What Would Satan Do? (17 page)

Fuck
, he thought.  Parker was dead.  His trip to DC had been a complete waste.  More than a waste – it was a complete mess that he’d have to deal with.  A big mess, and absolutely nothing on the stupid Baphomet thing.  And, worst of all, there were fucking angels everywhere, apparently.  And not one of them was on his side.

The Governor was not your typical, modern-day politician.  These days, most political hacks come vacuum-packed with an overabundant supply of charisma and charm.  They make their way by smiling and making everyone they meet feel special and important.

Dick Whitford didn’t do special.  And charisma and charm could go fuck themselves, as far as he was concerned.  No, he’d made it to the top the old-fashioned way – backstabbing, blackmail, and bullying.  He saw the world in simple terms, classifying everything as either a weapon or a weakness.  He horded the former, ferreted out the latter, and was masterful at putting both to good use.

When Parker had told him about the angel, Whitford hadn’t been surprised in the least.  He had, after all, been the Vice President, and he’d made a point of reviewing all of the government’s darkest and dirtiest secrets.  He knew all about who really killed Kennedy, what NASA saw on the dark side of the moon, and what kind of weird shit had gone down out in the New Mexico desert.  And so there was no moment of shock, no pause for reflection to allow the new reality to sink in.  No, what he’d thought was,
How can I get one of those?
  And then he’d instructed Parker to “go out and find whatever magical crap you can get your hands on.” 

And now?  Well, good help is hard to find, and it’s very inconvenient when the help dies with his head in a commode.

He stabbed a meaty finger at his phone.  “Withers!” 

“Yes, sir?” 

He glanced up and saw his secretary standing in the doorway, where she’d apparently been hovering. 

The phone, unaware that Withers was actually in the room, started making an annoying beeping sound.  The Governor stabbed his finger at another one of its buttons, but that just seemed to provoke it into emitting an annoying dial tone.  He prodded it with a couple more finger jabs and, finally, had to use his fist to make it shut up.

Withers took a tentative step into the office.  Her face was pale.  “Mr. Parker, sir,” she paused, her voice a whisper, “is it true?”

Whitford sat back, impassive and toad-like, and ruminated.

“Is he – dead?” she asked.

Whitford didn’t move other than to take a slightly deeper breath.  “Yes,” he said at last.  Clyde Parker was indeed dead, but as inconvenient and annoying as that was, the Governor had neither the time nor the emotional capacity to waste precious minutes crying about it.  “Have you figured out where the hell everyone went?”

Ms. Withers brushed her hands down the front of her long skirt, and stood erect, regaining her composure.  “No, sir.  Although I’m pretty sure that I saw Joseph and one of the gardeners among those naked men who were out front earlier.”

“The security guard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So my entire staff left to go streaking?”

Ms. Withers shrugged. 

“That’s disgusting,” said Whitford.

“Yes, sir.  It is.”

“You’re not going to get naked and run off, are you?”

Ms. Withers seemed to think about it for a moment.  “No, sir.”

“Good.”  Whitford resumed his toadish rumination.

Withers watched him for a moment before breaking the silence.  “What would y—?”

“I need to talk to Cadmon,” he said.  He lurched forward in his chair, glowering for a moment before speaking.  “Get Cadmon on the phone.  I need to talk to Cadmon.”

Chapter 21.
          
Ima Eat Some BBQ, Bitches

The Governor’s Mansion was surrounded by military trucks, but something was odd.  The guard stand stood empty, and the big, iron gate appeared to have gotten stuck halfway open.  Bill Cadmon leaned forward from the back seat of his Town Car, peering out over the front seats at what looked, for all intents and purposes, like a deserted building. 

Cadmon glanced at his driver.  “Just go in, I guess.”

The car pulled up into the circular drive.  Off to the side, lodged halfway into a large bush, sat a utility truck.  It was tilted, with one of its front wheels dangling in the air, looking as if it had been parked by someone who’d been doing some hard partying and was anxious to get back to it.  The door was open, and Cadmon peered in the open door as his driver eased past, wondering just what the heck was going on. 

They pulled to a stop right in front of the Mansion.  The usual porter was missing, having gone off, presumably, with the driver of the truck, so Cadmon had to open his own door.  He jumped out, and with an angsty bounce in his step, mounted the few stairs to the main doorway where, again, there were no people. 
Odd
, he thought, as he searched for a doorbell.  He found the little, lighted button, and stood there ringing it for almost a full minute – an eternity for a man unaccustomed to waiting for anything.

