The Devil Stood Up (16 page)

Sitri glanced at the ghostly Patrons and threw a petulant kick at the old man’s body lying prone in the dirt. The kick did not connect: Sitri had become an apparition, too. Though he looked eerily like the Patrons, he was not one of them. The Patrons, who occupied only themselves, could stay as they pleased and without a body, Sitri would soon disappear.

Sitri would Transition.

He turned his back and sat cross-legged in the dirt and pine needles. A stray cat wandered close to sniff his transparent hand and Sitri moodily waved it away. Already he was feeling isolated and lost. It was a crushing, demeaning feeling of utter despair and hopelessness that a Patron would never have to feel. And therefore, would never understand.

Patroclus faded first, never sparing a glance to the Devil’s struggle behind him. He’d done his job here and was anxious to move on. He didn’t like being so close to Satan. Amabilis watched the body that Sitri had occupied. The chest rose once and fell. Rose again and fell. Rose again. Now Amabilis began to fade, too, his eyes on the body as he did so. Wishing the old man well. Wishing him Godspeed.

Sitri glanced over his own melting shoulder at the Devil. He was already beginning to lose interest in how it would come out for Lucifer. One way or another, they’d meet again in Hell. He had no doubt of that.

The Devil was only peripherally aware of the activity behind him as he heaved out the Patrons. They were tenacious, but he was strong, the food and exercise he’d given this body paying off.

Plus, there was no soul in here to help the Patrons in their fight for control–Mark had more than willingly given up this body. There was only him, and he was the Devil: Lucifer and Satan. Loved and scorned. Good and evil. Occupier of all worlds. Uniquely qualified, so he thinks, to make this one, small, judgment.

And they’d not keep him from it.

He heaved again. Blood vessels in his neck stood out and his muscles trembled with effort. With each convulsion, orange light raked the dead leaves and pine needles and they glowed as if on fire. His face grew redder than the inferno within his eyes as capillaries burst under the strain.

Three of the four Patrons shot from his mouth and landed in crumpled disarray at his feet.

The Devil pulled in a breath that nearly stunned his body into a faint and the world swam dizzily around him. He stepped away from the tangle of wraiths and breathed in again, the breath tearing into his lungs, filling them nearly to bursting. The world tilted, but not as badly, and he felt this body coming to rights. Exhaustion bent him double and he put his hands back on his thighs, wearily supporting himself.

Christina was the first Patron to disentangle herself. She was shaken, almost without substance, weakened almost to nonexistence. The Devil saw her only as a light glimmer around her eyes, her mouth, her hands. When she spoke, it was as if she stood miles distant.

“You cannot keep Dymphna in Hell…no saint can be kept there!”

Muffled as her voice was, indistinct as she’d grown, the Devil could still hear the righteous indignation in her voice…and the fear.

His lowered head rose enough that she could see the burning pits of his eyes and she shimmered almost to invisibility.

“Christina,” he said, his voice like heavy, rusted chains dragged across gravel. “You forget your place. You have all forgotten your place.”

Beneath Christina, Hermes and Maturinus disappeared entirely, slinking away like chicken stealing foxes. Christina looked down and saw that they had fled and she looked back at Satan, eyes flashing brightly. Tears that seemed to phosphoresce slid down her cheeks and dropped, disappearing into the warm night air.

The Devil stood and placed his hands at his lower back. He bent and stretched, sighing and unconcerned, ignoring the saint before him.

“You cannot keep her, Satan!” Her voice had grown teary and ragged. “You cannot keep a Patron in Hell. You must release her at once! I command it! God, Himself, commands it!” A flip of her robe shimmered and settled as though she’d stamped her foot.

He regarded her with stern, dispassionate eyes. “You are not God, Himself, Christina. You do not know what He commands. You can only guess and hope that He has remained on your side. He does not always reward the ones who serve Him, does He, Christina?” He spread his arms wide. “You have overstepped.”

He reached for her.

“Satan! Please!” Christina said and now her midsection shimmered as she dropped to her knees. “I beg of you, Satan, please. Please torture Dymphna no more. Everything we do, we do to serve God. Please Satan. In His name, I beg this, in His name…”

The Devil took another deep breath and tilted his head at the groveling Patron. He nodded.

