by Alex Siegel
Slattery wondered how things were going at Silver Bullet Security. He was curious but not concerned. If the entire outfit got wiped out, it wouldn't matter to him. Finding another bunch of professional thugs would be easy.
His horse finished the race second to last. He tore up his betting ticket and threw it to the ground. He stomped away from the track. He had lost enough money for one day.
Slattery made his way through the grandstands. The crowd was light but dedicated and enthusiastic. Only serious gamblers bet on horses so early in the day on a weekday. Some looked excited, and others looked like their mothers had just died.
Slattery eventually reached the enormous parking lot. Maywood Park was located in the western suburbs of Chicago. Discount stores and fast food restaurants surrounded the track. He liked the place because he was very unlikely to bump into somebody who knew him. The high rollers gambled at more fashionable tracks like Hawthorne.
He heard tires squeal and an engine roar. A car accelerated straight towards him. He tried to jump out of the way.
A fist met his face with stunning force. He staggered and almost fell. He recognized the guy who had struck him as one of the men Mr. Walton was searching for. Slattery was too disoriented to fight back.
The car screeched to a stop next to him instead of hitting him. A rear door opened, and he was shoved inside. His attacker climbed in after him and closed the door.
The car sped away.
Slattery had recovered his wits enough to see who was in the car. They were all part of the group he was seeking. The black woman was driving, and the older, balding man was riding shotgun. The man who had punched Slattery was big, beefy, and seemingly in his thirties. He had wavy brown hair and brown eyes.
"Hello," the latter said. "I'm Virgil. You are?"
"Being kidnapped," Slattery said.
He looked around. Another car was following close behind, and he recognized Detective Haymaker at the wheel. The fifth and final member of the group, a skinny brunette, was with him.
Virgil reached into Slattery's jacket with the obvious intention of searching for a gun. Slattery fought back by punching Virgil in the face. The blow connected solidly but had no apparent effect. Virgil responded by driving his elbow into Slattery's gut. An explosion of pain made his eyes bulge.
Virgil took the gun without any more trouble.
After Slattery could breathe again, he said, "What do you want with me?"
"Nothing complicated," Virgil said. "Just your name and who you work for."
"John Grayson, independent home inspector. It's all here."
Slattery took out his wallet and handed it over. Virgil examined the contents.
"This is high-quality fake ID," he said. "You got the whole set, insurance cards and everything."
He gave the wallet back.
"Who do you think I am?" Slattery said.
"That's the question. I know you were at Silver Bullet Security early this morning. That scar on your forehead is very distinctive. You showed pictures of me and my friends to a guy named Horn Dog."
Slattery stared in disbelief. "How did you find me?"
"That would be telling." Virgil smirked. "Are you going to start talking, or do I have to play rough?"
Slattery noticed the cars were driving along River Road which was named for the nearby Des Plaines River. The river ran through the Cook County Forest Preserve. Bad things could happen to people in those woodlands. The Chicago mob traditionally used it as a burial ground.
"I'll do even better," he said. "I'll call my boss and let you talk to him yourself."
Virgil narrowed his eyes. "No tricks."
Some unnatural quality in his gaze touched Slattery in an unfamiliar place. He felt guilt for the first time in many years. He remembered the faces of the people he had killed. He counted the lives he had ruined, at least the ones he knew about, and shame made his face warm.
Slattery fought through the troubling emotions which threatened to break his resolve. He had accepted his own criminal nature a long time ago. He wasn't going to change no matter how much guilt he felt. He knew he simply wasn't capable of being a good, honest man.
His hand was shaking as he took out his phone. The screen was locked, and unlocking it required a specific swipe pattern.
He used a different pattern, one he had hoped he would never need. It activated a secret security feature in the phone. It wiped all the memory irreversibly, making the phone as useful as a brick. The sensitive contacts and texts vanished in a flash. The feature also sent a final message to Ken Walton warning him that Slattery had been compromised.
The screen went black.
"What happened?" Virgil said.
"I don't know." Slattery tapped the screen. "It just died. Maybe it needs a recharge."
"Enough fooling around. What's your name?"
Virgil's gaze became even more intense, and Slattery felt like a fire was roasting his guts. He realized Virgil had some kind of supernatural power. That knowledge strengthened Slattery's resolve to resist, and he clamped his mouth shut. He had never let guilt influence him before, and he wasn't about to start.
"Let me try," the man in the front seat said. "I'm Alfred, and we're going to be great friends."
Slattery's emotions reversed with breathtaking swiftness. He was suddenly feeling relaxed and peaceful. There was no reason to withhold information because everybody in the car was his buddy.
"I'm Hugh Slattery," he said softly.
"Thank you for sharing," Alfred said. "Now, who do you work for?"
Slattery shook his head. It was another trick.
"I don't know what's going on," he said through clenched teeth, "but it won't work. I'm not going to talk."
"Why not? We can help you. If you stick with us, you'll be safe."
Slattery's whole body was quivering with the effort of resisting that silky voice. "No."
The black woman driving the car spoke next, "Then we'll have to try it my way."
"What way is that? What emotion will you make me feel now?"
"Just pain. Lots of pain."
