The Devil You Know

by Richard Levesque

  She had taken a small notepad with her from the office, and pulled it from her purse now as she walked across the street. It was a two-story building with not many units, and Marie began by looking again at the mailboxes, quickly writing the initials and last names of the tenants in the notepad. The closest apartment door belonged to an “F. Turnbull,” and Marie approached this one first, knocking lightly after listening at the door for a moment. She could hear nothing on the other side of the door and so moved on to the next.

  This one belonged to “J & H Bradstreet,” so she skipped it, reasoning that a married couple must live there and that the wife was not likely to be prey for an incubus. She did knock, though, at the next door, the home of “B Thomas.” Her heart began to race once she realized there was a radio on inside the apartment. Then she heard footsteps approaching, and the door clicked open.

  “B Thomas” was a woman in her sixties, and Marie immediately flashed a smile at her. She looked kindly, rather grandmotherly in her housecoat and stocking feet. “Can I help you?” she asked, returning Marie’s smile.

  “I hope so. My name is Joan Durrell. I’m a locations scout for Paramount Pictures.”

  “Oh my,” the woman said.

  Marie had worked out one line of inquiry for any resident who might be the woman Colin had mentioned and another for people who might be of help in determining who the woman might be. She was glad her first encounter was with someone elderly, as it would have shaken her confidence to come face to face with someone younger, savvier, or more skeptical.

  “We just love your building, Mrs....” She looked at her notepad. “Mrs. Thomas, is it?”

  “Yes,” the woman said, her smile broadening more.

  “And we’ve been hoping to use it as a backdrop for our next Cary Grant picture.”

  “Goodness!”

  “It is exciting, isn’t it?” Marie said. “Now, we’re trying to determine who in the building might be willing to put in a few days’ work as an extra. Just someone to be in the background, maybe to walk in and out of the building while Mr. Grant does his scene on the sidewalk out front.”

  “Oh, I’d love to. My cousin was in the background of a Laurel and Hardy once.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Marie said. She made a show of putting a checkmark in the notepad. “Now, we’re also just trying to get a sense of other types of people who might be available in the building, but I think I’m still a bit early for some folks to be home. The producer would like a little boy, maybe with a dog. Anyone like that here?”

  Mrs. Thomas thought about it for a moment and then shook her head, clearly not liking the fact that she had to disappoint.

  “All right,” Marie said, running her pencil down the page before her. “And a…young woman. Attractive? Someone who might catch Mr. Grant’s attention in the scene?”

  “Oh, well,” said Mrs. Thomas, smiling a bit shyly now. “There are a few, I suppose. And I don’t know everyone here all that well, you know. But, I’d say Laura’s the one you’re after. She wants to be an actress, you know.” Sticking her head out of her apartment, she pointed toward a door farther along the hallway, saying, “She’s just two doors down.”

  Marie glanced at the notebook. “That’s Laura Tremaine?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Wonderful,” Marie said. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to get in touch with her. Anyone else?”

  The old woman thought about it for a moment and then shook her head. Whispering, she said, “Mildred across the way’s a bit, you know, heavy set. And Helen’s husband is awfully jealous of her. I hear them fight something awful sometimes, the walls are so thin.” She shook her head sadly. “Folks upstairs I don’t know so well. And some of the other single girls, well…” Again she looked at Marie with some doubt. “They tend to be a bit unsavory if you know what I mean.”

  Marie raised a knowing eyebrow, thinking about what Colin had said about the incubi not preferring prostitutes. There may be other women upstairs to investigate, but for now it looked like Laura Tremaine was her best bet. “Well, I’ll certainly contact Miss Tremaine. Thank you for your help,” she said. As she half turned to step away from the door, she paused to add, “I hate to ask you, Mrs. Thomas, but…you haven’t seen Mr. Grant around the building have you?”

  “Cary Grant?” Her eyes widened.

  “Yes. You see, he’s not supposed to come around until we have all the permits in order, but sometimes the stars like to do a little preparation on their own. I wouldn’t want him to get into any trouble with the producers. You haven’t…?”