“His will be done, then,” he said, sarcasm darkening his words. He placed one finger against his right nostril, pinching it closed and then reared back, drawing in a breath through his mouth. He hesitated, catching Christina’s eye and he winked again.

He bent forcefully forward and expelled the last Patron from his other nostril.

* * *

Christina hovered over the curled form of Dymphna and waved her hands gently in the air above her. Light shimmered where her hands made contact with Dymphna, but it was not a bright light. It was not a healthy light. Christina spoke without looking up.

“We were bid come here, no matter that you believe it or not, Satan,” she said. Her voice was deep with grief. “We do not choose the ones we protect, he or she chooses us.”

“Your protection of this one is misguided,” he said, watching the ritual Christina performed over the dazed Dymphna. Small sparks of pure white light had begun to pop and tumble from Christina’s hands, landing on Dymphna and sizzling across her form, as if Christina were trying to ignite her back to consciousness.

“Tell me something, Christina,” the Devil said, incredulous curiosity in his voice. “Are you saying that one in there,”–he gestured toward the trailer–“prayed to you?”

“No, not that one. It was another…we were called through an Intervention.”

The Devil paused, surprised. An Intervention was a more serious matter. Depending on who had called out for it, God, Himself might even Sanction it. Patron Saints were not bound to very many things, but when God Sanctioned an Intervention, they came in accordance with His wishes.

“Who intervened on her behalf?”

Christina did not answer. She continued her ministrations to Dymphna.

“Christina,” the Devil said. “Who would be that imbecilic? That misguided?”

She looked up and now her eyes sparkled with eerily dancing points of light that seemed at once near and impossibly distant; like the milky way at the equator.

“Her son.”

* * *

The Devil sat on the old picnic table outside Carrie’s trailer. The night had become very dark. There was no moon. He was angry and deeply troubled, torn by his conflicting emotions.

The Patrons had disappeared moments before, leaving him to ponder Christina’s last words. They had been astonishing, indeed. The woman’s son? The murdered baby? How could that possibly be the case?

But the Devil knew with certainty that the Patron would never have lied; would never have even considered it a possibility for herself to do so.

How could that beaten and abused little boy want to Intervene for his mother? And if he, the wronged, were capable of forgiveness then shouldn’t–

A hand descended on the Devil’s shoulder and he jumped, turning. The old man–whom Sitri had so recently been evicted from–stood before him, dazed and swaying. His mouth worked and there were large gaps where his dentures had cracked and crumbled apart.

The Devil considered him.

“What?” the Devil said, his impatience clipping the word short.

“I…I’m…I think I…” the old man said, fumbling over his words. His eyes had a struck look. Stunned.

“Old man, you’re making no sense,” the Devil said. “Speak or leave me. On second thought, never mind the speaking, just leave.”

The Devil turned away.

The old man stood in confusion.

“Young man,” he said, placing cold, trembling fingers to the Devil’s shoulder. “I believe I may need some help, here. I can’t seem to remember…” he looked around, blank-eyed. “…can’t seem to remember where I am.”

The Devil had lowered his chin into his hand, exasperated at this intrusion.

“You’re at the Shawnee Woods Trailer Park,” he said. “Lucky you.”

Light, sharp fingers tap-tapped on his back.

“Young man? Can you help–”

The Devil rounded on him. He pointed down the dirt road.

“Go that way until you see lights. Knock. Tell them your sad story,” he turned away and sat back down. “Go now. I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

The old man was silent but the Devil could still feel his presence at his back. Then came a low sniffle and a small, mewling sob. He was crying. The Devil put his head in his hands and sighed. For some reason, Kelly came to his mind. Her kindness and pity.

He stood, turned and held out his hand.

The old man wiped his eyes and reached out shakily, and the Devil closed his hand around his. The old man’s fingers were thin and they felt as brittle and dry as pretzel sticks.

“Come on then,” the Devil said and sighed again. “I’ll help you.”

The Devil walked him to the next trailer in the line of homes. This one was nicely kept; warm light shone from the windows illuminating lovingly tended flowerbeds. There was an awning that ran almost the entire length and housed a picnic set and stainless steel grill.

