Sympathy for the Devil (41 page)

Greene was replacing the glass on its coaster when the nearby phone rang. His hand jerked, causing him to spill a few drops of liquid Heaven onto his desk. He reached for a handkerchief with one hand and picked up the phone with the other.

"Hello?"

"You know who this is," said the voice of the ever-cautious Mary Margaret Doyle.

"Why yes, I believe I do."

"Have you carried out your most recent assignment?"

"I have - my part of it, anyway. I found the appropriate... specialist. Came highly recommended. He agreed to take the case. Since I haven't seen anything in the news, I assume he hasn't, um, completed treatment yet."

"He understands the time factor?"

"Yes - I made it very clear to him. As I said, he's supposed to be very reliable. Always delivers the groceries, to mix a metaphor."

"Good. You've done well. There may be other work for you down the road, if you're interested. But for now, I'll send you the balance due, and we can consider our association ended. Look for your payment in a few days."

"Thank you. I think -" Greene realized he was talking to a dead line. He slowly put the phone down, without uttering the obscene imprecations that usually followed any contact he had with Ms. Doyle.

So, another fifty grand was on its way to him, or would be soon. And unlike the money he owed The Grocer's Boy, this tidy little sum would be his, all his.

Nestor Greene took another sip from his glass. Fifty thousand dollars can buy you a lot - maybe even a decent night's sleep. Especially if it is accompanied by about half a bottle of liquid Heaven.

"He's been drinking," Mary Margaret Doyle said. "I can hear it in the way he pronounces certain combinations of consonants."

"Too far gone to understand what you just told him?" the demon Sargatanas asked her.

"No, he was still coherent. If I'd called a couple of hours from now, that might be a different story."

"Very well. Now we'll make the device that will provide the final solution to our Nestor Greene problem, to borrow a phrase from one of your race's late, lamented statesmen."

On the desk of the hotel suite's living room - this one was in Minneapolis, but seemed identical to all the others - she laid out the various items that Sargatanas had directed her to buy. Fortunately, Mary Margaret Doyle did not receive Secret Service protection when she went out alone, unless she asked for it. She had not wanted witnesses to this little shopping trip.

Her errands had taken her to a hardware store and a laboratory supply house. Her last stop had been an 'alternative' food co-op, there to purchase Belladonna and Mandrake Root - both common ingredients used in black magic. Fortunately, she had not been told to secure Eye of Newt, since she would have had no idea where to begin looking.

"I could create this little device myself," Sargatanas said from over her shoulder, "but I want you able to make it by yourself in the future, so that I won't have to waste my time with such trivial matters."

Mary Margaret Doyle stood bent over the table, wearing only undergarments under the robe she had wrapped around herself. She and Stark were attending a fund-raising event tonight, and she did not wish to wrinkle her outfit before it was time to leave.

"Place some of the magnesium powder on that square of cloth. More. Now cut off a piece of Mandrake Root about the size of your thumb, and place it on top of the powder to that its ends face East - West. Now repeat this invocation after me. I'll write it down for you later..."

Ten minutes later, the device, as diabolical as ancient magic and modern science could devise, was almost ready to be wrapped for mailing. Sargatanas was still standing behind her, where he had been throughout the process, murmuring instructions in her ear.

Now he said, "It's a pity that this is the way we must dispense with Mister Greene, but it's too dangerous to take a more hands-on approach, this time."

"It doesn't matter," she said. "This looks as if it will do the job just fine."

"But it's so
impersonal
," he purred in her ear. "You won't even get to see him burn. Certainly not as enjoyable as the treatment you were able to inflict on the late Father Bowles."

"I'd really rather not -"

"Just imagine poor Mr. Greene, naked and bound tightly to a chair, his eyes wide with terror as he looks at your tools and imagines, quite correctly, what you're going to do to him."

"Since it's not going to happen, there seems no point -"

"You'd have to put a big piece of heavy tape across his mouth, of course, to muffle the screams. Unless you were fortunate enough to find a venue far from people. Then you could leave the gag off, and breathe in the screams like rare perfume. That's what
I'd
prefer."

