A Devil in the Details jjd-1

by K. A. Stewart

  “Coming.” I opened my eyes and bowed from the waist to the little Buddha statue in my garden. No, I’m not Buddhist. He just seemed to belong there, and I hated to leave without at least acknowledging him. Courtesy, you know.

  The remnants of morning dew soaked my bare feet and the cuffs of my sweats as I crossed the yard. Stepping up on the brick patio, I grabbed my discarded T-shirt off the lawn furniture and slung it over my shoulder. It gave me a chance to eye the beginnings of a tan. I’m out at night a lot. Add that to the pale blond hair and blue eyes, and I am the poster boy for white and pasty. I was more likely to burn than tan, but every spring I hoped for the best.

  The only thing that wouldn’t tan would be the scars, starting just below my left armpit and disappearing beneath the waistband of my sweats. These particular ones were a lingering souvenir from a Skin demon. It had been a hulking white-furred creature, with long grasping arms and talons the length of my forearm. Towering a good four feet over my own six-foot height, it reminded me of a prehistoric sloth. There had been nothing slow about it, however, and even though I won that fight, I most certainly had not walked away from it. When I had nightmares, it was what came at me out of the dark with silver claws and glowing red eyes, killing me night after night.

  In my mind, I still called it the Yeti, because the weak attempt at humor was all that kept me from going screaming mad in terror.

  My other scars, peppered over my shoulders and arms, were inconspicuous next to the Yeti’s spectacular marks. I could name most of them. The small spattered burns on my forearms belonged to an explosive Snot from two years ago. The horseshoe marks on my shoulders, the size of fifty-cent pieces, were left behind by something leechlike nine months back. I was never sure whether it counted as a Snot or a Scuttle. The tiny scar at the right corner of my mouth, mostly hidden by my goatee, was my own doing. I had cut myself shaving in my youth.

  Sure, I had more than my fair share for a man my age, but if anyone noticed that my scars had strange shapes and occurred in odd places, they never said. They pretended to believe they were knife wounds, and I pretended I believed they believed that. It worked out well for all concerned.

  Mira was bent over, her head stuck in the dishwasher. She wore a pair of short cut-off jeans and a tank top, her thick mane of sable curls temporarily confined in some kind of twisty clip that probably had a name known only to women. All right, I’m a pig, I admit it, but I stopped to let my eyes wander up the slender column of her legs, over her nicely rounded behind, across the curve of her back… to find her green eyes staring at me over her shoulder. She raised one brow, and I shrugged with a sheepish grin. “You can’t blame a guy for looking.”

  “Go answer the phone!” She hit me in the chest with a damp dish towel. At the same moment, a hard object collided with something lower down and much more precious to me. No combat training in the world can prepare you for the toddler-head-in-the-junk attack.

  “Oof!” I looked down to find the culprit grinning up at me, all red pigtails and blue-eyed innocence.

  “Daddy, your phone is ringing,” she informed me in all her five-year-old seriousness.

  “I know, button. Lemme go so I can get it, ’kay?”

  “Annabelle, go pick your toys up out of the living room, please.” At the sound of her mother’s voice, she was gone, her bare feet thundering down the hallway like a small herd of buffalo. It was amazing how much noise one small child could make.

  The phone-that phone, anyway-never brought good news, so I took my time sauntering down the hallway, smelling the faint incense Mira had burning. Our house was nothing spectacular. I think the real estate agent called it a single-level ranch, three bedrooms, one and a half baths. I called it mundane suburban. Pale yellow vinyl siding and an unfenced yard completed the picture. The house was light and airy, and the maple hardwood floors almost glowed when the sun crept in through the tall windows. We’ve lived here six years already. I guess that means we’re going to stay.

  I could hear Annabelle in her room as I passed, giggling fitfully as she tried to hide under her huge stuffed rabbit. We simply could not convince her that snickering madly was not a good way to stay hidden. “You’d better get moving before your mom finds you, kiddo.”

