What Would Satan Do? (14 page)

“And then I saw you come out of the FBI building, and, well—  that’s how I ended up here,” he said.  “That’s everything I know.”

The Devil sat for a moment, rubbing his chin.  When he spoke, it was as if he were alone in the room.  “I think,” he said, “that I will have to go and have a talk with Mr. Whitford.”

Parker smiled – this seemed like a good thing – but then he saw the look in Satan’s eye.

“Now,” said Satan, “how about some water?”

Chapter 16.
          
Klaxon Ducks

The telephone is naively regarded by many to be a modern convenience; a tool created to help folks overcome the accidents of geography that would separate them.  This, however, is wrong.  The real story of the creation of the telephone is actually a sad, sordid tale.

Alexander Graham Bell – a notorious prankster now incorrectly known to history as the “inventor” of this sadistic, infernal machine – actually conceived of the phone as a means of harassing and taunting his neighbors.  The people in his community, aware of his predilection for stupid pranks, had taken to avoiding him, and he needed something that would allow him to reach out and touch those who, under normal circumstances, would see him or hear him coming, and promptly run away.  Necessity may be the mother of invention, but its father is an asshole. 

Liam slept, sprawled out on an extra large bed – his long arms and legs extending at odd angles from beneath piles of sheets – blissfully, pharmaceutically unaware that Alexander Graham Bell’s ghost lurked just off-stage.

His bedroom was simple, if a bit Spartan: a bed, a table, a lamp, and stacks of books piled here and there.  He’d left the windows open to try to take advantage of the cool nighttime air, finally falling asleep to the shimmery, almost rhythmical sound of the breeze playing in the leaves of the trees outside.

He’d stayed up too late.  Again.  Flipping channels, trying and failing to read books, pacing.  He’d felt disconnected; out-of-sorts.  There seemed no point to anything.  No point to watching television.  No point in trying to eat the dinner he’d microwaved after the weird date with that woman, Lola.  No point to reading.  No point to sleeping.  It had taken a third sleeping pill before he’d been able to set aside his angsty malaise and finally get some sleep.

Alexander Graham Bell’s cold, dead hand reached out and touched him.

“Mmmmmmrrrrhhhghghgh.”  Liam rolled over.

The phone continued to suck.

“Mmmmmmmm!!” he insisted.  In his dream, angry ducks with klaxon bills squawked at him.

“MMMMmmerrrrrrraaaaaaguuuggghh ducks!”  Something crashed and he was awake.  He realized that it was the phone that was ringing, and that there were no tornado-siren-billed ducks anywhere.  He grabbed the handset, banging the receiver into his eye. 

A man’s voice said, “Liam?  Liam McEwen?” 

“Ow, fuck,” said Liam, rubbing his eye.  “Yes?  Who is this?  Why are you calling me now?”  He considered smashing the phone on something as punishment for, well, for being a phone.  And for ringing.  The bastard.  But then he remembered that he was more mature than that these days.  He took a deep breath, muttered an extra “fucker” at the phone for good measure, and carefully replaced the receiver against his ear.  “What?” he barked.

“Liam, it’s Cas Boehner.”

Boehner had been Liam’s first boss back at the CIA Special Activities Division.  He was the man who had called the shots back in Washington while Liam was off in the Third World doing all sorts of things that fall into the category of “Don’t Try This at Home.”  Liam wondered why the hell he was calling now, five years after he had retired, and at ass-o’clock in the morning?  Clearly, the man was looking for trouble.

What the heck time was it anyway?  Liam searched for his alarm clock.  It was gone.  He reached up and turned on the lamp.  The clock was in pieces on the floor, the unfortunate victim of his anti-duck rage.

“Liam?”  Boehner was apparently still on the phone.  Such a persistent wanker.  “I’m not calling at a bad time, am I?”

“It’s still dark outside, Cas.  So yeah, I’d say it’s a bad time.”

“It was a rhetorical question,” said Boehner, confirming that he was, in fact, a dick. 

Liam imagined Boehner smiling to himself at the stupid joke.  He remembered how Boehner’s smile was basically an annoying smirk, exacerbated by a stupid head waggle.  “I’m going to hang up now, Cas,” he said, and started to put the phone down.

“Liam, wait.”  Boehner sounded worried.  Apparently he’d learned to simulate human emotions since the last time they’d talked.  “Something has come up.”