He turned to his driver and shrugged.  The driver peered out from behind the steering wheel and shrugged right back.  Cadmon turned back to the door, but then immediately decided that he really didn’t want to wait any longer.  He turned and shrugged at his driver again. 

The driver, well aware that his boss was a colossal idiot, pointed to the door, and mouthed the words, “Open it!”

Cadmon pointed a finger in the air, and his eyebrows bounced halfway up his forehead in the way that eyebrows do when folks have “Eureka!” moments.  He tried the doorknob.  It was big and brass, and slightly intimidating, but it worked.  He glanced back at the driver, flashing a cocky smile that really only worked on buxom, computer-power-button-operator girls, and then went in. 

Whitford’s office suite was up the main staircase.  Cadmon knocked and poked his head in.  “Hello?”

Ms. Withers started, nearly losing control of the stack of papers she held.  “Oh!  Mr. Cadmon.  You’re here!  My goodness!  Please come in.”  She fumbled the papers onto her desk and bustled over to hold the door open. 

“Kind of a ghost town around here,” said Cadmon. 

Ms. Withers stared at him from underneath droopy eyelids and pursed her lips.  Her eyes met Cadmon’s and lingered there for a moment before she spoke.  “Yes, it is.  We’re a little short-handed this morning.”  She bared her teeth at him, and he went into a defensive half-crouch.  After a moment, he realized she was just trying to smile so he stood back up.  He’d never seen her do that before though, so he stayed ready, just in case he needed to do something.  Like crouch again. 

“Those are nice pants,” she said.

He went back into the defensive crouch.  “What is going on around here today?  Where the heck is everyone?  What the—”  The waiting area smelled smoky and slightly sweet.  He glanced around and spotted a large, grease-stained bag on her desk.

“Well, Mr. Cadmon, that is a very good question.”  She pronounced the last three words as if each were a separate sentence, using the irritating authoritative voice that underlings of powerful people often adopt.  “Unfortunately, it is one for which I am unable to provide an answer.” 

Cadmon gave a non-committal grunt and nodded, pretending to admire an old map of Texas on the wall in order to avoid further eye contact. 

“The Governor has been waiting for you.  I’ll let him know you’re here.”  She snatched the bag and marched across the room toward a pair of imposing, darkly-stained doors.

She paused, turning her ear toward the door to listen.  Cadmon could hear the Governor having what sounded like a very exciting conversation.  Ms. Withers stood perfectly still, waiting for Whitford to stop making angry sounds before peeking in.  Cadmon, peering over her shoulder, noticed that he did not appear to be on the phone, and had, apparently, been ranting to himself.  Ms. Withers cleared her throat to speak, but Whitford barked at her, without even looking up, before she could say a word.

“Why haven’t you got that goddamned preacher on the phone yet?  I need to talk to him.  Right now.”

“He’s here, sir,” said Ms. Withers. 

Whitford looked up.  “What?”

“Cadmon, sir.  He’s here.”

Whitford’s eyes narrowed.  “I told you,” he said, “to get him on the phone.”

“Yes sir, I know.”  Ms. Withers almost looked nervous.  Almost.  But she stood her ground.  “I was unable to reach him.  But he’s here now.” 

Whitford continued his brisk tone, but declined to make eye contact.  “All right.  Send him in.”

“Mr. Cadmon?  Oh—”  She turned to find the preacher right behind her, and attempted another smile.  And then she stepped backward, moving her body into the doorway and pressing her back against the doorjamb.  “You can go on in, Bill.”  Her chest heaved. 

Cadmon took a hesitant step toward the doorway and paused, making several awkward, abortive attempts to go through before sliding sideways, pressed up against the opposite jamb.  The secretary let out a long breath.

“Thank you, Ms. Withers,” said Whitford.  “That will be all.” 

She seemed suddenly to be aware of herself.  “Oh,” she said.  “Okay.  I’ll just be right out here.  At my desk.  If you need anything.”  She flashed another zombie smile at Cadmon and clicked the door shut behind her.  She burst back in half a second later, bustling over to Whitford’s desk, where she placed the greasy paper bag.  If Cadmon hadn’t been studiously ignoring the woman, he’d have noticed a furtive wink as she made her way out of the office a second time.