The Devil prodded the old man, trying to get him to walk on his own to the trailer, but the old man balked and would not let go of the Devil’s hand. Sighing again but also thinking of Kelly, he walked the man to the trailer’s door and rapped lightly.

Behind them, a car pulled into the drive, a blue Impala.

“Can I help you boys?” A woman said, turning off the lights and exiting the car.

“Yes, this man…” the Devil said and jumped down from the steps. He pushed the old man lightly forward. “He could use some help. A phone, perhaps? He seems to have mislaid himself.”

The lady studied the old man’s face and then her eyes slid to the Devil’s. She bent back into her car and grabbed a grocery bag then stepped up to her door and unlocked it. She pushed it open invitingly.

“Well, sure thing. Bring him on in here. Poor old soul.”

The Devil set his jaw but led the old man past the lady and into the trailer. What was another few minutes of distraction after all the distraction he’d faced thus far? It was as nothing, he thought, and smiled grimly to himself.

“Here honey, set right down in the kitchenette. Let me get you a glass of something.” She was moving around the tiny kitchen having deposited the bag on the counter. “Water? Or do you think a little nip of something more medicinal?” She rooted in a lower cabinet and stood to wiggle a brown bottle temptingly. She smiled. “I’m Edy, by the way, Edy Sommers. And you are…?” She was looking at the old man, but he shook his head and dropped it into his hands, his elbows propped on the table.

She turned to the Devil, who had remained standing and was now trying to inch back out the door.

“What’s your dad’s name, honey?” she said. “Does he like whiskey? I also have Sambucca…think he might like that better?”

“He’s not my father, actually,” the Devil said. “I was just visiting a friend and he was wandering–”

“Oh ho! That’s just terrible!” she said and poured the whiskey into a small glass and set it in front of the old man. When he didn’t respond, she pushed it a few inches closer and then turned expectantly to the Devil, her eyebrows raised. “Who’s your friend, honey?”

“She lives next door to you; Carrie Walsh,” he said and reached behind him for the doorknob. “I think I should probably get back over there–”

Edy’s face drew up in disgust and she turned away. She tapped the whiskey glass millimeters closer to the old man. She shrugged.

“Not much cause for you to go rushing off,” she said. “Carrie isn’t home. She left earlier today.”

A crashing anger ripped into the Devil and his eyes glowed briefly with infernal light. He turned away and faced the door. He considered ripping it from the frame and throwing it out into the night.

Controlling his voice, he said:

“Really? And did she tell you where she was going?”

“She was miss high and mighty, I can tell you that much! Big ‘ol black limo here for her. She made a big show of it too; delaying to make sure everyone got a good look at her with the car. Pranced around with that poor little dog of hers, telling it to go poo because she didn’t have all day. She had somewhere to be! All la-di-da and waving like Miss America at anyone who had the misfortune to go past.”

She glanced at the Devil.

“I’m sorry to say those things, her being your friend and all, but I have to speak my mind. I always have.”

The Devil nodded.

“I understand. But she didn’t say where she was going?”

“Oh, some lawyer friend of hers had sent the car, so she told me. He was fetching her up to la-di-da Princeton to take her out for dinner and dancing. Big romantic hoo-raw.”

Gratitude flowed through him, making his knees weak and he thought of Kelly again. Had he not been thinking of her–of her kindness–and helped the old man…he would never have found the answer he sought.

He put a hand on Edy’s shoulder and she turned and smiled up at him, laying her hand over his.

“I really am sorry, honey; I mean that. The other neighbors and I have some crazy ideas about the things she’s done but…well, she’s your friend and I shouldn’t have said anything so off-color. Will you accept my apology?”

He smiled.

“Only if you’ll do me a favor,” he said.

“Anything, honey; what is it?”

“I have to leave…will you help this man? Help him find his way home?”

“Oh shoot, I can do that and it isn’t a favor to you! It’s just what any decent human would do, don’t you think so?”

* * *

A dusty red Sentra pulled onto the shoulder just past where the Devil stood. It was very early, the sky just beginning its transition from deep blue to pearly pinkish gray.