Sympathy for the Devil (11 page)

Peters' eyes narrowed. "You mean, like a hit man?" He was thinking about the pistol and silencer in his coat.

"In a sense. You committed your murders - sixteen, all told - in the service of the United States government, which allowed you to rationalize them to yourself as acts of patriotism. Of course, at your Judgment, that excuse worked about as well as it ever does - which is to say, not at all. You were judged guilty of Murder without Repentance, and your soul was turned over to us. All very routine. That was in 1983, as you reckon time on this side."

"And you've sent me back here, because you want me to kill somebody else."

"Indeed. There is no shortage of murderers in Hell, as you might imagine. But one capable of carrying out an assassination skillfully, dispassionately, and on command is harder to find - and many of them are in areas that are under the control of... others. Since we wanted an American, in order to blend in, you were determined to be the best of those available."

"And who is it you expect me to skillfully and dispassionately kill?"

"A Senator, who would be President. His name is Howard Stark."

"So, what did you think of our political mercenary?" the demon, Sargatanas, asked.

"I think he'll do," Mary Margaret Doyle said, slipping off her shoes. "He's had quite a lot of experience with the rougher side of the business, and he seems to be utterly without scruple. Oh, and he needs the money. He hasn't had a job worth mentioning since Bush left office."

"He's unwilling to compromise his...
principles
and work for the Democrats?" He sounded amused at the prospect.

"His only principles are the ones printed by the U.S. Mint. No, he's radioactive. He did one too many dirty jobs for the Bushies - mostly for Cheney, I understand - and word got around town. When you're so dirty that even Karl Rove won't take your calls anymore..."

She presented her back to him, lifting her hair off her shoulders. "Help me with this zipper, will you? I want to shower and change before the fund-raising dinner."

"Hold still a moment. There."

"Thank you."

"The only thing I dislike about human politics is that it sometimes makes me homesick," the demon said.

She was bent over, sliding her pantyhose down her calves when suddenly she felt him, pressing against her. "Why don't you stay like that for the moment," he said, his voice suddenly husky. "In fact, you might bend over just a little more."

When a Member of Congress dies without a physician in attendance, the FBI is called in. The investigation may involve no more than a couple of witness interviews and a quick read-through of the autopsy report, but the Bureau always gets its two cents in.

Such routine tasks, when they occur in or near the nation's capitol, are given to the D.C. field office - which is an entirely separate operation from the main FBI Headquarters in the Hoover Building. Special Agents Blaise and Garvin got the job by virtue of being the only team in the office when the Special Agent in Charge got the call.

Melanie Blaise was the senior agent of the pair, so she was the one who showed FBI creds to the police detective guarding the door of Brooks's house.

Her partner Bill Garvin, followed her inside. Physically, they were an odd pair. Melanie Blaise, who had barely made the Bureau's minimum height requirement, wore her raven-black hair as long as the Bureau regs would permit and still had the wiry build of the gymnast she had been during her four years at Ohio State. Garvin was six-two and a weight-lifter in his spare time. His blond hair was cut well within the official limits.

Their walk through the house was slow and thoughtful. Eventually, they climbed the stairs leading to the bathroom where Brooks had died. The hallway was well-lit by sunshine streaming through a skylight overhead.

Garvin looked toward the darkened bathroom at the end of the hall. "Power off, you reckon, Princess?"

Once, during a long stakeout, Melanie had mentioned that her parents had paid for a genealogy search when she was small, and found that the family was very distantly related to some minor European royalty. Garvin had been calling her 'Princess' ever since - in private. She had threatened to eviscerate him if he ever did it around anyone else.

She looked around, found a light switch, and flicked it. Nothing. "Power's turned off."

"Good," Garvin said. "One guy's been electrocuted around here already, which is one too many. Don't want to add to the total."

The floor of the Brooks' bathroom was still wet. Although light came in through a small window, they got out the flashlights they always carried and scanned the room carefully, noting the still dripping pipe joint under the sink. Then they looked at the light switch, now a small mass of melted, blackened plastic.