  In my den-a walk-in closet, in a former life-the shrill chirp of my cell phone ceased just long enough for the person on the other end to hit REDIAL, then started up again. I closed the door behind me, encasing myself in my own personal haven. My desk and chair were against the far wall, the short wall. Two tall book-cases towered at my left, laden with everything from ancient Japanese philosophies to the latest bestseller from my favorite author. The right wall was adorned with my tie-dyed Jimi Hendrix wall hanging, right next to a Japanese silk print of two samurai battling. Home, sweet home.

  I settled into my old desk chair, one left over from Mira’s college days. The abused leather felt sticky against my bare back, and I had to be very careful not to lean on the right arm, because it would fall off and dump me on the floor. It was my favorite piece of furniture in the house.

  I examined the still-ringing cell phone before I answered it. Eighteen missed calls already. It was a local number, but not one I knew. Whoever it was, was persistent. I had to give the person that. “Hello?”

  There was a moment of confused silence on the other end. Since a simple hello so confounds my callers, I always wonder how they expect me to answer the phone. “Mr. Dawson?” It was a man’s voice, older than I if I had to guess; in his fifties, maybe.

  “Yes.” There was a long, uncomfortable pause again, and I just waited, letting him squirm. What can I say; I’m not good with small talk.

  “Um… a friend of mine recommended you…”

  “Who?” I picked up the handy-dandy pen and notepad I kept on my desk.

  “Walter Brandt. He said you might be able to help me.”

  “And where can I reach you?” He rattled off the name and number of a local hotel, which I scribbled down with a frown. I don’t like it when they go ahead and invite themselves to my city, just assuming that I’ll take up their cause. It was a strike against him, whoever he was. “And your name?”

  “Nelson Kidd.”

  I had to pause in the middle of writing that down to blink. “Nelson Kidd, the Arizona pitcher? Mr. Perfect-Game-in-the-World-Series Kidd?”

  “The same.”

  Well how d’ya like them apples? I confess I’m still a bit starstruck at some of the people I wind up working for. But I remembered my professionalism enough to keep from squealing like a fan girl. “I will call you back in twenty minutes, Mr. Kidd.” I hung up before he could protest. I know people hate that, but it gives the leftover rebel inside me a great deal of pleasure.

  The first thing I did with any new client was touch base with his reference. I learned the hard way not to just take folk at their word, and I’ve got the scars to keep the memory fresh. Walter Brandt’s name was in my phone book (under B, even!), and I dialed him up.

  A woman’s bored voice answered. “Lexicon Industries. How may I direct your call?”

  “Walter Brandt, please.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, he’s in a meeting. May I take a message or forward you to his voice mail?” It was said with a tone of “I’m only doing this until my acting career takes off, so I won’t bother to treat you with more than indifference.” I could picture her snapping her gum and filing her nails. Do secretaries still do that? Oh wait, I’m sorry-administrative assistants.

  Whatever she was, she irritated me. “Interrupt the meeting and tell him it’s Jesse Dawson. He should be expecting my call.” I had no doubt that Walter Brandt would move hell and high water to take my call. His assistant, however, was apparently not aware of my privileged status.

  Her sigh fairly dripped with exasperation-God forbid I make you do your job, lady -but in the end she just put me on hold. I was treated to the plaintive strains of an orchestral version of Prince’s “Purple Rain,” followed by something
that might have been “Hazy Shade of Winter” before it was butchered-a damn travesty. Finally, the line clicked live again.

  “Mr. Dawson?” The words were deep and gravelly around the edges, the voice of a whiskey drinker and lifetime smoker. This was my man.

  “Mr. Brandt. How have you been?” I hadn’t seen Walter Brandt since my job for him almost three years ago. He was one of my early ones. I wondered if he still had the same graying handlebar mustache, but I couldn’t think of a tactful way to ask. I envied that mustache, but Mira had sworn to divorce me if I even thought about copying it. I had to make do with my beard in the winter and be clean shaven the rest of the time.

