Demon Underground (2)

by S. L. Wright

  Suarez snapped to and ordered, “Get her to the car. Button down this place. I want IDs on everyone here.”

  A general groan of protest rose, but I thought it best to do as they wanted. Cops liked order, and this clearly was a mess. So I went along with the cops, glancing back to catch Ram’s rueful shake of his head. Then he turned away, transforming his features into an ordinary guy with neat hair and forgettable features.

  Lolita argued with the cops to come with me, but they were curt in their demands that she stay and be questioned along with everyone else. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I’ll close down and come after you as quick as I can,” Lo assured me. There was no doubt in her eyes, none in her words. She didn’t care what I was; she was my friend.

  In a sudden rush, I knew I’d never regret telling her the truth. Never. Not when she could look at me like that.

  I couldn’t get the cops to tell me if I was being arrested or not. Suarez was closemouthed with her partner as much as me. I could see the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, and she sat slightly canted to keep an eye on me.

  I realized that I could end this right now. I could run as soon as the car door opened. I could run faster than a human. I could disappear, change my persona, start over somewhere else.

  I could even go back to the bar in a new persona. I could . . .

  The only thing I’d lose was myself. I’d never be Emma Meyers again.

  Having rejected my real name for so long, I suddenly didn’t want to let it go. I didn’t want to lose my own history.

  I didn’t want to lie anymore. So I went peacefully into the mint green cinder block cube that housed the police station.

  They let me wash up in the bathroom and gave me a white NYPD T-shirt. I threw the blood-soaked one in the trash. Then they stuck me in a tiny one-person cell in an alcove off a dead-end hallway. I couldn’t have lain down if I wanted to. I had to sit on the bench and wait.

  “What am I being charged with?” I asked them.

  “We have to figure that out,” one of the cops told me. “Just cooperate, will you?”

  “Hey, don’t I get a phone call?” I wanted to tell Michael the truth myself, so he wouldn’t have to hear it from Lolita first. But they were already gone.

  Nobody came for hours.

  I had plenty of time to think about what I’d done. And wonder if there was still a way out of this. As much as I wanted to tell the truth, I didn’t want to out myself to the world. I didn’t want the attention—my bar would become a carnival sideshow, my refuge would be ruined.

  I also didn’t want the responsibility. How could I represent demons to the world when I really didn’t like them? They were a motley bunch of evil incarnate, except for a few of them, so why should I put a pretty face on it?

  Because I could explain what we were, once and for all. I had one foot in each world; who better to bridge the gap?

  I could take the religion out of it, defuse Cherie’s resurrection with my own revelation, a demon revelation, not one of Dread’s twisted truth. I could explain it based on science instead of mysticism, as Ram had suggested. After all, demons were going to be outed soon by the ERI machines.

  But if I was the first, it would affect my family back home in California. They would be appalled, and besieged by people. That alone almost made me squeeze through the bars to escape. What right did I have to bring the media down on them?

  Then again, it would only be fifteen minutes of fame, and they could shut the door in reporters’ faces or sell my story to the Enquirer for a million dollars. Whatever they wanted, it wasn’t mine to judge. Heck, if it made them feel better about me, I’d give an interview myself and give them the money.

  I would finally be able to explain why I ran away from them all, why I had detached myself from their lives. It was because I didn’t want to draw demons to their home when I visited, and I hated lying about not eating and sleeping and why I was still alone with no ambitions for myself after all these years. I could apologize and tell them how hard I’d struggled, and maybe my mom would put her arms around me like she used to do, and tell me it was okay.

  I wanted to see the acceptance in her eyes like I’d seen in Lolita’s. Suddenly, that was the most important reason to come out.

  I could see now why I had wanted to turn Bliss into my daughter, so I could re-create the family I had left behind when I became a demon. But it was no substitute. I couldn’t force Bliss to be something she wasn’t.

  But I could reach out to my own mom, my dad and sister, and her husband and kids. Because they were my blood. They were my family.

  I settled in to get this over with. Then I could deal with the important stuff.

  I didn’t like sitting in a jail cell like a criminal. The fact that I deserved it for murdering Pique and kidnapping Cherie made it even worse. By the time Lieutenant Markman opened the cell door, letting me out to join Detective Paulo and another plainclothes officer, I was ready to cooperate.

  Paulo was watching me even more intently than before. Arrogance tinted his aura, that blood-orange mixture of fear and anger that usually came when someone was about to stomp on another person.

  I sat up straighter, my feet hitting the floor, ready for anything.

  Markman was tired of playing games with me, I could tell. He might have looked past his prime, but I knew better. He had uncanny intuition, nearly demon in his insight. Without Bliss to run interference the other morning, he would have peeled me apart as easily as Ram did.

  “If we show you a lineup, can you identify who shot you tonight, Ms. Meyers?”

  “Yes. Why? Did you catch Phil already?”

  “Come this way.”

  It was weird. They didn’t say a word about me being a demon. But Paulo never took his eyes off me, pumped up like he wanted to slam a wall or shout in some kind of twisted victory.

  They took me to a room with a two-way mirror, a scratched and industrial version, not those sleek windows you see on TV. Phil was standing second from the left. He looked crazed, twitching and flushed, his eyes and nose weeping continuously.

