Known Devil

by Matthew Hughes

  I dipped my head a couple of times, because I had no trouble believing that she meant every word she’d said.

  “Good,” she said. “We’re going upstairs now.” She gestured with the gun barrel. “You first.”

  She walked me to a staircase that must have been twenty feet wide. It was made of highly polished wood, like everything else in my field of vision.

  She stayed several steps behind me as we climbed the stairs – a good, professional distance. I wondered if she’d been a professional bodyguard, either private or government, at some time. I didn’t try any TV hero shit on the steps, mainly because I had no desire to sing soprano for the rest of my life, however long that might be.

  I hadn’t been paying attention before, but now I could hear the music coming from someplace upstairs. I recognized Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries,” but only because I’ve seen Zombie Apocalypse Now three times.

  We went up two flights of stairs and turned right, then right again. That brought us to a long hall with a door at the end that seemed to be the source of the music, which seemed really loud now. No wonder Wilson, or whoever was up here, hadn’t been tempted by Scar’s Siren song.

  When we reached the door, the woman knocked loudly. She had to do it three times, but then the Valkyries’ singing was suddenly cut off mid-note. From inside a male voice called, “What?”

  “It’s me, sir,” she called. “We have a guest.”

  “Come.”

  She opened the door and motioned me inside ahead of her. I stepped into the kind of room you’d expect a rich fuck like Patton Wilson to hang around in – rich carpet, oil paintings, a big, overflowing bookshelf, and more polished wood. In the middle of it all was a desk that was probably some kind of antique, and behind the desk was the man himself.

  If Patton Wilson was surprised to see me, he didn’t let it show. “You’re early, Markowski – by about a month. After the election, I was going to have you fired, preferably in disgrace, then kill you – right after you watched me stake that vamp bitch you call your daughter.”

  He looked at me as if waiting for a response, but I didn’t want to get shot, especially now. So I turned to the woman, who was standing in the open doorway and raised my eyebrows.

  She understood what I meant and said, “Yeah, you can talk now.” She looked at Wilson and said, “I told him downstairs that I’d shoot him in the balls if he opened his mouth without permission.”

  He laughed with delight. “Sound idea. And you may get to do it yet.”

  He looked at me and said, “What do you think of her, Markowski? Quite formidable, no? Meet Sheila Barnard, formerly of the US Secret Service.”

  Turning to her, he said, “Sheila, this is Detective Sergeant Stanley Markowski, of the police department’s Occult Crimes Unit.”

  “She beat me up downstairs,” I said. “I figured that was as good as an introduction.”

  Karl was outside, somewhere. With his acute vampire senses, he might well hear me if I yelled for him to come in. Problem was, he’d get here just in time to see me dying on the floor with a bullet in my crotch.

  “Would you care to tell me what happened to my guards?” Wilson asked me. “Not that it matters much – I’ll be leaving here tomorrow, since the police apparently know about this place. But I am curious how you did it, Markowski – been polishing up your commando skills, have you?”

  As long as we were talking, he wouldn’t tell Sheila to kill me, so I’d talk all night and into the morning, given a chance.

  “No, I’m not the commando type. I found a Siren.”

  He frowned at me. “A police siren? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No, a real Siren – like in The Odyssey.”

  The frown got deeper. “Such creatures really exist?”

  “They sure do. I found one singing in a rock band, and put her on the back of a flatbed truck, with the rest of the band and some amplifiers. Your guards were last seen chasing the truck down Scranton Road, and the singing won’t stop until the last one drops from exhaustion.”

  “Thus giving me another reason why these so-called supernaturals need to be put down, like the dangerous dogs they are. And they will be, one day. Every last one of them.”

  “Helter-skelter,” I said. “The great ‘race war’ between humans and supes.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You seem awful confident that humans are going to come out on top in that one.”

  “Of course we will. It’s all part of God’s plan.”

  Psychos. They all claim to know God’s plan. Trouble is, none of them can agree on what it is.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “And God told you to use the Delatassos – the same kind of creatures you say you despise so much?”

  “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” Wilson quoted. “But that doesn’t restrict Him as to the tools he might use, does it?”

  “And Slattery – he’s one of your tools?” I said. “And that vampire, Dimitri Kaspar?”

  “Don’t be tiresome, Markowski. Of course they are. And very useful tools, too – for the time being.”

  Wilson pushed his chair back and stood. “Now, then. The last time you were my unwilling guest, I kept you alive because I thought you might be useful to me. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  He turned to the woman. “Sheila, take him downstairs, if you would. When you’re done, come back up here – I have another job for you.” He looked at me then, and the hatred in his eyes was like a living force. “It involves Sergeant Markowski’s daughter.”

  That was the worst mistake he could have made, because it pushed me into “nothing left to lose” territory. If I was going to die anyway, it might as well be here. Karl could settle up the score for me, and at least Christine would be safe. I quietly drew in a big breath, to be sure that my last words – Come in, Karl! – would be loud enough for my partner to hear through the wall.

