Sympathy for the Devil (17 page)

Finlay decided to take a chance. "I asked you not to swear," he said mildly. "I never said anything about drinking or lesbian orgies."

She gaped at him, for a long two seconds - and then she started to laugh.

"Nothing like a nice lesbian orgy to start the weekend, I always say," he continued.

She was bent over with laughter now, and waved a hand toward him that meant 'Stop it, you're killing me.'

"I
am
a little surprised that the good sisters didn't give up the orgies during Lent, though. Or at least move them to Saturday."

Judith Racine was laughing so hard that tears streamed down her face. She took a couple of steps back and collapsed on the couch, where she remained until the spasms passed. She produced a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. Then she stood up, slowly, as if uncertain of her legs' support, and returned to the dinner table.

She sat down and said, "I hope you're not going to be in the habit of doing that when we're married."

"What - mention lesbian orgies? You started it."

"No, I mean diverting my fury with humor. It hardly seems fair, somehow." She blew her nose again, and looked at him. "I have a right to be mad, Marty. You promised me that you were getting out of the exorcism business, for good."

"I know - and I did so in good faith, based on what I knew at the time. But, as I said to Voytek, I seem to be the last of the Mohicans - for the time being, anyway."

"Well, if you expect me to start calling you Chingatchgook, you'd better think again, dude."

"Maybe you can just do it on special occasions, like my birthday. Look, Judith, the last thing I want to do is let you down. But I don't want to let the Order down, either."

She drank the last of the Merlot in her glass. "I seem to recall a passage in scripture about serving two masters."

"'No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other.' Matthew 6:24, I believe."

"Yeah, that one. Smartass. But that's your situation - what do you plan to do about it?"

Finlay lowered his head a little and looked at the checkered tablecloth. He held that posture long enough that Judith Racine figured he was either counting the squares or praying.

"They can't make me go," he said finally. "That's always been the case - the Church will not order a priest to perform a duty as extraordinary and spiritually hazardous as an exorcism. He has to
agree
to go."

He looked up then, and the strain she could see in his face squeezed her heart. "If an assignment comes during the time I have left - if I can possibly refuse, I will. There are other religious orders that do exorcisms, especially the Jesuits. The cavalry from Rome could arrive at any time, and people don't generally die from demonic possession, anyway. If I can decline in good conscience, then that's what I'll do. Is that enough?"

She reached across the table for one of his hands and squeezed it with all her strength. Looking into his face, seeing all the love that was there, she said, "I guess it will have to be."

Chapter 16

"Of
course
it's my fault," Quincey Morris said. "I let go of her arm, and she, or
it
, used that arm to drive two fingers into poor Hannigan's eyes."

Libby Chastain sipped some of the coffee she had made them in Morris's kitchen and put her cup down. "Sounds to me like it's the demon's fault, if anyone's."

"Oh, don't play sophisticated games with me, Libby!" Morris snapped. "With demons, malign intent is something you take for granted. That's like saying that if I let a lion out of its cage and it eats somebody, then it's all the fucking lion's fault."

"'Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour'
,"
Libby quoted.

"Yeah, and you and Saint Peter can both go and -" Morris stopped himself, then turned his head away. "Aw, fuck it!"

Libby Chastain regarded that as a small, but hopeful sign. The Quincey Morris she knew was something of a gentleman, and would never have told her to go fuck herself, except possibly in jest. The fact that Morris was making an effort to control his tongue meant that the old Quincey Morris might not be gone, after all.

Morris turned back to her. In a more normal tone he said, "I'm the guy opened the lion's cage, Libby. I let go of her arm
.
I'm responsible for what happened afterward."

"And you did that for your own amusement, of course," Libby said. Her tone was matter-of-fact.

"You
know
I didn't, dammit. But that doesn't mean I didn't
do
it."

"If not for your own amusement, then, why did you do it?"

"I already told you," Morris said. "It was that fucking burn scar on my neck. All of a sudden, it felt like I was getting burned all over again. Took me by surprise."