  “Pathetic,” I muttered. How could someone do that to themselves? He could have gotten hold of himself somewhere along the way. During those years when he seemed to think he was doing so well, but he was really just clinging to crumbs of what he could steal as it slipped away. He had been successful, once.

  Now he was going to be charged with attempted murder. I figured it couldn’t be murder even though technically I had died.

  I identified Phil, and a murmur went around the room.

  Markman asked me, “What is your relationship with Phil Anchor, Ms. Meyers?”

  I looked from him to the other men. “You don’t want to know how I came back from the dead?”

  Markman smiled. “We’ll get to that, in due time. Right now, we’re concerned with the crime that has been committed. We have witnesses who say Phil Anchor shot you in the face, but there’s nothing like having the victim ID the perp. It helps us build a strong case for the DA.”

  I looked around again, seeing the clenched fists, the fierce nods. There was more going on here than the conviction of one sick junkie. “Why have you got such a hard-on over this?”

  Paulo pushed forward. “We know about the church, buying the politicians in the city.”

  A corruption case. A big corruption case involving lots of publicity and kudos for the NYPD.

  I met Markman’s gaze. “Oh. I get it.”

  Phil was destroyed, a shriveled mess of a man. He must have told them I was the prophet’s bagman, to try to save himself.

  That was why they were all looking at me like I could deliver the crooked politicos and civil servants who had eluded them directly into their hands.

  Problem was, I really didn’t have much to give them even after ten years of passing off envelopes. I mostly dealt with messengers and used passwords instead of names. I could count on one han
d the people I knew who were getting bribes, and a couple of those came from Savor’s gossip instead of anything I had seen firsthand.

  None of it involved murder, or at least I didn’t think it did. Come to think of it, I didn’t know much at all about what I’d been doing for the past ten years.

  I cleared my throat. “I need to speak to my lawyer.”

  Markman’s expression shut down, and they all nodded on cue. They were professionals. I fully intended to cooperate, but I was going to have a professional on my side to protect me. They wanted me to talk, right now, but Markman was willing to give me one last chance to come clean. Instead of spinning another story, I was finally doing it the right way.

  I was shown into a conference room where I could call Michael and wait for a lawyer to arrive.

  I stopped Lieutenant Markman on the way out. “Did you do a blood analysis on the bullets you picked up in my bar the first time?”

  “Yes. I was going to ask why your blood is on two of them when you weren’t injured.”

  “I was shot. Phil killed me then, too. He’s the one who nearly killed Pepe.”

  Markman nodded thoughtfully. For the first time, I think he believed me.

  It wasn’t what I expected; it wasn’t my choice. But I should have known it would come to this.

  18

  I liked my lawyer, despite how tight-assed he was. Michael brought in John Kosciusko; then with a worried look and a long hug for me, he left us alone. That was Michael through and through; all he cared about was making sure that I was all right. He wasn’t just my management agent, he was my friend. He would ask his questions later, when I was out of trouble.

  I was so grateful for Michael’s support that I would have worked with any lawyer he had brought me. Kosciusko didn’t look any different from any other suit on the street, with wiry reddish brown hair that was neatly groomed. He was in his late thirties with the brisk, no-nonsense air of a working attorney.

  But I trusted Michael knew what he was doing, and I was completely honest with Kosciusko. I explained that after I was possessed, I had moved to the city from California at Vex’s request so he could watch over me. He put me into the bar and ordered me to make the exchanges for Dread, who was posing as Prophet Thomas Anderson. I didn’t go into Vex’s recent demise or demon politics; Kosciusko had a way of keeping me on track and cutting through all the clutter in my story.

  He also got out of me the lie I’d told to Lieutenant Markman, that the prophet and I had been lovers, and that was why he gave me the bar. Kosciusko asked a number of probing questions about the fact that the prophet had confirmed my story with the police. He asked about the first time I had met with the prophet, and his instructions to me on how I was to conduct the payoffs.

  Everything else I had to tell him left him dissatisfied, according to his muddy aura. He didn’t like it that all of my dealings had been with Vex, who had been in the guise of the prophet’s nephew. The rest of my information was based on hearsay from Savor, who I identified simply as “another demon who worked for Dread.” She’s the one who told me about zoning commissioner Mackleby and pointed out the guy who was his driver. I rattled off the various people she said were involved in Dread’s schemes, but Kosciusko didn’t have any questions about them.

  “Did you meet with anyone who directly received a bribe?” he asked.

  “Other than Phil? I don’t really know . . . there were some in the beginning who could have been picking it up themselves.” I was feeling a little desperate. If I didn’t have anything to give the DA, there would be no reason for him to cut a deal with me.

  The lawyer tapped his pen against the desk calendar. That was when I noticed the ring on his right hand—on a crimson field was a tiny gold cross.

  “Are you religious?” I blurted out.

  For the first time, he hesitated. “Yes. I’m Catholic.”

  Uh-oh. “Do you have a problem with me being a demon?”

