave her these for Christmas.” He made no attempt to hold back his tears as he poured the rest of the contents into his left hand. “What’s this?” He held up the engagement ring. “Were you—?”

  “Yes.” My throat began to close.

  “I didn’t know.” Marc looked at the ring. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “Because it just happened . . . last night . . . right before . . .” My breath cut off, and my head fell against his shoulder.

  “Why?” he cried. “Why did this have to happen to her?” He clutched at my back. “How are we supposed to go on?”

  My phone rang inside my jacket. I steadied my breath in gulps before answering.

  “Mr. Carvalho, this is Detective Brunner. We’ve got a few photos for you to look at, to see if you can identify the suspect. Can you come down to the station?”

  “Actually, I’m down—” I looked at Marc. He was staring at the jewelry lying in his palm, his face a swamp of tears. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hung up. “Marc, I’ve got some business to attend to with the police. Will you be okay for a couple of hours?”

  He sniffled. “You do what you have to do. I’ll be all right.”

  I gave him my card. “Meet me at my place in three hours. If you need anything before then, call me.”

  “Okay,” he said. I stood to leave. “Louis?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t let this guy get away with it. Do whatever you have to do, but make him pay.”

  I nodded, then walked down the hall and left the building through the back exit.

  I knocked on the door of James Benson’s shabby row house, then stood aside to hide myself. There was no answer. I knocked again, this time less urgently. In a few moments, the door opened an inch.

  “Hello?”

  I jerked open the door and shoved Gianna’s assassin inside the house. His eyes grew huge, and he emitted a strangled yelp before my hand closed around his throat.

  “You . . .”

  “Do you recognize me, Mr. Benson?” I pushed him onto his back on the staircase. “Do you know me for who I really am?”

  He gagged and writhed. I turned his chin to force him to look at me. He stared into my eyes for a moment, then jolted like he’d been electrocuted.

  “N—nooo! Oh, God, no!!”

  “Shut up!!” The back of my left hand slammed across his face, spraying blood onto the worn wooden banister. I filled my other hand with his scra
ggly red hair.

  “Listen to me, Mr. Benson. Are you listening?” He whimpered and tried to nod. “Good. “Now I have two options. I can pluck out your eyelashes, teeth, and nails one by one before boiling your heart in your own blood, or I can snap your neck like a twig. My preference would be to kill you slowly, to watch you bleed and vomit and cry and beg for death to rescue you. But never let it be said that I am entirely without mercy.”

  “W—what do you want from me?!”

  “I want the truth. Who sent you to kill her? Tell me, and your death will be quick.”

  “I don’t know who it was! I don’t know!”

  “Fine, then. Slow it is.” I reached for his mouth.

  “I mean, I don’t remember!”

  “We’ll see about that.” I forced open his yellow eyes and shoved my way into his mind. He screamed.

  “Auuggggh! It hurts!!”

  “Good,” I said. “Hold still.” He squirmed under my grip. I bent his neck back as far as it would go without snapping. “I said, hold still.”

  Again I plunged my consciousness into his brain, bulldozing his neurons and ganglia. His eyes rolled up into his head, so I slowed my search. I needed him alive until I had the truth.

  It took over five minutes to comb every cranny of Benson’s mind. I even checked his brain’s distal lobes where memories never reside. Nothing.

  By not finding my answer, I had found my answer.

  I let go of him, sank down onto the stairs and covered my face with my hands.

  It was true.

  “I’m sorry,” Benson said. He coughed again, then began to sob. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it, man. I didn’t want to do it.”

  “Be quiet.”

  “They made me. Someone made me. I swear, I’ve never killed anyone before.”

  “I said, be quiet.”

  “I don’t know how it happened. I don’t remember, just standing there with the gun is all I remember, you gotta believe me. And she was just dead there, and I—”

  “I said, BE QUIET!!!” I pounced on him and seized his head between my hands.