"It felt like being burned, you say."

"Exactly."

"You know," Libby said, "I read somewhere that burning is the most painful thing the human body can experience." Her expression turned grim. "That's why they used to burn witches, of course."

"Yeah, so?"

"So I'm trying to get a sense of what you were experiencing when you let go of the girl's arm. Had your burn scar pained you before? Since it healed, I mean."

Morris shrugged. "A couple of twinges, but nothing like that."

"And you believe the demon inside the girl had something to do with this particular attack?"

"I'm sure of it. I locked eyes with her - I know you're not supposed to do that, and I didn't mean to, it just happened. And as soon as her eyes met mine, I saw her -
it
- smile. And that's when the pain hit me."

"So, would it be fair to say that the discomfort you felt was the result of a demonic attack?"

"
Discomfort
? Jesus, Libby, it was like somebody pressed a red-hot iron against my neck. Discomfort
,
my ass!"

"Just an expression," Libby said. "Doctors use it all the time. So, you believe the demon caused this?"

"Absolutely. Maybe because the original burn was the result of hellfire - I don't know how that stuff works. Nobody does."

Libby nodded slowly. "Quincey, I'd like to ask you a hypothetical question, and I'd like you to consider it carefully before you answer. Will you do that?"

"If it'll get this over with faster, sure, whatever."

"All right then. Let's go back to that day. You've been under immense stress for hours. You're dead tired, physically and mentally. But you think the ordeal may be almost over. You're straining to hold down what is, in effect a creature from Hell, one of the foulest, most evil things imaginable. Fair description?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"If, at that moment, someone had sneaked up behind you, holding an iron bar that's been heated in a fire until it's cherry-red - if that someone had laid that red hot metal against your neck, what would you have done?"

"Come on, Libby, can we stop playing -"

She held up a hand, palm out. "You said you would indulge me, Quincey. You promised you would answer. Thank about it for as long as you want."

"I don't have to think about it. I'd have yelled and put my hand up to my neck to protect it. Anybody would."

"That's all I wanted to know," Libby said. She stood, and picked up her bag. "Enjoy the rest of your life, Quincey, if you can. I'll show myself out."

She walked briskly out of the room and had taken two steps down the hallway when she heard Morris's voice.

"
Libby - wait."

At the door of the suite shared by the Senator and Mary Margaret Doyle (separate bedrooms, of course), 'Bat' Masterson traded places with Jerry Arkasian, the agent who'd worked the night shift.

"Quiet night?" Masterson asked.

"Aren't they all?" Arkasian stepped away from the door. "I'm heading over to Mickey Dee's for some breakfast. Want anything?"

Masterson shook his head. "Naw, I'm good. Thanks."

Arkasian nodded. "Hey - I noticed that new Kevin Spacey movie, the one you said you wanted to see, is on HBO tonight at 9:00. We oughta be back from the rally by then, and since I don't go on duty until midnight...."

"Yeah, that sounds good. Let's check it out - assuming no shit has hit the fan around here."

"Always assuming that. Okay, Bat - catch you later."

Masterson took up position next to the door and checked his watch: 6:04. The Senator had a speech at 10:00 with a couple of interviews to follow. The day's itinerary had them (including the full Secret Service detail) leaving the hotel at 9:30, so there was plenty of time.

Masterson nodded pleasantly at the families and couples who passed him in the hall on their way to eat breakfast or check out. He gave the two solitary males who went by a little more attention, but neither of them looked or acted like trouble.

Masterson snorted quietly after the second guy had gone past without so much as a glance. The Secret Service had done a threat assessment on Stark, as they did for all the people under their protection. It was based on factors like how much hate mail the person received, and what kind, as well as phone threats and other forms of expressed discontent. According to the Service, the threat level calculated for Stark was roughly the same as the one assigned to Boots - the White House cat. You wouldn't think a cat would get hate mail, but apparently a couple of dog lovers had been pissed off about--

Masterson came to full alertness in the space of a heartbeat. He had heard something from inside the suite: a male voice, lower and rougher than Stark's smooth tenor, yelling something. It was followed a moment later by a female voice screaming. What the fuck...