“No kidding?  I figured you were calling in the middle of the night just to catch up on old times.”  He wondered whether Boehner had also learned about sarcasm.

“I need your help.”

“Okay, the shop will be open tomorrow.”

“I don’t need a damn guitar.”

“Then I can’t help you.”  Liam sat up on the side of the bed and put his bare feet on the wood floor.  He was waking up now, passing beyond the point where he’d be able to roll over and fall back asleep.  He thought about what an asshole Cas was for calling in the middle of the night, and then he thought about the box of microwavable egg rolls Festus had left in his freezer.

“Yes you can, and we’re going to pay you very well for your troubles.”

“And that’s ‘very well,’ by government standards?”  Liam asked, not intrigued at all.

“Well, yeah, but still.”

“Listen, jerk off.  I’m retired.  I’m done with all that crap, and it’s been— it’s been years since I did any kind of training or even picked up a gun.  There are at least five other guys you can reactivate who are probably much more interested and more prepared to deal with whatever crap you’ve got to deal with.  Call one of them.”  He started to put the phone down, but then brought it back to his face.  “And anyway, I shouldn’t be on your list of people to harass in the middle of the night after the whole thing with the Vice President.” 

“Whitford is why I’m calling.  He’s the problem, Liam.”

Liam held the phone out at arm’s length and stared at it, as if it had just bitten him.  He sighed, muttering to himself.  “What on Earth?”

“Liam?  Liam?  Hello?”

Liam put the phone back to his ear.  “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Look, I—” Boehner sighed.  “I know there’s been a lot crap between us.  But this goes way beyond any kind of personal B.S.  Just hear me out.”

“I’m listening,” said Liam.  “You have thirty seconds.”

“You’ve seen the news?”

“Whitford taking over the state of Louisi—”

“Yes.  And the refineries and pipelines and reserves,” said Boehner.  “So you know he’s positioning himself to do something.  Well, there’s more.  Much more.”

“Okay.”

“As I’m sure you’re very aware, there have been a lot of strange things going on lately – unprecedented earthquakes, tornadoes, weird rain…”

“You think,” asked Liam, “that Dick Whitford is somehow controlling the weather?  Earthquakes I can understand, but the weather?”

“No, what I’m saying is that there are a lot of folks who are starting to think really crazy stuff about all the things that have been happening.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” said Boehner, “it’s complex.”

“So, simplify it for me.”

“Well…”

“Cas.”

Boehner sighed.  “The end of the world, Liam.”  He spoke the words with the tone of a teenager forced to acknowledge a curfew or address someone as “sir.”  “There are a lot of people out there who, when they look at all of the things that have been happening, jump to the conclusion that there’s a pattern – that there’s really some kind of meaning to be found in a series of unrelated natural disasters.  There are a lot of people who’ve decided that – it sounds stupid, but, well – they’ve decided that it’s the end of the world.  You know – like Armageddon and—”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the headlines.  But what does this have to do with Dick Whitford and Louisiana?”

“He is, apparently, one of the ones who thinks this.”

“So?” asked Liam.

“Well, he’s
really
believes it.”

“So he’s a dumbass.  And?”

“Well,” said Boehner, “apparently, the whole Louisiana thing is part of that.”

“What does that even mean?”  Liam laughed.  “Wait,” he said, “you want me to take care of Whitford?  Take him out?  I can do that.”

“No!  Holy shit, no!  That is
not
why I’m calling.”

“But it would be easy, and—”

“No—”

“I’d like to do it.  Really.”

“No,” said Boehner, “that’s not what I want.”

“But that’s what
I
want.”  Liam switched the phone to his other ear and settled in.  “See,” he said, thinking back to the touchy-feely afternoon talk show that Raju liked to put on at the shop, “that’s the whole problem between you and me – with our relationship.  Since the very beginning.  You never acknowledged what
I
want.  A healthy relationship is two-way street.  A ‘give-and-take’ if you will, and—”

“Liam?”

“Yes?”

“Please shut up.”

Liam sighed.  “So, what then?”

“Okay,” continued Boehner.  “It’s like this.  We just found the body of one of Whitford’s men here in D.C.  A guy named Clyde Parker.”

“Clyde Parker is dead?”

“You knew him?”

Liam gave a non-committal grunt. 