  “I’ve been… doing well. The cancer is officially in remission. But somehow, I doubt this is a standard follow-up phone call.”

  “Did you give my card to someone?”

  His voice lowered, though I knew he had to be alone in his office. “Yes, I did. Nelson Kidd.” He nearly whispered the name, as if we were trading state secrets.

  “And you truly believe he has come to see the error of his ways?” It mattered, you know, at least to me. I wouldn’t help someone just looking for the easy way out. That’s how they usually wound up in trouble in the first place. Maybe I hadn’t mastered my great compassion for the sake of man. I’d have to work on that.

  Brandt hesitated before he answered, thinking it over. I’d have called him a liar if he hadn’t. “I believe so, yes.”

  “You know the rules. Is he going to check out?”

  “I… think so. Truthfully, he didn’t go into a lot of detail. He is ashamed.”

  “He should be.” I rocked the chair back into its upright position. “That’s all I needed to know. You have a lovely day, Mr. Brandt.”

  “You, too, Mr. Dawson. God bless.” We hung up. I suppose I didn’t mind the blessing so much, despite not being a religious man myself. He meant well.

  My fingers traced slowly over Nelson Kidd’s name on my notepad, and I sighed in disappointment. It was one thing for Joe Schmoe businessman to fall, but somehow baseball players should have been exempt. They were the true heroes of my childhood. I still had most of my original card collection, and though I didn’t get to play anymore, I still followed the season avidly.

  Nelson Kidd had been a star in his day, leading the league in almost every category a pitcher can. But, like all of us, he got old, and his arm started flagging. Teams traded him four or five times in one year, always for someone younger and faster. Everyone labeled him as done, and there was talk of moving him to the minors if he didn’t retire.

  Two years ago, he made his miraculous comeback. It ended with a World Series title for his Arizona team, and the first perfect World Series game since Don Larsen in 1956. It was made even more spectacular when he tested clean for every steroid and enhancement drug they could think of. The fans, the newspapers, the agents went wild, and despite his age, he was suddenly able to name his price wherever he wanted to go.

  I knew now how he’d done it. I think I would have preferred the drugs. Nothing is sacred anymore.

  With a heavy heart, I called the number he’d given me. He answered on the first ring. “Mr. Kidd? I am listening,” I said.

  “Oh, I… um… Well, I have a bit of a problem, and I was told you were an expert in such matters.”

  I had to laugh. The human penchant for understatement never fails to amuse me. “No, sir, you do not have a ‘bit of a problem.’ You made a pact with demonic forces. You sold your soul to the devil, and now you want me to get it back. This qualifies as a huge problem.”

  It always takes people a moment to recover when I put things so plainly, and in the silence I added, “I will meet you at the Chino’s across the street from your hotel. You have one hour to convince me.”

  3

  I hung up the phone, and it immediately rang in my hand. Then it hit the floor with a clatter, where it proceeded to buzz itself in happy little circles under my desk. Okay, yes, there was a bit of flinching, but you see how manly you are when a giant joy buzzer goes off unexpectedly. Mental note: Take the cell phone off vibrate.

  I fished it out, banging my head on the desk only once, and checked the caller ID. This number was also unfamiliar, and not local. I eyed it warily. I’d never received a request for two jobs in one day before, but I supposed anything was possible-possible in the same sense that, yes, I could get struck by lightning four times in the same week.

  No matter how I glared at the little device, it refused to offer up any more of its secrets. I was finally obliged to answer it.

  “Hello?” Retrieving an elastic tie from my desk, I gathered my shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. I was still getting used to the shorter length, but the longer hair had become a liability.

  “Dawson. Good morning.”

  I winced and held the phone away from my ear. “Ivan?” With that thick Ukrainian accent and booming baritone voice, it couldn’t be anyone else. I could barely make his words out over the unmistakable clamor of an airport in the background.

  “ Tak. It is much good to be hearing your voice.” The man had been traveling in and out of the United States for the better part of thirty-five years, and his English was still horrible. I loved it.