Masterson was pounding on the door now. "Senator? Ms Doyle? Anything wrong?"

No answer. Masterson was sure that if the Senator had a visitor, Arkasian would have said something. They were on the fourth floor, so nobody could have got in through the windows - or could they?

Masterson fumbled through his wallet for the master key card, which he had obtained from the hotel manager when the party had checked in. He found it, pounded on the door once more, waited a couple of seconds, then inserted the card into the slot in the door. There was a faint click, a green light appeared above the lock, and Masterson had the door open.

He stepped inside the room, drawing his weapon with one smooth motion. He was in the suite's small living room. "Senator?"

The door to Stark's room opened. Masterson pivoted toward the sound, bringing his gun to bear - then immediately lowered it, as Stark stepped through the door, pulling it shut behind him. The Senator's face was flushed, the normally impeccable hair in disarray. He wore a white terrycloth robe, and he was pulling the belt tight as he said, "What is it? What's wrong?"

"That's what I wanted to ask you, sir," Masterson replied. "I heard a man's voice from in here, different from yours, then what sounded like a woman, screaming."

"Oh,
that
." Stark waved a dismissive hand. "I was watching an old horror movie on TV - I'm afraid I'm addicted to them. I meant to turn it off, but my thumb must have hit the volume control instead. I guess the actress being unconvincingly devoured by that monster sounded pretty loud, for a second. Sorry about that."

At that moment, a shower was turned on nearby. Masterson was pretty sure that it was the shower in Stark's room. He noted that Mary Margaret Doyle's bedroom door had remained closed throughout his incursion.

If Stark heard the shower start up, his expression gave no hint of it. But there was
something
happening with his eyes... no, they were fine. "Anything else, Agent... Masterson, is it?"

"Yes, sir, Masterson. No, nothing else, Senator. Please forgive the intrusion."

"Oh, that's all right. You're just doing your job. Better safe than sorry, I always say."

"Yes, sir. I'll be in the hall, as usual, if you need me."

Masterson turned away and got out of there. As he returned to his spot outside the door, he was frowning. Despite all the advances in broadcast technology in recent years, he was pretty sure he could distinguish between a voice on TV and that of a real person, even through the relatively thin walls of the Holiday Inn. What he'd heard sure didn't sound like something that came out of a speaker, no matter what the volume setting was. Stark was right about one thing, though - the first voice Masterson had heard through that wall sounded like nothing human.

Masterson gave a mental shrug. If the Senator was putting the boots to Mary Margaret Doyle, it wasn't much of a surprise. Not since Masterson had gotten a look at those sexy undies of hers.

But there was something about the Senator's story that bothered Masterson. He didn't realize he was still frowning as he thought,
note to self
:
check the local TV listings later. See what channel is playing scary movies at this hour of the morning, when the main audience for that stuff is in algebra class.
A few hours later, the Senator and his small entourage left for the day's politicking, and Masterson had other things to think about.

After the demon Sargatanas had slipped the chain on the door to prevent any more intrusions by over-zealous Secret Service fools, he returned to his bedroom, where Mary Margaret Doyle, fresh out of the shower, was drying herself.

With a smile, she started to say something. But the words died in her throat when Sargatanas slapped her across the face.

Mary Margaret Doyle's eyes went wide with surprise and the shock of the blow. As with everything else Sargatanas did to her, it was carefully calculated - hard enough to show his displeasure, but not so hard as to leave a mark that might be seen, and wondered about, later.

"You worthless cunt!" His voice was not loud enough to carry outside the room, but the anger in it still rang clear as a bell. "Starting the shower while I was reassuring Officer Bat Man. If he had any doubts about the nature of our 'relationship,' they have now been dispelled."