"My Mom used to warn me about turning on a light with wet hands," Garvin said. "But then, my Mom believed the
Weekly World News
." He shook his head. "I didn't think it was possible to fry yourself with a light switch, even standing in water, like Brooks was."

"It isn't," Melanie said. "At least, it isn't supposed to be. I did a quick Internet search before we left the office. The stuff they make light switches out of these days doesn't conduct electricity."

"Except that it does. Or it did."

"Must have been a manufacturer's defect. That, or the electrician installing it screwed up. Either way, Mrs. Brooks has the basis for a nice, fat lawsuit, whatever consolation that holds."

"I reckon so." Garvin was from the Tidewater area of Virginia, and Southernisms sometimes crept into his speech.

They checked to be sure the house's security system was functioning, although the likelihood of an intruder having something to do with Brooks' death seemed slight, under the circumstances.

Back at the office, they did a quick 'Rock, Paper, Scissors' to decide who would stay late and write up the brief report about Representative Ron Brooks's death. Blaise's scissored fingers beat Garvin's flat-handed paper. "The victory's yours, Princess," he said, and pulled up a chair.

"Good," she said. "I'm meeting someone for a drink, and now I won't have to call and say I'm running late."

Garvin turned on his PC and waited for it to boot up. "New boyfriend?"

"I wish. It's Colleen O'Donnell, from Quantico." Melanie Blaise pulled on her black overcoat. "We were in the same class at the Academy. She's in town giving a deposition at Justice. We're gonna have a few drinks, and" - she flashed him a wicked grin - "badmouth our partners behind their backs."

"Quantico, huh? She's teaching at the Academy now?"

"No, she's in Behavioral Science."

Garvin blinked. "Oh. One of
them
."

"Yup, one of
them
. And if your ears start burning half an hour from now, at least you'll know why.
Ciao
."

Chapter 10

The Early Part of the week was busy for Libby Chastain. Monday brought her a client whose daughter had run away two years ago. The parents had already tried the police, the FBI, and a series of private investigators. Finally, they called Libby.

She used several personal objects the girl had left behind as the basis for a complicated scrying spell. Then she went to work with a series of maps and a magically-charged pendulum. Hours of work over a map of the U.S. turned up nothing, so Libby widened her focus to North America, and got a hit. Juarez, Mexico.

It took her a while to find a detailed map of Juarez on the Internet. She printed it out, then went back to work. The pendulum stopped at a point that could represent anything within a four-block area.

So she went to Google Earth. Who needs magic when you've got technology?

Libby printed out the image for the area she wanted, uttered a brief incantation, and picked up the pendulum again. Its thin point swung, hovered, then stopped - over one, specific house.

To be sure, Libby did it twice more. Same house, each time.

Later, handing over the printed satellite image to the parents, Libby said, "I won't sugar-coat this. She's in a bad part of town. A twenty-year-old girl, alone, far from home - she could be in a pretty bad situation down there. You should be prepared for it."

"Maybe she was only visiting that area," the mother said tentatively. "It's possible that she lives somewhere... nicer, isn't it?"

"Possible, but not probable, I'm afraid. I scryed the image three times over a 24-hour period." Libby tried to make her voice gentle. "I got the same result every time."

"I suppose you want your money," the father said. Fear and worry had made him rude. Libby was used to such reactions, and didn't fire back.

"No, Mr. Deshayne. Not yet. You've paid me half in advance, as agreed. You can send me the rest once you get back from Mexico."

I hope what you find there doesn't make you wish you'd stayed home
.

Back in her condo, Libby said a prayer to the Goddess, asking for the parents' safety and success on their journey. Then she checked her calendar, and found the rest of the week empty.

She remembered that she had tried to reach Quincey Morris several weeks ago, and failed - and he had never called her back. She opened her phone and pressed the icon that would send a call through to Quincey.

"Howdy. You have reached Quincey Morris investigations..."