  “Oh, Lord, no,” Mrs. Thomas said with a nervous laugh. “No one like him in these parts.”

  Marie nodded. “Well, listen, if you do see him before we start shooting, it might be best if you act as though you don’t notice him. He might be a bit nervous about being caught, if you know what I mean.”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “It might also be a good idea if you don’t mention my visit to anyone until I’ve come back and talked with Miss Tremaine. Sometimes people get a bit excited, and the whole neighborhood starts talking. I’d hate for us to have to find a different location to shoot the scene.”

  Beaming at having been made a confidante, Mrs. Thomas said, “I’d hate for that, too. You can count on me. Mum’s the word.”

  Marie shook the old woman’s hand and said goodbye, going through the motion of making notes as she walked away until she heard the click of Mrs. Thomas’ door. She realized that she was holding her breath as she moved down the hallway and let it out in a big sigh. Then, taking another deep breath, she knocked on Laura Tremaine’s door. Her heart pounded as she waited and listened for a response. There was nothing, and she knocked again just to be sure.

  Nodding contemplatively, she told herself she’d be back and then hurriedly left the building, not wanting to draw any more attention to herself. Satisfied and pleased that her deception of Mrs. Thomas had worked so well, she walked quickly across the street and lit a cigarette as she went. She took a moment to look at the building once more. Then she got in her car and drove to Jasper’s store.

  * * * * * * * *

  “If it’s not too personal, would you mind telling me about your faith in God, Marie?” Jasper asked. He had consented to pull a second chair into the converted garage so the two could sit and study his collection together without Marie feeling like a student staring up at her professor. They sat face to face, each with their legs crossed and a book on their laps.

  In the kitchen, Tom was working on dinner again, the smell of roast beef and potatoes getting stronger and stronger. The hungrier she got, the more Marie found herself thinking of the meal to come and the chance to talk with Tom some more, to hear his laughter, and to study the sad eyes that sometimes accompanied his smiles. Now Jasper’s question pulled her back to the task at hand.

  “Well,” she said, closing her book, but marking the page with her thumb, “I suppose it’s about like anyone else’s. I don’t spend a lot of time wondering about it. Before I worked for Father Joe, I didn’t go to Mass nearly as much, but I guess you could say I still believed about the same as I do now.”

  “So working in the church hasn’t made you more devout, hasn’t strengthened your faith significantly?”

  She shrugged. “It’s made me more aware of it, I suppose. Or more aware of the fact that I don’t maybe measure up the way some of the other parishioners do. I think if Father Joe knew half the things I thought, he’d think twice about keeping me on.”

  “But you do believe,” Jasper pressed.

  Marie nodded. “I do.”

  “Maybe with some room for doubt?”

  “Maybe.”

  Jasper smiled at her. “Fair enough,” he said and got up from his chair.

  Watching him turn and walk around a row of shelves and out of sight, Marie said, “Why the sudden interest?”

  “You’re serious about stopping these things?” Jasper called.


  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Have you thought of how you’re going to do it?”

  “I’m just trying to find out what we’re dealing with first. Find their weaknesses, if they have any.”

  She could hear squeaky hinges in a back corner of the room as Jasper said, “Their weaknesses are important, I’ll agree. But your strengths are just as important. More so, I would bet.”

  “Are you saying my faith should be stronger?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt,” Jasper said as he came back around the row of shelves. Marie could see he held something in his hand, and she raised an eyebrow when he held it out, dangling a small wooden cross on a leather thong.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Here. Just put it on.”

  She slipped the loop of leather over her head and pulled her hair through it, then adjusted the little wooden cross so it hung just below the collar of her blouse. “Okay,” she said. “Now what?”

  Jasper sat down again, shaking a finger at her and smiling slyly. “Not just a little cross there. No, no. That one’s special.” When Marie responded only with a raised eyebrow, he continued. “Right after the war, I acquired a box of books that had been salvaged from an Italian monastery destroyed by one side or the other. There were a few artifacts among the books. That cross was one of them.”

