Blood Lite II: Overbite (6 page)

Ray Ray’s cheeks puffed in alcoholic indignation. “Gunboat Gary. I’ll get that bastard.”

“Never mind small-time grifters. What happens in Vegas, Mr. McEelvy.”

“I’m more concerned about what happens in Beaulahville. This is my town, Mr. Wilhite, and I don’t appreciate a stranger waltzing in here and pissing on my turf.”

The Devil held his patient smile while an elderly woman hobbled by, her Styrofoam plate balanced on her walker. “This is win-win, growth for growth’s sake. A straightforward business proposition. The policy will pay you two million for content damage. It’s going to be a shame when those rare William Tecumseh Sherman letters go up in smoke.”

“Wasn’t he the Union general who said ‘War is hell’? I don’t got no letters.”

“You will. He’s a personal friend who happens to owe me a few favors.”

“I don’t roll that way, Mr. Wilhite.” Ray Ray wiped at his mouth. “I believe in stealing fair and square, on my own terms.”

“What’s the difference? You’re going to burn it down anyway.”

“Because it was my idea. I don’t share the glory and I don’t share the wealth.”

Pride. The Devil was going to lose this man’s soul because of simple human pride.

Ah, what’s the use? What good is another arsonist in hell, anyway? I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Heh. Fish to fry. That’s funny.

“Fine, Mr. McEelvy. Good luck with that little endeavor. I’m sorry the Beaulahville Volunteer Fire Department is going to be on the scene within three minutes and your ‘total loss’ is going to turn into a marshmallow roast. Be proud, my friend. Be proud.”

Ray Ray’s hands were trembling a little, and it was obviously time for some liver fortification. The Devil left him to his spiked tea and creamed corn and turned his attention to the real reason he’d come.

By now, Betty had swapped out the pot of infested pudding and proffered a foil-covered pie. The Devil grinned. “Just like Mom used to make?”

“She’s in the bosom of the Lord, God rest her soul,” Betty said.

Actually, the Devil knew otherwise, because Betty’s mother was currently wearing nothing but gasoline while wading through a pit of bubbling tar. But the rules of engagement required the Devil keep such information to himself. All he could do was dig in his usual bag of tricks. “I suppose you’re going to lie about your maggot pudding, and that’s why you’ve hidden it away. Because you’re so proud.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “The reverend’s coming, and he’s a vegetarian, so he can’t have maggots.”

Maynard Gray was indeed making his way along the buffet, picking over the greens to see if any of them bore the sheen of fatback. He turned up his nose at the fried chicken, skipped over the sliced pork shoulder, and barely even glanced at the bratwurst and sauerkraut. His plate contained only a pile of plain mashed potatoes, a roll, and three pieces of celery.

The Devil reached under the table and pulled out a dish of his own making. Jesus wasn’t the only miracle worker to have graced the pages of the New Testament. And the Devil was that book’s sole survivor. He’d learned a thing or two along the way.

“Here you go, Reverend,” the Devil said.

The preacher lifted the lid and peered down at the plate. “Deviled eggs?” he said, in a sonorous voice befitting his calling.

“Made them myself,” the Devil said.

“They look mighty delicious, but I don’t eat meat.”

“These aren’t flesh,” the Devil said.

“Well, eggs count as meat,” the preacher said.

“Technically, it’s not born yet, so it’s an embryo and not flesh,” the Devil said.

“Are you trying to make a pro-choice argument?”

“I’m all about choice,” the Devil said.

The preacher gave a tolerant, patient smile. “Are you a member of the congregation?”

The Devil waved to the sign that stood by the road. “I was just passing through and I saw your sign. It said ‘Come 4 bread, stay 4 ever,’ so how could I resist?”

The preacher nodded as if he’d never considered the message was an invitation. In the Devil’s vast experience, churches loved to recruit, but they didn’t really want to strain the resources. The ideal parishioners mailed in tithes and only showed up for services on Christmas. All that talk about leading souls to the Lord was just another type of pride, built on body count but ultimately measured by the bottom line.