Chapter Eighteen
Ken Walton was seated at his enormous desk made of obsidian and gold. His face was in his hands, and he was near panic.
He had received two pieces of disastrous news. First, the bombing had failed. The bomber was in police custody and might survive long enough to talk. Walton had to make sure that didn't happen.
The second and more important news item was that the enemy had caught Slattery. Walton expected Slattery to hold out for a while, but not forever, not against supernatural agents sent from Heaven and Hell.
"What am I going to do?" Walton said. "They'll come here. They'll come for me!"
"Are you really so surprised?" Daniel Shipman said. "Did you actually expect to get away with this?"
The serial killer was wearing rough wool clothing with sharp steel spikes sewn into the fabric. The spikes pointed inwards, but his face wasn't expressing any pain.
"It's not fair! I was told to expect ordinary demons. The whole plan was built around killing demons. That was the bargain I made. Instead, Hell sent... things like you. I shouldn't have to put up with this!"
"Stop whining. It's pathetic. What's your new plan for dealing with the situation?"
"I don't have a plan," Walton said.
"Then I'll give you one. Gather all the armed, dangerous men you can find on short notice. Prepare to fight for your life. You can't run. If you do, the deal is off."
"That's the theory...."
"This isn't one of your usual business deals you can wiggle out of," Shipman said. "If you don't honor the terms of your agreement, you're going to Hell, and not a nice part of Hell either. I've been there. You don't want the smallest part of that. You're wasting time crying like a baby. You should be on the phone, calling for reinforcements."
"I bet the face wants me to die so I can't tell anybody what I know. I've become a loose end."
"That's
possibly true. Fortunately for me, I can still be productive."
"What are you going to do?"
"Run, of course. Unlike you, I'm not obligated to stay. I'll keep releasing souls on my own."
"Without my help?" Walton said.
"I got by for years without you. I can do it again. Good bye and good luck."
Daniel walked out of the office.
Walton sulked for a little longer. He had hoped for a more glamorous end to his life, although a battle to the death against supernatural agents wasn't terrible.
He reached for his phone.
* * *
"I'm very uncomfortable with this," Haymaker said. "Torture is not the kind of thing good police officers do."
"I share your discomfort," Virgil said, "but given the circumstances, extreme measures are called for. Daniel will keep killing unless we stop him."
They were in another part of the forest preserve. Virgil wondered if taking prisoners to the woods for interrogations was going to become a regular habit. The location was perfect though. Tall grass, bushes, and towering trees provided a dense screen. The nearest road was a thousand feet away and full of noisy traffic. The only witnesses would be deer, rabbits, and maybe a fox.
Slattery had been stripped naked and handcuffed with his arms around a tree trunk. He had interesting scars all over his body. He had clearly led a rough life.
"I won't break," he said. "I never break."
Lisa walked up to the prisoner. "Then this is going to hurt a lot."
The rest of the team watched solemnly as she put her hand on his shoulder. Slattery's entire body convulsed from the pain. When she lifted her hand, the skin beneath was swollen and purple.
Virgil positioned himself in front of Slattery's face. Virgil used his gaze and said, "Why are you fighting us? I don't understand. You're sacrificing yourself to protect a very evil person."
Lisa stroked Slattery's arm with her fingers leaving cracked, oozing skin behind. Slattery was clenching his jaw and shaking.
"Everybody has some evil in them," he finally managed to say.
"Your boss tried to blow up a building full of people. He is harboring a serial killer. I'd say that falls outside the category of routine evil."
Slattery remained stubbornly silent.
Lisa put her hand on his ribs. Virgil heard a popping noise as if the bones were snapping. Slattery moaned. When she removed her hand, the wound looked so gruesome, even Virgil turned away.
"Are you afraid?" he said. "Is that your problem? You're worried betraying your master will lead to retribution? I promise you need not be concerned. If you simply give us his name, he won't trouble you anymore."
"Who are you people?" Slattery hissed between his teeth. "How can you do these things?"
"I'm not at liberty to explain our unusual powers, but I will tell you your boss has stirred up a hornet's nest of historic, even biblical proportions. He's going to lose."
Lisa walked around the tree and touched Slattery's hands. The pain was enough to drag a scream from his stubborn throat.
"Money?" Virgil said. "You want to get paid? Is that your main concern? There are much easier ways to earn a living than this. Of course, if you keep this up, you'll soon be dead, and then you won't get paid at all. In the afterlife, virtue and sin are the currencies, and I have a feeling your account balance is deep in the red."
"I don't believe in an afterlife."
"Look into my eyes. Are you sure?"
Slattery bravely met Virgil's gaze, but his courage broke quickly, and he turned away.
"Not so confident," Virgil said, "are we?"
"I think he's just being stubborn," Alfred said.
Virgil looked at Alfred. "Oh?"
"I've seen this pattern many times in my patients. Childhood neglect and abuse leads to deep anxieties and low self-esteem. Eventually, the victim forms a hard emotional shell as a survival strategy. They respond to stress by locking down. It's a kind of internal defense against the abuser. Unfortunately, the habit persists throughout life. The victim stubbornly refuses to deal with difficult situations in an appropriate, functional manner. They fight when there is no reason for it. The more you hurt him, the greater his resolve becomes."