“Well,” said Boehner, “Parker apparently spent the last week or so snooping around Washington.  He was apparently searching for something called ‘Baphomet.’”

“Hmm...  sounds scary.”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“No,” said Liam.

“It’s a project we had a few years back.  All very top secret.  Anyway, they found Parker’s body in some ritzy condo.  Apparently his head was in a toilet.”

“Where was his body?”

“Still attached,” said Boehner.  “The condo was rented to a guy named B.L. Tod.”

“Is there a point to this story?  ‘Cause I’m going back to bed in about ten seconds.”

“Thirty-six hours ago, a single man walked into the Hoover Building—”

“Ahh!” said Liam.  “People walk in there all the time.  It’s completely normal, and nothing to worry about.  Problem solved.  Glad I could be of help.”

“Yes,” said Boehner, “but this one killed thirty-seven agents.”

“When did this happen?  I haven’t seen anything on the news—”

“Well, we’re trying to keep things quiet until we figure out who the hell this guy is.  Actually, we know who it is – this B.L. Tod guy – but we have little more than a name.”

“And what does all this have to do with Whitford?” asked Liam.

“Well, just hours after this guy blows up half the FBI building, Clyde Parker ends up dead in his apartment.” 

“Okay,” said Liam, but then he paused, thinking, and sighed.  “I still don’t see the connection.”

“I’m not sure anyone does.  But what we know is this:  First, this guy is dangerous.  Second, he may have some kind of connection to Baphomet – because of Parker – and therefore to Dick Whitford.  And now he’s headed your way.  He’s headed to Texas.”

Liam scoffed.  “How do you know that?  He leave you a note?”  He rubbed his head to try to get rid of a dull, throbbing sensation that was getting worse as the phone call went on.

“We’ve got a bunch of searches – look ups for his license plate – all through Virginia and Tennessee.  And then we end up finding a highway patrol car in flames and the cop is gone.”

Liam laughed.  He’d never had a very good relationship with traffic cops, and tended to think of them as more or less sub-human.  “Sounds like he’s doing us all a favor.  Anyway, you want me to go ahead and kill Whitford?  I can do it.  No problem.”  Liam had suddenly found that he really, really wanted to take out the Governor.

“No!” said Boehner.  The phone went silent for a moment as Boehner, apparently, paused to sigh and be pissed and maybe tear some hair out.  Liam smiled.  It was just like old times. 

“This isn’t the usual bullshit, Liam.  This guy is—he’s very strange.”

Liam did not respond.

“He blew up an entire floor, but he didn’t use a bomb or—anything, as far as we can tell.”

“What?  How did he do it?”

“We don’t know.  It’s— It almost looks…”  Boehner sighed. 

“What, Cas?”

“He’s…”

“Cas?”

“He’s like you, Liam.”

The two men sat in silence. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Liam.

“Yes, you do.”

“I had an agreement, Cas.  Nobody is supposed to talk about any of that.  Including you.  Ever again.”

“And I’m not.”

“You just did.”

“Would you stop?  Look, we have him on video, Liam.  He’s totally unarmed.  Just walks up and starts setting things on fire, making people dead, and blowing things up.  It’s—it’s unbelievable.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Well, there are several possibilities.  But there’s only one that concerns you.  There is a man, who lives not too far from you, by the name of Alistair Preston.  He was with the Baphomet project.  I’ve got a contact who will meet you there in Austin tomorrow – well, this morning.  At the satellite office.”

“You want me to meet someone, you send him to me,” said Liam.  “But don’t bother, because I’m not doing it.”

“Look,” Boehner sighed, “I don’t have anyone else I can turn to.  I need your help.”

“Why can’t you send someone from DC?”

“You know I’m not supposed to send my guys into some state.  And I—”

“But I’m already in Texas?  I don’t think it works that way.”

“—definitely can’t do it with those checkpoints up.” 

“What?  What checkpoints?”

Boehner sighed.  “Whitford has set up checkpoints at the Texas and Louisiana borders.  There’s a rumor he’s going to shut down the airports.”

“Cas, I really don’t think I want to get involved .  I’ve put all of that behind me, and I—”

“Come on.  Help me out here.  All I want—”

“I’m sorry, Cas.  I’m not going to do this.”

“All I want is for you to meet up with one of the agents down there.  Well—she’s not an agent, technically.  She’s on loan.  Her name is Lola Ford.  She’ll come to you.”