  “Should the monks have it back?” she asked coyly.

  “Hmm. By all rights, yes. But I’ve no idea where they’ve scattered to. I suppose I should send it all to the Vatican. But, at the same time, wouldn’t you say they already have enough rare books and relics?”

  “Relics?”

  Now his eyes lit up even more. “A holy relic. Indeed. That little cross there has inside it a bone fragment from your St. Lucy.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said, pulling the cross back out from her collar and holding it out as far as the thong would stretch so she could examine it again.

  “Not at all.”

  “You believe it?”

  He shrugged. “They say there are enough pieces of the true cross scattered among the churches of Europe to make an oak tree.” He chuckled. “So there’s room for skepticism. But relics…well, there’s some documentation to support their authenticity. This one, I haven’t seen any proof of, but everything else that came from the monastery was, well, rather remarkable. And there are quite a few legitimate relics of Lucy in Italy and elsewhere—including her head, apparently. So it wouldn’t surprise me if it’s authentic.”

  “My God.”

  “Indeed. Do you know about St. Lucy?”

  “Not really,” Marie said with a shake of her head.

  “An early Christian during Roman rule. She was promised in marriage to a non-believer. When she refused him, he exposed her as a Christian, and she was martyred. According to some stories, they tried to burn her, but the flames wouldn’t touch her, so the Romans gouged out her eyes.”

  Marie winced.

  “Shall I stop?” When she shook her head, Jasper continued. “Other stories have her eyes gouged out when they tried to arrest her. I’ve also read that she took her own eyes to make herself less attractive to the pagan suitor. In most cases, though, she’s said to have still been able to see even without her eyes.”

  Amazed at the story, Marie could only nod.

  “Makes old Weird Tales seem tame by comparison, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ll say.” She rubbed the cross gently, turning it over. It was about two inches long, and she could clearly see seams in the wood where it looked like little pieces had been joined together. She could easily see how there could be something as small as a bone fragment concealed inside. After a few seconds, she slipped the cross under her collar. “I’ll take care of it,” she said.

  “I’m sure you will.” He nodded at her in a kindly, thoughtful way. “Keep it with you. Let it…work on you a bit. It won’t do to have you going up against these monsters with shaky faith.”

  Marie let out a long breath. She wanted a cigarette but would not allow herself to have one among Jasper’s books. His questions about her faith had made her wonder just how capable she was of doing anything about the men from Piedmont’s. Up to this moment, she had been driven by anger over what had been done to Elise, but now she wondered if anger was enough.

  “Maybe it shouldn’t be me who’s going up against them,” she said.

  “Well it certainly won’t be me,” Jasper said with a chuckle. “I’m a bit old for such things.”

  Marie smiled. “I know. I wasn’t thinking you. Maybe I should go to the church, start with Father Joe.”

  Jasper shrugged. “You could.” He nodded and repeated, “You could. But you made it sound like he was pretty dismissive when you brought up the idea.”

  “He was.”

  “And we could go beyond him. Go to the diocese. But we need to be careful there, too, Marie. Once we figure out what these things are up to and the best way to stop them, we’ll have one thing on our side—they won’t be expecting anyone to be coming after them. And if we go to the diocese…I don’t follow the film industry all that much, but aren’t the Catholics pretty tied in with the Production Code?”

  “I think so.”

  Again, he shrugged. “It seems probable to me that someone going to the bishop and accusing a film studio head of conjuring demons and directing incubi to attack women…don’t you think Piedmont would get wind of it sooner or later?”

  Marie nodded. “Most likely.”

  “And they’d know we’re coming. They’d probably go into hiding or just change their shapes.”

  “They’d resurface and continue.”

  “That’s right,” said Jasper.

  “And more women would end up like Elise. Or worse.” Jasper simply nodded at her. “So it’s me, then,” she added, feeling a bit resigned. At the same time, her feelings of doubt were passing. Thoughts of Elise brought the anger and determination back. Standing up, she set the book she’d been reading on the chair and said, “Thanks, Jasper.”