"Hey!" Slattery said. "You don't know anything about me!"
"Who gave you all those scars?" Alfred said in his special voice. "Your mother or your father?"
Slattery paused. "My mother. I have no father."
"Tell me all about it. I'm here for you."
Virgil rolled his eyes. Here we go again.
While Alfred worked with Slattery, Virgil and Lisa conferred privately with Sara and Haymaker. The group moved a short distance away in the woods.
"You're pretty scary," Haymaker said softly to Lisa.
"I can turn it on and off," she replied. "Don't worry. I won't hurt you."
"Let's avoid unnecessary touching anyway."
"Sure."
Virgil glanced at Slattery. Alfred had him crying like a baby already.
"This is not how I anticipated this interrogation would go," Virgil said.
"Whatever works," Sara said.
"Speaking of which, we can't forget the ultimate solution to situations like this."
"What?"
"Killing him," Virgil said. "His soul would go to Hell where demons would take over the interrogation."
She grimaced. "That's not a good solution."
"Nonetheless, it might be our only option at times."
Alfred whistled and waved. "Sara!" he called. "Can you please heal this man?"
Sara gave him a funny look but complied. She trotted over and began to blow on Slattery's injuries. Every time she exhaled, the gruesome discolorations faded, and even his old scars healed a little.
"It's a shame you people aren't here to fight ordinary crime," Haymaker said. "You could make a big difference."
"Mammon wouldn't like that at all," Virgil said. "The demon wants more evil in the world, meaning more damned souls."
"For what purpose?"
"Because that's how Heaven and Hell keep score. The side that piles up the most souls wins the contest."
Haymaker made a face. "That's ludicrous. Is there a prize for the winner? Does God give them a trophy? How many souls does it take to win? What happens to the souls afterwards?"
"I don't know." Virgil shrugged. "Ironically, Daniel Shipman is working on behalf of Heaven by sending souls up at their peak of juicy goodness."
"Which suggests angels are behind all this."
"I have a feeling it's more complicated than that."
About a half-hour later, Alfred waved his hands again and called out, "He's ready to talk!"
Everybody hurried over to hear what the prisoner had to say. Slattery's face was covered in tears, and snot was dripping from his nose. He cast his eyes down shamefully.
"My boss is Ken Walton," he sobbed.
"The billionaire?" Haymaker said.
Slattery nodded. "He's got something big going on, but he didn't tell me what. He knows you're coming."
"How?" Virgil said.
"I played a trick with my phone. I sent an emergency distress call while I was wiping it."
"I knew something was fishy with that. Smart move."
"Walton came up with the idea," Slattery said. "You'll have a very tough time taking him down. His house is like a fortress."
"I'm sure," Virgil frowned. "We must try regardless. Thanks. Unfortunately, I have to leave you handcuffed to a tree. You might have a change of heart, or we might come back and talk to you again. A hiker will be along eventually, if not today then tomorrow. You'll have plenty of time to contemplate your life."
"You're going to kill Walton, right? I don't want him coming after me."
"Dying will be the least bad thing that happens to him." Virgil winked. "Good bye."
The team began walking back to their car.
As they marched through the woods, Virgil said, "What do you know about Ken Wa
lton?"
"He's a big wheel in Chicago," Haymaker said. "Well-connected politically."
"He could afford to build a giant demon trap?"
"A hundred times over. He has all kinds of business interests, national and international."
"Where does he live?" Virgil said.
"I'll find out." Haymaker took out his phone.
* * *
Ken Walton sighed anxiously. He was standing in the security control room of his house. Two guards sat before surveillance stations with six monitors each. Twenty more screens were mounted on the wall in front of them, but that still wasn't enough to see everything at once. The mansion had a hundred and fifty surveillance cameras along with many motion and heat sensors.
Almost every screen showed armed men standing guard. Walton had summoned his entire security staff of sixty men including those who were supposed to be off-duty. He had borrowed another fifty security officers from businesses that he owned in the area. A mouse couldn't sneak into the house without being spotted. Everybody was under orders to shoot intruders on sight.
Walton also had an ace in the hole. He had brought in a team of mercenaries he sometimes used for dangerous, messy assignments. The man who had attempted to bomb Silver Bullet Security had come from that team. They were real soldiers equipped with military gear. They were in the house, ready to respond in case the regular security staff couldn't handle a situation.
The security control center had physical defenses of its own. It was located in the basement in the center of the house. Walls made of reinforced concrete and locked doors made of high-strength steel alloy presented a formidable obstacle. In addition, the entry was perfectly concealed, and only Walton's most loyal employees knew its location.
He was as safe as he could be without leaving his home. He could watch and manage the entire operation from the control room.
"I still don't understand why you have to be here, sir," his chief of security said. "Go to your office. Go anywhere."
Walton looked at the man standing beside him. The chief was a tall man in his fifties who still looked physically fit despite his age. His short hair was black, but Walton could see the gray roots. He was wearing a brown uniform and standard law enforcement gear even though he wasn't a real cop.