“Are your vegetarian principles based on health reasons or moral reasons?” the Devil asked.

“Every decision is based on morality,” the reverend said. “Even if it’s for your health.”

“So your position’s supported by verse?”

“The Book of Leviticus. ‘Ye shall eat neither blood nor fat.’”

Ah, the Old Testament book, with its restrictive guidelines that people tended to pick and choose among as it befit their various ideologies and sociopolitical needs. Its proscriptions had been used for or against drinking, homosexuality, working on Sundays, and the eating of meat, depending on the whims of the moment. But its original purpose had been as a cookbook for the priests.

“I know,” the Devil said. “But Leviticus also instructs not to cut your hair roundwise or shave your beard, yet you have done both.”

The preacher’s eyes narrowed, like an animal suspicious of being cornered. “For it is written, the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“That has been written, true; but never in the Holy Bible.”

“Let he who is without stones cast the first sin.”

“Do yourself a favor, Reverend. Stick to the high spots. For God so loved the world, yadda yadda yadda. Your audience is going to be drowsy from all this food and they might doze off.”

“Pardon me?”

“Like what happened in Bible college recitals. You remember.”

“The memory of the righteous is pearls before swine.”

“That verse you were supposed to memorize. The one written on the back of your hand? That was a good one, the way you clasped your hands like you were praying. Until the instructor caught you.”

“You’re—”

“Yes. The one your precious Creator said was the master of this world.”

The reverend didn’t seem surprised. “I figured you’d catch up to me sooner or later. ‘Blessed are those who are promiscuous because of righteousness.’ You can ruin me now, strip me of the cloth, embarrass me in front of my congregation, but you’ll never get back the four-hundred-and-twenty-seven souls I’ve delivered unto salvation in the meantime.”

The Devil winced. “That many, huh?”

“I take pride in the Lord’s work. That’s why I’ve studied so hard.”

“But you can do better.” The Devil held out a deviled egg. “Eat this and I promise you won’t misquote a single verse ever again. You’ll have your own television ministry, a bestselling set of Bible study guides, a fund-raising arm for Christmas charities. And need I bother mentioning that it’s all tax-free?”

“Ah, but how much profit does a man make if he inherits the wind but sells his own soul?”

“You misquoted again, but the answer is roughly thirty-seven million and change.”

Betty, who was wrapping foil over a few abandoned dishes, hollered, “Fifteen minutes until showtime, Reverend.”

The Reverend Maynard Gray glanced at his watch. “No man knows the hour, except the Apostle Rolex.”

“It’s only an egg. Besides, it’s already dead.”

“Whosoever shall believeth in Him shall not parishioner, but have ever ready batteries.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to try the tater salad?”

“Man does not live by bread alone, but by the biscuits of the Lord.”

“Isn’t that ‘doughnuts’?”

“You need to crack the Good Book now and again, Mr. Devil.”

“You’re proud of the Lord’s work. But wouldn’t you be prouder if you got more credit for it?”

“Verily. Pride goeth before a fall.”

“Actually, it’s ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit goeth before a fall.’”

“For Jesus said, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’ You’re cutting in line.”

The Devil put the egg back on the tray. Maybe he should have sprinkled the paprika so that it looked like the face of the Virgin Mary. But Maynard was Protestant and would probably think it was Angelina Jolie, Hillary Clinton, or some other sign of the Apocalypse, and that would send him rocketing off in a spastic fervor that would probably win a few more converts.

“We’ll meet again,” the Devil said to the reverend. But it might take a while. No one knew the hour, except maybe God, and He was keeping it to Himself. For now, he’d had a bellyful of these goodly people.

The Devil walked past the tables where Betty Benson was busy squirreling away Ima Jean’s tater salad, perhaps to do an in-depth analysis of its ingredients. He waved to Ray Ray McEelvy, who sat under a tree with his tie loosened, sipping loaded lemonade and playing with his cigarette lighter. The preacher had taken the stage and was checking the microphone with a booming “Good evening, brothers and sisters! Come and gather around the supper table of God, for man does not live by bread alone, but by the doughnuts of the Lord.”