  “Of course.” He seemed surprised that she was getting up. “I don’t think Tom’s got dinner ready yet.”

  She smiled. “That’s all right. Your gazebo’s calling me. I need a smoke.”

  Chapter Twelve

  In her dreams, Laura Tremaine felt like she was looking at the world through a thin red veil. The sky was red, the streets, the people—everything she saw had a red tinge. Even her skin, when she glanced down at her body, had a reddish glow to it. The colors did not alarm her, nor did the languid, heavy feeling of her limbs; it felt as though she were trying to swim through a lake filled with oil. Though everything about the dream had a strange, otherworldly quality, no part of it distressed her. A faint tingling resonated to her core, and it seemed as though everything in the dream world—the sounds and smells and even the air—was enveloping and embracing her, stimulating her every sense and making her want to scream with delight.

  The best part about the dreams, though, was that she was naked in them, and so was everyone else. She could walk the streets or shop or stroll along the beach, luxuriating in her nudity, feeling utterly free not just of clothes, but of cares, and all the people she passed in her dreams were just as liberated. Better still, when men gave her admiring looks, she could give herself to them without shame or embarrassment. They wanted her, after all, and made it clear in their stares. She wanted them, too, and had no qualms about showing it, or about dropping to her knees before one in the middle of a crowded shop or on a street corner and taking him right there. None of it mattered. She knew it was just a dream, and that the real Laura lay in a tangle of sheets on her bed, her body still sweaty and aching just a bit from the enthusiasm of her latest encounter with Taylor.

  He had come to her every day since their first meeting, always getting right down to business without any pleasantries. He was like an animal with her, and his lust made her feel wanton and wild and more alive than she could remember feeling in all her twenty-three yea
rs. And every time it ended the same way, with the whole room glowing white and the feeling that he was somehow in her head with her and that he was taking just a bit of her away when he finally pulled his body from hers. She would slip into one of these glorious dreams that felt like they lasted for hours. Upon awakening, she would feel consumed with desire again, desperate not just for his touch, but for the intensity that accompanied the white light. Masturbation was a sorry substitute, but that didn’t stop her, and even though she wept through her orgasms because they could not compare to how Taylor made her feel, she would often start right away again, telling herself that the next one would be better.

  She had forced herself to get up for work on Wednesday, but it had been impossible to concentrate, and so today she had called in sick. Not ten minutes after she had hung up the phone, the knock had come at her door, and she had let Taylor in without bothering to slip a robe onto her naked body. Just a few minutes earlier, she had promised herself to make him take her out before letting him into her bed again. She wanted to talk to him—about who he was and where he’d come from and all the other things that made up Taylor Thompson. Along with all of that, she also wanted to know how he did the little trick with the white light, how he made her climax so intensely, wanted to know just what he was doing to her that made her feel as though her body was about to catch fire. But in spite of her promise, she had pulled him across the room and dropped back on the bed with him on top of her.

  Now she dreamed that she was walking down Sunset Boulevard. On a busy corner, she stopped in front of a store display and stared at the mannequins. Like everyone else in the dream, they were nude, but it did not strike Laura as strange that a clothing store would have unclad models in the windows—or that there even was a clothing store in a city where everyone ran around naked. The thing that did strike her, though, was the male mannequin. He wasn’t exactly human. Instead, he appeared to be a six-foot tall blend of man and bat. He stood with wings half-folded behind him, the spindly fingers at the edges of the wings appearing ready to grasp something. Whoever had designed the creature had given him a huge erection, which Laura looked at appreciatively. The mannequin’s face was not attractive. There was no hair on its head, which seemed to rise up in a little crest, his mouth hung open, and his eyes sagged. His face looked very old and a bit diseased. In front of the bat creature was a female mannequin. She lounged on a sofa, her head propped up on her elbow, her back to the other mannequin. So smooth and undefined were her features that she looked out of place in the window with her fantastic partner.