  “Goodbye, Markowski,” Wilson said. “I wish I could say I’ve enjoyed our little talks, but frankly–”

  That was as far as he got before the bam of a gunshot sounded from the hall – a shot that went into the back of Sheila Barnard’s head and exited through the front in a spray of blood and bone.

  The former Secret Service agent toppled forward onto her face – what was left of it, that is. A good amount of the tissue was now decorating the wall opposite where she’d been standing. Some of the gore had even splattered Wilson himself, ruining what I’d figured to be a five-thousand-dollar suit.

  A blonde guy in his mid-twenties came in then, stepping over Sheila’s corpse like it was an inconvenient mud puddle. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him, at first. I was more concerned about the big automatic he was carrying.

  It looked like Wilson knew the guy, too, judging by his stare – a mix of rage and disbelief. “Jernegan! What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Then it came back to me. I hadn’t known the guy’s name then, but this Jernegan had been one of Wilson’s fair-haired commando boys last year, when Wilson made his first attempt at starting a race war.

  But then he had been possessed by the demon Acheron.

  The possessed Jernegan had killed five people that night. I would have been number six, except Karl and Christine saved my ass at the last minute. Then the commando guy, and his demon host, had just walked away.

  Was Jernegan still possessed, or had the demon moved on to somebody else?

  “Me?” he said to Wilson. “I came in through the garage. One door was up – quite careless, really.” He waved the barrel of the automatic in Wilson’s direction. “Now shut up, you crazy old cunt.”

  Well, there was the answer to that question. The real Jernegan would never in his life have talked to Wilson like that.

  He looked at me then. “Markowski! We do seem to keep running into each other at these crime scenes, don’t we?”

  I nodded. “Hello, Jernegen – or do you prefer Acheron?”

  “Either will do, altho
ugh the former name won’t be appropriate much longer. I’m tired of this host and moving on shortly.”

  Did that mean me? Was he going to possess me?

  “Keeping you alive all this time has been quite the chore, Markowski. I hope you appreciate my efforts on your behalf.”

  Some things were starting to make sense now.

  “That was you who took out the Delatasso soldier – the one who was about to kill me that night in the warehouse district.”

  He gave a slight bow. “None other.”

  “And those three guys behind Jerry’s Diner. That was you, too.”

  “They were going to kill you and make it look like a mugging gone wrong. Ronnie Delatasso sent them – but without consulting with Mister Bigbucks here, who apparently wanted you kept alive almost as much as I did. But for different reasons, of course.”

  “What are your reasons?” I asked him. “I mean, I’m grateful and all, but – why? Last time we met, you were going to cut my throat.”

  “Yes, that was short-sighted of me. I should have realized then that I needed you alive. Just as well your two blood-sucking friends intervened.”

  “But what did you need me alive for?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? To locate Mister Bigbucks here for me. He and I have some unfinished business, and I was sure the two of you would cross paths again soon.”

  “What unfinished business?” Wilson asked. Despite his tan, he looked white. Dead white.

  Acheron went over to Wilson and slapped him hard across the face. “Did I not tell you to shut the fuck up? We’ll get to you.”

  He turned back to me. “My, but I enjoyed that.”

  “That makes two of us,” I said. “But if it won’t get me slapped, I’ve got the same question – what business have you got with Wilson?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? It was on the orders of this septic excrescence that I was summoned from Hell.”

  “I know Scranton’s got its problems, especially lately,” I said. “But I still would’ve thought it’s better than Hell.”

  “Oh, it is! Of course. Immeasurably better.”

  “Then why are you mad at Wilson?”

  “Because he never intended to set me free – he planned to summon me, use me for his own purposes, and then send me back, just as he had so many of my brothers.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you know who suffers the most exquisite tortures in Hell, Markowski?”

  “There are degrees of pain down there?”

  “Indeed, yes. And the very worst suffering is reserved for wizards, those who had the effrontery to impose their own will on the denizens of Hell. They all die in time, of course – and when they do, we are very eager to make them welcome.”

  The way he said that made me decide right then to start attending church more often. Assuming I got the chance.

  “And that’s what Wilson’s got in store?” I asked him.

  A slow nod. “Most assuredly.”

  “So that’s what you’re here for – to send him on his way.”

  “No, not just yet. I thought a taste of Hell on Earth would be a worthy prelude to his eternal damnation.”

  I hoped he wasn’t going to possess Wilson and force the man to commit various atrocities on himself. I’d seen something like that once before, and it still gave me screaming nightmares.

  The only thing worse than that would be making me do it. And, then, once Wilson was reduced to hamburger, forcing me to do the same thing to myself.

  Getting shot in the balls was starting to look like a more attractive option than some of the other things that could happen. But I had to know.

  “What have you got in mind?” I asked him.

  “First, let’s get you squared away.”

  He went over to the body of Sheila Barnard. There was a pistol tucked into the back of her jeans. It looked familiar.

  Acheron pulled the gun loose and held it up. “Yours, I believe?”

  All I could do was nod.

  Then he walked over to me and touched one of my wrists. “Your own handcuffs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How embarrassing for you. Where do you keep the key?”

  “Left side pocket.”

  A few seconds later, my hands were free and Acheron was handing the cuffs to me, followed by my Beretta.