A half dozen “hallelujahs” echoed in unison, while one person belched loudly.

The Devil glanced at the sky. “You win this round, Father.”

The Voice boomed in response, cracking across the clouds like thunder, though the Devil was the only one who heard.
“See how wonderful are those I’ve created in my image? For I give them free will and still they choose the path of righteousness.”

The Devil paused. “Do I detect a little slice of pride, Father?”

No answer, except for the reverend’s amplified misquotations in the background and the whisper of traffic on the distant highway.

The Devil grinned as he walked down the dusty dirt road under the Georgia sun. Armageddon wasn’t so far off, and if that battle was lost, well, he’d still have the world, only with a lot fewer of these holier-than-thou types around. And not an angel food cake in sight.

That would make him mighty proud. Mighty proud, indeed.

Piecemaker

DON D’AMMASSA

It was supposed to be routine surveillance. The insurance company rep is a friend of mine and she hands me off a job from time to time even though the company refers most of its cases to the bigger investigators. It involved a questionable worker’s comp account. You know, some bozo claims to be unable to work so he can collect, and meanwhile he’s in his backyard building a patio. That sort of thing. It usually meant sitting in a tree or some other concealed spot with a camera for hours or, more often, days.

This time it was a little different. When I read the case summary, I glanced up at the rep. “Is this some kind of joke, Brenda?”

She looked uncomfortable. “We think there’s some kind of hanky-panky going on.” Brenda was the kind of girl who said “hanky-panky.” She also described her job as “rinky-dink.”

“According to this”—I waved the single sheet of paper at her—“the subject lost an arm in an industrial accident and you tell me the company wants to cut off his benefits if he doesn’t come back to work?”

Brenda’s eyes skittered away from mine. “There have been some contradictory indications. He might not have lost the arm after all.”

I was beginning to think this was a joke. “Color me stupid, Brenda, but couldn’t you just send your adjustor by to visit and find out for sure?”

She sighed but still wouldn’t look me in the face. “We did that. Mr. Parmenter was very cooperative, even took off his shirt to prove that the arm wasn’t just strapped to his chest.”

“Then why do you need me? Obviously the poor sod deserves whatever he’s getting from you people.”

“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you. But there have been reports . . .”

She summarized them. I thought she was crazy and said so, but the company was willing to pay me, so I didn’t argue. But I planned to pad my expenses to punish them for wasting my time.

Edgar Parmenter was—or had been—a mechanic at Eblis Manufacturing up north in Managansett. He’d been servicing a rotary polishing machine when the safety brake on a cart of brass fittings had failed. The cart sideswiped him and his right arm had been pulled into the gearbox and severed just below the shoulder. The arm itself had been crushed to pulp. He had declined to be fitted for a prosthetic arm and naturally he couldn’t return to his former profession.

Sounded pretty cut and dried. The spanner in the works was that two deliverymen and three neighbors all insisted that Parmenter had two perfectly functional arms. Two of those neighbors had seen him doing laps in his swimming pool and one of the deliverymen insisted that Parmenter had shaken hands normally. Brenda’s boss wasn’t sure what was going on, but it sounded fishy to him and he’d suggested that it hadn’t been Parmenter who’d been injured at all, but someone taking his place that day.

I drove by Parmenter’s house as soon as I left Brenda’s office. It was in an attractive, older neighborhood with big yards, lots of trees and shrubs. I spotted a few places where I could probably lurk in the shadows for a while, unless someone went for a walk or looked too closely, and decided I would have to use the van.

The van is specially equipped, of course. Zippy Electrical Contractors doesn’t really exist, but it looks real enough. The rear and side windows are one-way glass and there are mountings for still and digital cameras as well as a comfortable seat. I hate using it. It gets stifling in the heat and even when the weather is cooperative, the hours of inaction are boring and demeaning. Try pissing into a plastic jug all day and you’ll see what I mean.