  He shifted slightly. “That’s unconfirmed. Regardless, I don’t care if you’re a two-headed cow—you’re my client and I’ll do everything I can to help you. But I can’t do my job unless you’re honest with me. Frankly, Ms. Meyers, you need to be honest.”

  “I am!” I racked my brain for anything I’d equivocated about. After lying for so many years, I found it weird to finally be telling someone the absolute truth. At which, he barely blinked. “You think I’m pulling some kind of scam, saying I’m a demon. But it’s the truth. It’s how I got coerced into doing this.”

  “Your motivations are unimportant. I need facts.” Kosciusko looked down at his notepad. “Tell me about Phil Anchor. Why did he want to kill you?”

  I wilted. Back to Phil again. “This won’t get us anywhere. Phil’s a no-account coke addict. He had a chance to be a good writer, maybe even a great one. Who knows? But he squandered it.”

  “He came to the bar himself to pick up his pay?”

  “Yeah, he was my first customer. I saw him every month those first few years.” That was when I thought he was cute, but I didn’t want to tell Kosciusko that. Then at a slight narrowing of his eyes, I hastily added, “We flirted with each other, but we never took it any further. He was working a lot for Dre—the prophet, and he was being careful not to ruin a good thing.”

  “What did he do for Anderson?”

  “Phil took tips for his articles, and he definitely slanted his coverage to favor the church. More recently, since he hasn’t been getting the assignments, he’s done research for them, smear jobs on certain people. He gave me a USB last weekend that he said had his life’s blood on it for the prophet.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “Who knows? Like he sold his soul to get the information. But Phil cares only about getting his next fix.”

  Kosciusko sat there looking at me, clearly thinking about something. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I stayed quiet.

  “I can offer them your testimony against Anderson,” Kosciusko finally said, “and your corroboration on the payoffs to Anchor, along with any details or dates you can remember about those meetings. I can also offer them your hearsay evidence against these other individuals, which may be enough to get warrants in some cases, especially Mackleby, whom you called from your bar.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much.”

  “Well, your other option is to argue that you didn’t do anything illegal. You didn’t confirm that there was money in the packets or that it was being paid for illegal purposes. Churches are exempt from taxes, so there’s no IRS infraction in dealing in cash. You would have to take the Fifth because you couldn’t confirm you had met with the prophet to set up a payment exchange system, and whether you had handed packets off to Anchor.”

  “You mean I’d be arrested and tried?”

  “Probably not, but there’s a chance if they’re feeling vindictive over the collapse of their big case. You won’t go to jail, not on my watch.”

  “But if I help the DA and I testify against the prophet, then it will be a much bigger case, won’t it? A lot of publicity.”

  “It would be more sensational, yes. But I think you’re in deep regardless. The DA will pursue this, and it will come out that Anderson gave you the bar since Anchor has admitted he was working for Anderson.”

  I stood up and paced over to the window, but it was so cloudy behind the wire mesh that it was hard to see the street. Kosciusko was offering me the easy way out. I could deny, deny, deny until I was blue in the face, and the police couldn’t do much to me. I was small fry in all of this.

  Or I could tell the truth. This was my chance to redeem myself. What if Dread had passed blood money to an assassin through my bar? I knew he had done bad things with that money, bilking the taxpayers at the very least when he built the Prophet’s Arena on their dime on the unstable bank of the East River. The truth could be far worse.

  Didn’t I owe it to myself and everyone else to blow the whistle on Dread’s dirty little scam? Wouldn’t that help
destroy any credibility the Fellowship had, and throw doubt on their “miracle” religion?

  In fact, I didn’t have the right to think of myself, my own needs in this. I had done wrong, and I should repay my debt to society. Whatever the consequences.

  I turned to face my lawyer. “I’m telling the truth. That’s why I came out. I’m not going to start lying again. Tell the DA I’ll do whatever it takes to help them.”

  For the first time, Kosciusko smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  He stood up and reached out to shake my hand. I hesitated, but he didn’t pull back. I gave it a firm shake. “Let’s get to work.”

  After Kosciusko left to negotiate with the DA, the police let Michael come to see me in the office. He gave me another big hug, and was looking much less worried than before. But he was older now and heavier than when I first met him, and I felt really bad that he had been waiting for hours with Lolita, who had closed down the bar and come to the station house to stand by me. I told them both to go home, I was fine with staying at the station “for my own protection” until an agreement could be reached and I signed a statement for the DA.

  They were both so worn out that they didn’t need much convincing to go home. I gestured vaguely to the cameras in the ceiling when Lolita asked me about being a demon. They understood the station house wasn’t the place to talk about it and with reassuring hugs left me there for the night.

  Anticipating a long wait, I kicked off my sneakers and leaned back in the comfy desk chair. With only the old table and locked metal file cabinets, the place was completely boring. I sat and stared at the reflection of the traffic lights in the cloudy window. The red, yellow, and green got all runny and prismatic when it began to lightly rain.

  Drifting off in that meditative state that most closely resembled sleep for demons, I felt strangely fine. If the overhead lights could have been lowered, I would have been perfectly content. You’d think I would be worried and trying to figure out what to do next, but now that I had told the truth, I didn’t need to keep the balls in the air like a dancing monkey.