He watched as the Governor tore open the bag, pulled out container after container, and arrayed them in a semi-circle on his enormous desk.  The giant desk was, like the rest of the office, stained almost black.  The massive structure might have made a nice house for a family in one of those third-world countries.  But this was Texas.  And Whitford needed something on which he could eat his meals and prop his feet.  So there it sat, in the middle of his enormous wood-paneled cave, looming over and oppressing anyone stupid or unfortunate enough to come into the Governor’s office. 

Whitford didn’t look up from his plate, but started right in.  “Apparently, my man Parker is dead.”  He grunted as he shoveled hunks of smoked meat into his face.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” said Cadmon with a gentle nod and facial expression that made him look as if he were sucking on a sour candy.

“Yeah,” said Whitford, “Whatever.  Anyway, you called this meeting.”  He took a moment to engage in some ruminative mastication.  “So get on with it.”

“I did not,” said Cadmon.  He pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward Ms. Withers’ desk.  “She said—”

“Whatever.  You’ve been calling me non-stop for a week.”

“But I—”

“Don’t give me that crap,” said Whitford.

Cadmon clamped his mouth shut.  He wished that, just once, he could talk to this fat bastard without feeling like a stupid schoolboy.

“So what do you want?” asked the Governor.

Cadmon opened his mouth to speak, but the governor interrupted.  “Before we get into that, I need you to tell me something,” he said.  “I want to know how you knew about the storm.”

“Well,” said Cadmon, “that’s actually one of the things I’m here to talk about.”  His eyes bugged out, but because the Governor had already cleared his plate and was now chomping a container full of onion slices that had clearly been intended as garnish.  The two men locked eyes for an instant and Cadmon quickly wiped the look of surprise off his face.

“Well?” asked Whitford.

Cadmon took a deep breath.  He rubbed his hands together, then adjusted his seat.  “Well, it’s—”  He ran a hand through his hair.  He’d thought through what he was going to say a hundred times, but now he couldn’t find the right words.  So he just came right out and said it.  “It was an angel, Dick.  An angel told me about that storm.”

“Okay,” said Whitford, completely unfazed.  “All right.” 

Cadmon looked up, dropping his hand from his forehead.  Whitford appeared to be nodding to himself. 

“You don’t seem—”  The preacher shook his head, unable to find the right words.  Of all the different ways this could turn out, he would not have predicted this particular response.  He wondered if Whitford had known about Ezekiel already.

The pale monster in the squeaky chair smirked.  “I’ll admit that it’s pretty strange.  I mean, an angel.  Ha!”  Cadmon jumped at the sound of Whitford attempting to laugh.  “But the idea that you could predict this huge, unbelievable storm – that was absurd.  And then you turned out to be right.  The world’s best meteorologists couldn’t have predicted that.  So, I knew it had to be some kind of weird, fantastical crap.”  He gave a little nod, as if this kind of thinking were perfectly natural for all good ole boys: 
Got yourself an ineffable mystery?  A situation inexplicable using reason and modern scientific knowledge?  No problem.  It was probably just an angel or something.
 

“And you believe me?  About the angel?”

Whitford hesitated.  “Well,” he said, “the storm showed up, just like you said.  And it all worked out like you predicted.”  He gave another one of those “that’s perfectly reasonable” nods. 

A moment of awkward silence passed between them.

“Okay,” said Cadmon, letting out a breath.  “He wants to meet with you.”

Whitford said nothing.

“The angel does.  Here.”

Whitford still sat, impassive and toad-like.

“So, he’s coming.  Here.  To meet with you.  And he’s—”

Whitford interrupted with an abrupt burst of sound, reinforcing the idea that he was, in fact, a very large, very pale amphibian.  “When?” he croaked.

“I— I don’t know exactly.  Soon.”

“Tomorrow?  Next week?  How soon?”

“Any minute now.”

“Jesus!”  Whitford stood, his toad-like impassivity gone.  “Is he just going to walk up the steps?”

Cadmon sighed, defeated.  “No, he’ll just appear.”

“Good.”  Another nod, which immediately changed into the kind of assholic look of condescension that can only be achieved when a really large person in a position of authority tucks his outermost chin and stares down his nose.  “With those goddamned giant wings—”