Parmenter’s house wasn’t far from a convenience store and I figured I could park there for the better part of a day without attracting too much attention. There’d be a nice clear shot through the rear window. I still wasn’t quite sure what I should be looking for. I mean, if Parmenter had a one-armed double, how was I going to be able to tell which was which? I was more than a little irritated with Brenda and her boss as well. After all, someone had lost an arm, so why did they care who cashed the check?

Morning found me in my Zippy uniform, parking as planned. I got a bite almost immediately. Parmenter—I recognized him from the file Brenda had provided—came outside and picked up the morning paper. His body was angled so I couldn’t see clearly, but it did not appear that he was symmetrically equipped. I snapped a couple of photos just to be doing something, and to justify the larger than conscionable bill I planned to submit for this job.

He came out again about an hour later, arranged a sprinkler on his lawn, and turned it on. For just a second or two he gave me a great view and I took still pictures and a short digital recording. There was no doubt that his right sleeve was full, but it could have been a prosthesis of some sort, even though he hadn’t officially been provided with one.

The morning dragged on into afternoon and evening with no further sight of my quarry. By the end of the following day, however, I had plenty of proof that the man living at 332 Starfish Lane had two working upper appendages. I had clear pictures of him reeling in a hose, carrying a trash can, even raking leaves. Unfortunately, I also had clear pictures that proved he was an amputee, including one in which he’d answered the door bare chested with a bandaged stump. I was quite sure now that there were two separate but very similar men living there. Parmenter was an orphan with no known relatives, but I supposed he might have run into his long-lost and unknown identical twin. But which of them had lost the arm?

I didn’t dare use the van again. A couple of the neighbors had given it odd passing looks already. That was fine with me. I wasn’t going to solve this problem from a distance. It seemed to me that the insurance company was going to have to pay someone regardless of whose arm had been torn off, but my own curiosity had been piqued and I planned to satisfy it on Brenda’s dollar.

Friday morning I had a Mr. Messenger plaque on my car. I stopped in front of Parmenter’s house and walked up to the front door carrying a package addressed to Prudence Tessworthy at 332 Starfish Lane. I rang the bell.

Parmenter showed no sign of recognition when he answered the door. I smiled professionally. “Is Prudence Tessworthy at home today?”

Parmenter, whose right shirtsleeve was rolled up and tied off just beneath his stump, frowned at me. “Never heard of her.”

It was my turn to frown. “Are you sure? This is the address on the package.”

“Positive.” He smiled politely and started to close the door.

“Excuse me,” I said hastily. “Do you know if anyone by that name lives in the neighborhood?”

“Sorry, no.” He didn’t sound sorry.

“Maybe someone else in your household would know. I’d really appreciate it if you’d ask.”

“I live alone. Try Mrs. Richardson in the red house at the corner. She knows everyone’s business.” And the door closed.

Now that Parmenter had seen my face, my options were more circumscribed. What I really wanted was a picture of the two Parmenters together. Then it would be up to the insurance company to sort out which was which, and whether either of them deserved further compensation.

I drove away slowly, as though looking for another address, but I was actually examining Parmenter’s property in more detail. The backyard was invisible, surrounded by eight foot tall stockade fencing, but I had already noted one vantage point. I drove to the office, changed the signs and plates on the van, and drove back masquerading as Northeastern Telephone Services.

I’ve climbed telephone poles in the past, and I’ll probably do it again in the future, but I’ve never liked it. With a pouch of tools—including a camera with telescopic lens—slung around my waist, I ascended to just below the wires, where I could hopefully pass for a legitimate serviceman.

As expected, I had a great view of the rear of 332 Starfish Lane. Parmenter had a nice pool—now covered for the season, a small patio, a fancy grill and smoker, and a gazebo. Although it had been warm and calm all week, it suddenly turned frosty and windy and within an hour I was freezing my butt off. There was no sign of life at Parmenter’s all morning and I descended stiffly to pee in my jug, eat some junk food, and decide whether I wanted to continue my vigil.

The afternoon was more positive in a negative sort of way. Parmenter decided to grill himself a steak.