  “There,” he said. “You’ll need those to make your arrest.”

  “Arrest? Arrest who?”

  “The killer, of course.”

  He pulled out the gun he’d shot Sheila Barnard with and tossed it underhand to Wilson. “Here you go, Moneybags.”

  Wilson’s catch was clumsy, but at least he didn’t drop the thing. I gaped – I couldn’t help it. Why would Acheron give Wilson his gun?

  Something changed in the room then. Jernegan groaned and put his hands to his head as if he’d been struck. A moment later Wilson screamed, “No, don’t–”

  That was as far as he got. Something in Wilson’s face changed, a transformation I’d seen before. In Wilson’s voice, Acheron said, “There, that’s better.”

  He’d possessed Wilson now. Was a horror show still on the program? I hoped I wasn’t about to watch Wilson cut himself to pieces.

  Jernegan was staggering around, saying things like “Where am…?” And “How did…?”

  The thing that used to be Patton Wilson said, “Oh, shut up,” then raised the gun and shot Jernegan three times in the chest.

  The gun going off in a contained space like the study had left my ears ringing. When I was sure I could hear again, I said to Acheron, “Not that you ever needed a reason to kill somebody, but I have to ask why you did that.”

  “Well, I had no more use for him, now that I’ve found these new accommodations, and he was starting to get on my nerves.”

  “Great. Just great.”

  “But more to the point, Detective Sergeant, you’ve just observed Patton Wilson commit cold-blooded murder, to which you can testify at his trial. Not to mention all the forensic evidence that can be introduced – gunshot residue on my hands, and so forth.”

  “Wilson didn’t do it,” I said. “You did.”

  “You and I know that – but no one else needs to, do they? And adding homicide to all the other crimes that Wilson is charged with should almost certainly result in a life sentence, since your state abolished the death penalty. Life without parole, of course.”

  Looking at Jernegan’s corpse, I said, “Wilson’s got enough money to hire half the lawyers in the world for his trial.”

  “Yes – but he won’t.”

  I turned to stare at him. “Why the fuck not?”

  “Because I’m going to stay around for a while. I think I can guarantee that Mister Wilson is going to put on a very inept defense.”

  “Jesus, how long are you planning to possess him for?”

  Acheron winced. “I really wish you wouldn’t use that name around me. But to answer your question, I think I’ll stay with Mister Wilson past his sentencing – right up to the point where he’s about to be gangbanged in the prison shower for the first time. Then I’ll move on and let them have at him.”

  “He won’t last long in that environment,” I said. “He’ll kill himself – I’d bet on it.”

  “Will he? Knowing what’s waiting for him on the other side?” The smile that Acheron gave me was something I hope never to see again. “I’m quite certain that Mister Bigbucks here will prolong his life of misery as long as he possibly can – to postpone the eternal lessons in real misery that he will experience at the hands of my brethren in Hades.”

  I just looked at him, unable to speak. Finally, I said, “That’s just… fucking diabolical.”

  “Thank you,” the demon said. “I try.”

  It was just past 2.30am, and we were taking our break in Jerry’s Diner, as usual. Tonight’s shift hadn’t been very busy so far, but Karl and I were both tired. Yeah, vampires get tired, too.

  Karl drank some warmed-up blood and put hi
s cup down. “Election’s tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. I’ll have to get up early, make sure I vote before going in to work. You gonna send an absentee ballot?”

  “No need. With daylight savings time gone, it gets dark around 5.00 nowadays. Polls close at nine. I’ll have plenty of time.”

  After a while he said, “Think the Patriot Party’s gonna sweep?”

  “A month ago, I’d have said ‘Sure.’ But with all the stuff that’s been happening…”

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “You read the editorial in yesterday’s T-T?”

  “Yeah – they practically called Slattery and his boys fascists.”

  “They were practically right, too.”

  “You think anybody gives much of a damn what the Times-Tribune says anymore?” I said.

  “Guess we’ll find out tomorrow.” Karl took another sip of Type O. “Streets are pretty calm lately – the PP can’t bitch about that anymore. No car bombs the last two weeks. Supes have been quiet, too. Mostly.”

  “Mostly – except for somebody staking that Kaspar guy.”

  “I’m kinda glad we didn’t catch that one,” Karl said.

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  The creamer at Jerry’s comes in those little plastic containers, and I figured my coffee might just be drinkable if I added one more. Stirring it in, I said, “You hear the rumor about Ronnie Delatasso?”

  “That he had his old man hit so he could take over the family business?”

  “Makes a certain amount of sense, I guess. I mean, you look at a murder, what’s the first question you ask?”

  “Cui bono?”

  “Who benefits? – damn right. And Ronnie seems to be the main beneficiary of this particular homicide. I hear the Philly DA’s even talking about calling a grand jury.”

  “Tell you the truth,” Karl said, “I wouldn’t care if it was the fucking Girl Scouts who hit the old man, long as Ronnie and his troops went back home for good.”

  “Their war chest was probably running dry, anyway. Patton Wilson sure won’t be giving them any more money, and now that the Slide trade has dried up, thanks to Rachel and her…”