Sympathy for the Devil (14 page)

"Very good." The demon let a gentle smile appear on his priestly face. "And once that's accomplished, we'll see what's to be done about you."

He pushed his chair back and stood up. "Come on," he said, "let's get out of here. You have work to do, and I want to see if I can find a nun to despoil before I have to return home. I imagine all the altar boys are in bed, by now, alas."

Chapter 13

She knew that Morris was still alive; the chainsaw sound of his snores showed
that
as well as anything would have. Still, Libby Chastain knelt next to the sofa and checked his pulse: a little slow, but steady.

By his own account, Quincey had been something of a party boy at college, like many of his contemporaries. But for him, Libby knew, graduating from Princeton had meant the end of keg parties and pub crawls and the beginning of his training to join the family business. And when your family's business involves dealing with entities euphemistically known as 'creatures of the night,' and the slightest mistake can get you killed - or worse - then self-indulgence just isn't an option.

And Quincey had understood that - had known it down to his core. In the years they had known each other, Libby had never seen Quincey drunk, or high, or wired. He had never, to her knowledge, consumed more than two bourbon-and-waters in one sitting, and that only occasionally.

Libby knew the kind of horrors Quincey had faced - she had seen many of them along with him. Nothing had driven him to this kind of mindless, solitary orgy of self-indulgence. She needed to know what that traumatic experience had been. Only with that knowledge could she help Quincey heal.

She set about bringing him back to the land of the living - the body for a start, and then the spirit. The first of those two tasks was going to be the easier one.

Libby Chastain sighed, opened her bag, and began to sort through the contents.

The Aquinas Institute of Theology in St. Louis is located in a building that is both short and broad. The two-story structure once housed the Standard Adding Machine Company, inventors of the ten-key adding machine - a fact considered important enough by somebody to have the building declared a National Historic Landmark.

There is an elevator connecting the first and second floors, but Father Martin Finlay took the stairs. He liked to keep himself in reasonably good shape, and his heavy teaching responsibilities had cut significantly into his gym time. That, and the exorcisms.

Finlay wore the white ankle length tunic and white hooded surplice that are hallmarks of the Dominican Order. The black beads of his 20-decade rosary clacked softly against each other as he walked the length of the second-floor hall to the President's office at the north end. As it happened, The Rev. Arthur Voytek was not only President of the Institute, but the Prior Provincial, as well. Finlay was glad of that - it meant that only one man would be pissed off at him today, instead of two.

The outer door to the President's office was an impressive slab of polished mahogany. Finlay went through without knocking.

Inside, a man in his late twenties, who also wore the robes of the Order, sat at a desk frowning at a computer monitor. He looked up when the door opened.

"Good morning, Brother Frank," Finlay said. "I believe I'm expected."

The young man glanced at a large appointment book that lay next to his computer. "Indeed you are, Father. I'll let him know you're here."

Two minutes later, Finlay was sitting in front of Rev. Arthur Voytek, O.P., whose black hair, square jaw and rough-hewn face always looked to Finlay as if they'd been borrowed from some character actor in the movies.
Here's hoping he's not gonna be playing the heavy today,
Finlay thought, as he handed over the plain No. 10 envelope he'd brought with him.

"Under the circumstances," Finlay told his boss, "I figured I'd best give this to you personally."

"Since it's not my birthday, I've got a feeling that doesn't mean good news," Voytek said, with a ghost of a smile. The unsealed envelope contained a single sheet of paper. Voytek unfolded it and read quickly. Then he read it again. With a sigh, he dropped the sheet onto his desk and sat back in his chair.

"I never know what to say at times like this," he said. "'Congratulations' doesn't seem quite appropriate, but I can't bring myself around to something like 'How could you?', either."

"For what it's worth," Finlay said, "that was very hard to write. Maybe the second-hardest thing I've ever had to write in my life."

"That invites me to ask what occupies the position of Number One, so I will. Just nosy, I guess."

"The eulogy for my mother's funeral mass."

"Well, at least the occasion involved this time is more joyous." Voytek chewed a fingernail, a habit, Finlay knew, he'd been trying to break his entire life. "I won't insult you by asking if you've thought this through, Marty."