"Listen, I really wish you -"

"My favorite part of such recreation is the very beginning, oddly enough. After you first draw blood, or apply flame to flesh. Once he's finished squealing - for the time being - and looks at you, with the realization dawning that you are utterly serious in your intentions, that you are about to do unspeakable things to him, and that there is no chance of escape. The despair in their eyes is wonderful to behold. Don't you agree?"

"No, I don't! I'm
not
like you, despite all your efforts to make me that way."

"I thought we already had this discussion, and it ended with you acknowledging your true nature, at last."

"I didn't mean it! I just said that to make you leave me alone!"

"Oh, I was
wrong
, then. My humble apologies for misjudging you. I can see now that you're not the kind of woman who would take pleasure from another's torment."

"Of
course
I wouldn't!"

He stepped back from her. When she turned, he was wearing a smirk that she wished she had the courage to wipe off with a good, hard slap.

"Just keep telling yourself that, Mary Margaret. In time, you may even come to believe it."

He walked toward the door, then stopped and turned back. "Although I really do have my doubts."

To say he ignored the sobs behind him would be inaccurate. In fact, he was smiling as he walked away.

Father Martin Finlay was in his faculty office, trying to explain to a graduate student why her proposed thesis debunking the Book of Genesis might not be the surest path to her Masters Degree.

"Two of every species of animal, all living peacefully on the Ark - for
how
long? Give me a break, Father!"

The graduate student, Lucille McBride, was small, bespectacled, and intense-looking. She had taken two theology classes from Finlay already. Privately, he gave her high marks for intelligence and dedication, but somewhat lower ones for common sense.

"There are more than ten million known species and subspecies of animals, Father. It must have been one heck of a big boat, don't you think? Not to mention why all the plants didn't die from being underwater that long."

"Of course, it's absurd - but if you want an argument, you're talking to the wrong guy. If Jerry Falwell were still alive, I'd send you to him, but I'm sure there are any number of fundamentalist preachers willing to fight with you on that subject - but not a humble servant of Holy Mother Church, like
moi
. The Church has never taken the position that the Bible - well, at least the Old Testament - had to be interpreted literally. A lot of it is probably metaphor, in order to give the ancient Hebrews something they could relate to. As long as you grant the essential truth behind it, you don't
have
to believe the literal account. If you write the thesis you've proposed, your committee will just laugh."

The young woman leaned forward in her chair. "But I still think it's important to demonstrate -"

Finlay's phone rang. He said "Excuse me just a second" to Lucille and answered it, intending to find out who it was and offer to return the call later.

But not
this
call.

"This is Father Finlay, can I help you?"

"Father, this is Brother Frank, in Father Voytek's office."

Finlay felt a fist clench in the pit of his stomach, but he tried to keep his voice matter-of-fact. "Hey, Brother Frank. I'm with a student right now, so -"

"Father Voytek would like to see you, Father. Right away, I'm afraid."

"Yes, of course, I'll be there in a few minutes."

He hung up the phone. "Lucille, I hate to do this, but that was Father Voytek's office. Father 'I'm-in-charge of-this-whole-place-and-don't-you-forget-it' Voytek. Remember him?"

She laughed a little. "Sure, I know who Father Voytek is, although I think your characterization might not be quite fair. He seems like a nice man."

"He
is
, actually - but not to priests who don't respond to his summons. I'm afraid I have to go. Are you free this time Friday?"

She checked her appointment book. "Sure, I can do Friday, if you like."

"Great - just remember: apple, tree, talking snake - maybe not. First parents screwing up big time - beyond doubt."

Lucille stood. "I'll argue it with you Friday, Father." She smiled. "Good luck with the ogre." And was gone.

Finlay walked briskly, wondering if he was being sent for in Father Voytek's capacity as President of the Institute, or as Prior Provincial of the Order. He would know soon.