He only had one arm when he started up the grill. I surreptitiously snapped pictures with which to impress upon Brenda my devotion to my job. He went back into the house and returned a few minutes later with a nice looking steak on a platter, condiments, and a can of beer. This time he had two arms. Okay, I told myself. They’re both there. He’s only cooking one steak, but it’s big enough for two. If I could catch the pair of them splitting it and toasting each other with Budweisers, I could call it a day.

Parmenter sat and read a magazine while the steak sizzled on the grill. I could almost taste it from my perch. After a while, he turned it over, then went back into the house, returning almost immediately with another beer. He still had two arms. He was still alone. And he stayed that way. Damned if he didn’t eat the entire steak, then shut down the grill, police up his dirty dishes, and take everything inside.

I wondered if maybe his partner was a vegetarian.

He made one more brief appearance a few minutes later, apparently checking to make sure everything had been tidied away. This time he was sporting an empty sleeve and I snapped a picture or two reflexively.

I descended before the sun did, and I was not happy. I would turn in my photographs and the insurance company could refuse to pay the claim, but Parmenter almost certainly would appeal, and when his one-armed version showed up for the hearing, the outcome would be inevitable.

Back at the office, I printed out copies of all the pictures and arranged them neatly to present to Brenda. It was only then that I frowned, noticing an anomaly. In the last two shots, taken from the telephone pole, it was quite obvious that Parmenter’s arm was missing. Except that this time it was the left arm.

• • •

Sometimes I use bad judgment. This was probably one of those times. I was watching Parmenter’s house again from my own car parked just down the street when I saw his Ford back out of the driveway and head off toward the interstate. Without consciously planning what I was going to do, I found myself walking briskly along the sidewalk. Pretending that I was doing nothing out of the ordinary, I rang the doorbell and waited. There was no answer. It only took a few seconds to circumvent the lock; if I surprised Parmenter’s partner I’d have some explaining to do, but curiosity had overwhelmed my good sense.

The house felt empty. “Is anyone home? Your front door was wide open.” I waited a few seconds and there was no answer to my lie, so I closed the door behind me. The unwisdom of this was apparent by then, but I was committed.

A quick search of the house—both floors—turned up no sign of Parmenter number two, or anyone else. Only one bedroom was in use, one set of clothes, one toothbrush in the bathroom, one dirty coffee cup in the sink. Every bit of physical evidence suggested this was the home of a rather boring bachelor.

Then I found the arm. It was lying at one end of the couch. I assumed that it was a prosthesis and reached down to pick it up, but recoiled slightly when I touched the wrist. It was much more lifelike than I had expected, even felt humanly warm to the touch. I started to draw my hand back—and the damned thing grabbed me!

I must have looked pretty stupid, dancing back and waving my arm wildly. Its fingers were interlocked with mine and even as my head told me that it was just some sophisticated piece of metal and plastic, the rest of my body insisted that this was a living creature. I fell over an end table and banged my hip, then brought the disembodied arm down against the floor hard enough to break two of the fingers with audible snaps. It bounced once and lay on the rug. I had just convinced myself that it had been an automated electronic reflex when the arm flipped over and began walking toward me on the tips of its fingers.

If I had run for the front door, I would almost certainly have made it, but I was so shocked and revolted that I retreated into the tiny kitchen at the back of the house, a strategic error since there was no other exit except the door to the basement. I grabbed a carving knife from a rack beside the sink but the ambulant arm stopped in the doorway. I’d have sworn it was crouching but how can an arm crouch? I resisted the temptation to warn it off. No ears, after all.

Then I heard a car drive up. Parmenter was back.

I replaced the carving knife hastily and opened the basement door. The steps were clean and straight and barely creaked as I descended. I heard the door from the garage open just as I reached the bottom. Footsteps sounded above my head.

It was gloomy down there, lit only by narrow slits of daylight through windows set in the foundation. There was a worktable right in front of me and a washer-dryer combination and furnace. The bulk of the basement was concealed by cheap paneling. I found a door, not locked, and slipped inside. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, two of them illuminated, enough to give me a good look at my surroundings.