"My confessor and I have just about worn it out from talking about it. I've discussed it with a couple of old friends, too. And I've prayed over it for countless hours, Arthur."

Voytek nodded. "Who's the lucky girl - anybody I know?"

"Her name's Judith Racine. She heads the County Social Services office downtown." Finlay hesitated, then said, "She's a former nun."

Voytek nodded again. "I wish you both every happiness. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart."

Finlay smiled for the first time since entering the room. "I know you do, Arthur. Thank you."

They were quiet for a bit, then Voytek said, "Did the exorcisms have anything to do with it, Marty? I have no doubt that you're in love with the lady, but I wondered if that aspect of your work has..."

"Burned me out?" Finlay touched his rosary, as if he found comfort there. "I've thought about that... and it's hard to say. The stress involved in an exorcism is immense."

"I can imagine," Voytek said.

"And, although I've never declined an assignment, I can't say that I don't look forward to the day when I know that part of my life is behind me. Maybe the nightmares will stop then." Finlay shook his big head slowly. "I don't know, Arthur. If it's played a role in my decision to request release from my vows, I'm not consciously aware of it. But who knows what the subconscious influences are?"

"Indeed. And I hope you understand that what I'm about to say is not an attempt to 'guilt' you in any way." Voytek paused for a second. "You're the last exorcist the Order has left in North America, Marty."

"I wasn't aware of that," Finlay said quietly - then, more strongly, "Not that it affects my decision."

"No, of course not. I wouldn't expect it to."

"How did I get to be the last one? I thought there were... three or four of us."

"There were. But Father Tobin retired last year."

"That's right, I forgot. It was in the newsletter."

"Right. And frankly, he's too old to handle the challenge of an exorcism now. The man is 74, Marty."

"I agree - someone that age should not be performing exorcisms."

"And Father Echols, another of our exorcists, was killed in a car crash last New Year's Eve. Some fool of a drunk driver..."

"Really? I must have missed the news of his passing. Oh, wait, that's right. Last New Year's I was in Ohio, performing the exorcism of that poor woman. What was her name - Elvira Jernigan. I wasn't following the news, either the Order's or anybody else's. I didn't know about poor Father Echols."

"Here's something else you probably don't know," Voytek said. "Gerald Hooper has been diagnosed with stage four liver cancer. The doctors say six months, maximum."

"Dear Lord," Finlay said. "So, I'm the last of the Mohicans, as it were."

"For the time being, yes. The Master of the Order has asked Rome to send over at least one, preferably three, qualified exorcists to this side of the Atlantic. But even if they agree, these things take time."

"Yes, I know."

Voytek nudged the sheet of paper on his desk. "So do these requests for release from vows. I'll send it through in tomorrow's mail, with my recommendation that your petition be granted. But it could take six months, or even longer, to work its way through the bureaucracy."

"I expected as much," Finlay said. "I've researched the process pretty thoroughly. There isn't any chance the order could refuse, is there?"

"I've never heard of that happening, in all my years of service. The Order won't keep any man against his will, Marty. It goes against all our principles."

"Still, I'm glad to hear you say it."

"I hope you're prepared to continue in your priestly duties until the release becomes official, Marty."

"Of course I will. I'm teaching three classes of grad students. I wouldn't dream of leaving them hanging by making an exit in the middle of the semester."

"Your sense of responsibility is as admirable as always," Voytek said, with no trace of sarcasm. "And what about exorcisms? Should the need arise, I mean."

Finlay didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied a crease in his cassock as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. "Judith and I have discussed this," he said, finally. "I told her I was planning to decline any further requests for exorcisms, for the sake of my mental health - and hers. But that was before I knew that I was the only game in town."

He studied the crease a bit more. "I'm going to pray that no poor souls are afflicted by the minions of Satan over the next six months - or if they are, that the Jesuits will handle it. But if it becomes necessary..." Finlay took in a big breath and let it out. "I'll be your exorcist - for a little while longer."