The fist of dread had not loosened its grip on Finlay's innards. In fact, another big, strong hand seemed to have joined in on the task of constricting his digestive organs. He tried hard not to think of the word
exorcism
.

He opened the heavy door to the outer office, to find Brother Frank looking up expectantly. "Hi, Father - you're to go on in."

"Okay, thanks. What do you think, Brother Frank? Am I in deep shit?"

"Not as far as I know. There's some guy, a layman, who's been in there with him for over two hours. Guess they want you to join the party."

"Let's hope there's cake," Finlay said, and rapped twice on his boss's door.

At "Come in," he pushed the door open to find Voytek and the aforementioned layman - a guy in his forties with slightly graying black hair and a thin, careworn face.

Voytek stood up from behind his desk. "Father Paul Finlay, I'd like you to meet Mr. Quincey Morris."

Transcript of Oral Message left on the Answering Machine

of Ms. Judith Mary Racine

An Unindicted Co-Conspirator

Case 1443-16

People of the United States

v.

Quincey P. Morris, et al.

Second Circuit Court,

Federal District of Eastern New York

Offered as Evidence Exhibit 1443-16-221

by

Edward T. Richie, Senior Prosecutor

Office of the U.S. Attorney for Eastern New York

Voice on Tape Positively Identified as

Paul Thomas Finlay,

Federal Defendant #1443-16-003

TRANSCRIPT BEGINS

Hey, it's me. I know personal calls are frowned upon at work, so I figured I'd better do this. I wish I could wait to tell you in person, but I've got a plane to catch. I'm not sure when I'll be back - could be as much as a couple of weeks, or even... never mind, it doesn't matter. I wish I could explain to you why I can't say no to this, Judith. The stakes are just too high. I'm sorry for the distress I know this must be causing. Hey - I, like, love you, and stuff, you know? See you as soon as I can. Bye.

TRANSCRIPT ENDS

Chapter 38

The man known to a few people as The Grocer's Boy had never been very interested in the news. But ever since returning from the job in Virginia, he'd made a point to watch a national news broadcast every day. That wasn't hard to manage, considering the wealth of news available on cable TV, in addition to those four diehard major networks, who were still in there pitching.

He was waiting for the big news story that would surround the death by heart attack of Senator Bob Leffingwell -
so sad, the nation mourns, we'll be back after these messages
. The killer had been home four days now, and no such story had appeared.

Either Leffingwell had been careful about what he ate lately, or the drug wasn't working as advertised. If the poison was at fault, did that mean the stuff was taking longer to work than expected, or that it wasn't going to work at all?

This uncertainty was a new experience for him - but then, he'd never been asked to kill by such indirect means before. His work tended to be pretty straightforward. The marks were either mobsters or civilians who had pissed off some mobster, usually by not paying money owed or planning to say the wrong thing in court. His means was almost always a firearm - either pistol or rifle, although he used a handgun far more often.

Only twice had he used a knife, and that was because there had been no other choice. In one instance, the mark was never very far away from bodyguards, business associates, or family. Even a silenced pistol shot would probably bring somebody running from the next room, which meant more people to kill, without getting paid a dime for it. In the other blade job, the mark had positively surrounded himself with state-of-the art metal detectors. Fortunately for The Grocer's Boy, neither the mark nor his bodyguards had heard of ceramic knives.

But poison - he'd never used it before, and hoped never to again. There were too many variables outside his control, which led to unpredictable outcomes. Like now.

There was no way he was going to get anywhere near Leffingwell again. After somebody had taken a shot at Stark, one of the other candidates, everybody's Secret Service protection had doubled - he'd heard
that
on the news.

If the mark ultimately survived, it would be either because of bad luck on the killer's part, or extraordinarily good luck on Leffingwell's.

He hated the thought of calling Greene and reporting failure. Apart from personal embarrassment, word might get around. He'd never heard of this Greene before, had no idea how well connected the guy was, or who he might tell that The Grocer's Boy had fucked up - which wasn't even true, dammit.