Libby said a bad word and terminated the call. A frown sprouted on her face, and rapidly grew. It wasn't like Quincey not to check his messages regularly, and it was
really
not like him to get a message from Libby and not reply.

Libby stood there, staring at nothing.

Maybe a little more scrying is in order. If I can find out where he is, I might be able to figure out whether he's in trouble, or on vacation.

She needed a personal item. She and Quincey weren't in the habit of exchanging trinkets, but he had once spent a night at Libby's place, sleeping on the couch. There had to be something.

But there wasn't. She thought of using a locater spell to see if something would turn up, then realized the folly of that idea.

I'd need a personal item from Quincey to make the spell work, and that's what I'm fucking looking for in the first place. Shit!

Libby thought for a few minutes more, then decided a trip to Texas was in order. She might be able to pick up Quincey's trail, then she could decide whether to follow it.

Somebody takes care of his hamster - what's his name, Carnacki? Probably a neighbor kid does it. Maybe he knows where Quincey's off to.

And if this turned out to be a wild goose chase, Austin was a pretty nice town - for Texas. Libby was sure she could find something interesting to do there.

She got online and started looking for airline ticket bargains.

Pity I don't really fly a broom. It would make stuff like this sooo much easier.

Malachi Peters looked at the demon Astaroth. "Okay if I go get another coffee?" he asked. "Sounds like we're gonna be here a while."

"Here - take mine." Astaroth pushed his coffee cup across the table.

"Thanks. But it's, um, cold by now."

The demon touched the cup with his index finger. A whisper of steam began to rise from it immediately. "Not any more," he said, with a tiny smile.

Peters stared at the hot cup of coffee for a second, then reached for a packet of sugar. "Thanks," he said. As he stirred the cup he asked, "So why does Hell want this Senator dead? I would have thought most of those guys would be on your side, whether they knew it or not."

"Oh, they are," Astaroth said. "More than you might imagine. And this one, Stark, even more so."

Peters blew across the surface of his cup then sipped, waiting for more.

"Senator Stark, you see, is playing unwilling host to one of my... brethren." The last word was said with a twist of irony. "Sargatanas, one of my subordinates."

"You're saying you sent him?"

"No, I did not. He was chosen by others, as an insult to me, because I am known to oppose this dangerous scheme - even though my Lord Lucifer was persuaded to authorize it."

Peters put his cup down, frowning. "Authorize? Persuade? I don't mean to be stupid, but you've lost me again. I thought Lucifer was in charge down there, and everyone else did what he said."

"No, it's not that simple. As you used to know full well. My Lord Lucifer is the most powerful of us, it is true. But he is not all-powerful. Others, who were once great angels before... everything changed, served as his generals during the Great Rebellion. We were almost his equals then, and the same holds true in Hell. Which means there are more intrigues, plots, and betrayals in the Netherworld than you would have found in the palace of the Emperor Nero."

"So some of you in Hell favored sending Sargatanas over here, and others were opposed, you being part of the second group?"

"Precisely."

"Why were you against it?"

"Because it just might succeed."

Special Agent Melanie Blaise had arranged to meet Special Agent Colleen O'Donnell at a restaurant called Mac's Place, just off Dupont Circle. Although squeezed between two new-looking office buildings, Mac's Place looked like it hadn't changed in more than forty years, which was the truth.

Melanie Blaise stepped inside and waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The lights were kept deliberately low, and the tables were spaced far enough apart so that you could have a conversation at a normal tone without sharing it with other customers. The German-born bartender was skilled and fast, and he knew more Washington gossip than most people who worked on Capitol Hill.

And then there was the maitre d', another German by birth, who had been there since they built the place. He had the posture of a Prussian General, the dignity of a bishop, and the memory of a Mafia godfather.

As Melanie's vision adjusted she could see him approaching with his slow, measured tread.

"Good afternoon, Miss Blaise," he said with a stiff bow that seemed perfectly natural. "It is good to see you again. We have not had the pleasure of your custom for some time."