For its size, the nation's capital can lay claim to an usually large number of drinking establishments - but then politics, some say, is thirsty work. Peabody's Bar and Grille is located a couple of blocks from M Street, the street known as Lobbyist's Row. It's one of the many establishments to occupy the mediocre middle among the District's bars. It was midway between upscale and sleazy, which is why Nestor Greene occasionally used it for business purposes. You could bring, or meet, almost anybody there without drawing undue attention.

Greene walked into Peabody's a little after 3:00 in the afternoon and stood just inside the door for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, which was only slightly abated by the glass-enclosed candles burning on each table. Even in Washington, most bars experience this slack period, between the departure of the lunch lushes and the arrival of the Happy Hour crowd. Consequently, once his night vision had kicked in, Nestor Greene had no trouble spotting the person he had come to meet.

He slid into the booth and looked across the table at the man who sat with one big hand curled around the half-empty glass of beer in front of him. Al Mundenar's curly black hair was still worn short, Greene noticed, and the moustache was badly in need of a trim, as usual. The gray pinstripe suit looked handmade - which it would almost have to be, to accommodate the breadth of those shoulders.

"How's it going, Al?" Greene said. "Sorry you had to wait. Parking is a royal pain around here, as usual."

"Why didn't you walk over?" his companion rumbled softly. "That's what I did."

Nestor Greene, who loathed physical exercise, smiled and said, "It's a little cold for a southern boy like me to be outdoors. Besides, we can't all be athletes."

"I'm not an athlete, either. Not any more. Doesn't mean I let myself get soft." Al Mundenar had spent just over three years as a defensive back for the Minnesota Vikings. The second game of his third season had produced the knee injury that ended his career, but Mundenar wasn't complaining. His new occupation was just as financially rewarding as the old one, and infinitely easier on the connective tissue.

A waitress approached, took Greene's order for a Dewar's and water, and departed. Greene watched her ass wiggle in the tight skirt for a moment, then turned back to his companion. "Haven't seen your byline for a while," he said.

"Naw, I'm mostly an editor these days. You'd be amazed how many of these fucking kids we get, fresh out of college, can't write a sentence that makes any sense. So I edit copy a lot, and sometimes, if it's a slow week, they let me write headlines."

"'Elvis Speaks to Me through My Dog'," Greene murmured. 'Face of Jesus Found on Dark Side of the Moon'
.
And my all-time favorite, 'Dwarf Rapes Nun, Flees in UFO'."

"That last one's not ours," Mundenar said. "Sounds more like the
Weekly World News
. Or it would, if they were still in business."

"How about, 'Presidential Wannabe Has Homo History'? Think you could sell some papers with that? Or maybe something a bit more pithy: 'Governor Sucks Dick'?"

"Couldn't go with that second one," Mundenar said, seriously. "It's a family paper, after all."

Greene raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And which one might that be - the Addams Family?"

Mundenar took a sip of his beer and put the glass down. "Did you come here to diss my work - which, coming from a slimeball like you would be the biggest case of 'pots and kettles' since Jimmy Swaggart was on the air denouncing porn - or do you want to do business?"

"I'm always ready for business," Greene said, "but, in this case, most of the business has already been done, as you well know. I've already been on the phone with McGreevy in Lauderdale, and we've made our deal. All you're supposed to do is eyeball the material to ensure its authenticity, and then it's the sole property of
The National Tatler
- in return for that check you've got in your pocket, of course."

Mundenar stared hard at Greene for a long moment - a look that more than one NFL quarterback would have recognized. Then the big man smiled, but not in a way that promised undying friendship. "Well, if all I am is the errand boy in this deal, we might as well get the errand over with. Let's see what you've got."

Greene produced the three Polaroid photos and placed them side by side on the table.

Mundenar peered at the pictures, going back and forth between them, for at least a full minute. Then he produced a small, square magnifying lens with a built-in light - the kind that the elderly use to read restaurant menus. He examined the photos more closely, concentrating on the faces. Then from his coat pocket he pulled out a sheet of paper that appeared to be computer-printed copy of a head-and-shoulder photo, the details enlarged considerably.