  Out of habit, I checked my desk calendar. “I don’t have to check in for two more weeks, so to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Rosaline was to be calling me.” I frowned and had to wait for the next part of his statement for clarification. Okay, maybe the broken English wasn’t so much fun, sometimes.

  “And?”

  “And she is not to be hearing from Miguel for two weeks past.”

  Translation, for those who don’t speak “Ivan”: Rosaline had called, and she hadn’t heard from Miguel for two weeks. I frowned harder. Sure, the business takes us out of contact sometimes, but I have never failed to call my wife for two weeks straight. If I ever did, I’d never be able to come home again. She’d kill me.

  “Did he miss his checkin?”

  “ Ni, not yet. But it is to being most unusual for him.” Ivan sounded worried. I think that bothered me more than anything. When the old man is worried, deep shit is going down.

  “And his weapon wasn’t delivered to you?”

  “ Ni. Have you to been speaking with him? Did you know of his most recent mission?”

  “I haven’t talked to him in a couple months. Rosaline doesn’t know where he was going last?”

  “I am to be flying into Mexico City later today. I will be finding out what I can.”

  “Yeah, Ivan, keep me posted. Let me know if there’s anything we can do from here.”

  “The phone lines there are not to being stable, and they are not to having a connection to the Internet. Perhaps I will to be having you relay messages to Grapevine, when I am able to be making contact?”

  “Yeah, I can do that. Hey, you be careful down there, okay?”

  “ Tak, I will be doing that. May God be keeping you safe, Dawson.”

  After we hung up, I wondered if all these blessings were going to jinx me.

  We called ourselves champions. I didn’t choose the name; it had been that way longer than anyone could remember. We shared no race, no country, and our reasons were as varied as our backgrounds. Men-and women-like us had been fighting the good fight for millennia.

  Some were warrior-priests, tied to the church. Some were holy men, shamans who drew power from the land. We were mercenaries, and monks, and everything in between. We battled with blades and hammers, pipes and bats-whatever we had that we were comfortable with. Most-in fact all save me-also had that little something extra. Call it faith; call it voodoo-the religion doesn’t seem to matter. Hell, even the atheists of the group have it. There is magic in the world, and it gives a champion the ability to hold his own on a mystical level.

  Except me. I’m the mule of this circus. No wonder they keep expecting me to drop dead at any moment. I could feel magic. I know when it’s present. But trying to touch it m
yself is like grasping at smoke. It goes right through my fingers.

  I picked up the clear crystal from my desk, turning it over in my hand. It was small, a perfectly shaped quartz. It was marred by a single milky flaw in its depths.

  Ivan gave it to me years ago. He insisted my magic wasn’t gone, just dormant, and when I finally found a way to reach it, I would see some sign in the crystal. So far, it hadn’t even twitched. Day after day, it lay on my desk, flawed and inert-like me. Sorry, Ivan.

  Sometime before I became a champion, back when I was still chasing cheerleaders in high school and sneaking beers from my parents’ fridge, a champion named Ivan Zelenko decided he was tired of fighting that good fight alone. Using the technology that was still in its infant stages then, he set about finding all who had fought Hell’s minions and won.

  He found us through newspaper clippings, hospital records, village legends. I can only imagine what it was like for the first person he contacted, having this enormous stranger appear on his doorstep. I wonder, did he just come right out and say, “Excuse, please, you fight demons?” The thought always made me chuckle, but it was most likely the truth. Ivan wasn’t known for subtlety.

  He worked for years, doing research, traveling, gathering us all. He connected men and women from all over the world with others who understood the things we could never explain to those closest to us. With Ivan keeping track, never again would a champion’s death go unnoticed, his soul lost to the blackest abyss. Never again would one of us die unremarked and unknown, our deeds fading along with our memory. We were tagged and catalogued, like any other endangered species, our names and locations held in one secured database called Grapevine. When one of us disappeared now, at least someone would know.