What Would Satan Do? (23 page)

“Texas has its own army?” asked Festus.

“Yes, well—  Texas and about twenty other states have them.  It’s basically the same thing as the National Guard, but separate.  But there’s more.”

Liam started to speak, but Lola cut him off.  “We have reason to believe,” she said, “that, contrary to reports, the Louisiana governor wasn’t killed in the storm.”

“What?” asked Festus.  “He’s still alive?”

“No.  He disappeared hours before the storm hit.”

“Huh,” said Liam.  “Weird.”  He said this with rather less excitement than might be expected of someone who has just learned that his governor went and whacked the governor of a neighboring state.  In fact, he might as well have been remarking on the presence of an oddly-shaped cloud.

“Weird?” asked Festus, supplying some of the enthusiasm that had been missing from Liam’s statement.  “It’s crazy!  I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah,” said Lola.  “It’s all very strange.  It’s almost—well, it’s definitely too much.  Too weird.  I— I just can’t figure it out.”

Festus leaned forward and rested his elbows on the top of the front seats.  “I’ve got three—four—five words for you guys,” he said.  “It’s the end of the world.  Okay, that was six.  But here’s two more: Fuck, yeah.”  This elicited a tiny, barely perceptible smirk from Lola.  “So, I’m serious,” said Festus.  “I think it’s the end of the world.”

“He’s got this conspiracy theory,” muttered Liam. 

Lola raised an eyebrow at Liam.  The raised eyebrow said, “You’re the one who wanted to bring him.” 

“It’s not a conspiracy theory,” said Festus.  “I mean, think about it.  You got this guy, he’s taking over the world.  He invaded Louisiana…”

Liam started to interrupt.  “He didn’t—”

“Dude, the fact that he had the Louisiana Governor killed ahead of time confirms it.  Whitford isn’t on a humanitarian mission.  He invaded the state, plain and simple.”  He turned back to Lola.  “And now he controls all that oil.  And he’s barricading the state, and building up an army.”  Festus sat back in his seat as Liam executed another maneuver straight out of James Bond’s own copy of Her Majesty’s Top Secret Driving Manual. 

Liam and Lola sat in silence for a moment, not so much digesting what Festus had said as suffering from the mental equivalent of heartburn.

When he spoke again, he was much less animated; almost contemplative.  “It’s like he’s all four Horsemen of the Apocalypse at once.  White, black, green.”  Suddenly the animation came back.  “The earthquakes and all the storms – we didn’t have any of those
here
until after he came back from Washington.”

“Festus,” said Liam.  But Festus was totally absorbed by his own theorizing.  “Festus!” 

Festus looked up.  “What?”

“This is crazy.  Crazy talk.  Total nonsense.  So stop it already.”

Festus seemed to deflate a little, but then perked right back up.  “How about the plagues of locusts?”

“And frogs,” said Lola.

“Toads,” said Festus.

Lola rolled her eyes.  “Toads.”

“Purely coincidental,” said Liam.  “Your theory is crazy talk.”

“Well, wait a second,” said Lola.  “Whitford
is
pretty religious.”

“Yeah,” said Festus, “if, by ‘very’ you mean, ‘totally fucking batshit’.  Sure.”

“Right,” said Lola, turning to Liam.  “Like, he’s opposed to any kind of Israeli-Palestinian peace because he thinks it would go against God’s will or something.”  Liam shot her a look that would have made a ninja pause and re-think his plans for the evening.  She ignored it.  “So what if he really does
think
that it’s the end of the world?”

“Well,” said Liam.  He relaxed a little and nodded.  His eyebrows promptly made their way up his forehead.  “That’s exactly what Boehner said.”

“Ha!” said Festus.  “And you’re the one who’s always telling me not to think with my dick.”

That comment led to a few moments of uncomfortable silence. 

“So where are we headed?” asked Festus. 

Lola ignored him.  She was too busy holding on as Liam roared down an exit ramp without slowing at all.  Not even a tiny bit.  She turned to Liam.  “You’re going to get a ticket.”

He nodded the slow nod of a stoner contemplating the pot-enhanced profundity of a “Shit Happens” bumper sticker.  “Yeah,” he said without turning to look at her.  “I guess.”

She smiled, but then noticed a sign on the side of the road.  “Hey,” she said.  “I think this is where we’re supposed to t—”

Liam flung the car through a ninety-degree turn onto a two-lane ranch road, causing Festus to let out a high-pitched and diphthongal, “Ha-aa!” as he smashed up against the side of the back seat.  Up in front, Lola squelched a couple of gross gulping noises.  But the car stayed on the road, and even managed not to spend too much time sideways.  There was a bit of smoke, and some urping sounds from the tires that made it sound as if Liam was driving on a road paved with disgruntled baby seals, but Lola’s breakfast stayed put, and nobody died.  So it was a good turn.

They turned again onto an even smaller country road a minute or two later, but there was a lot less room for high-speed antics this time, mostly on account of the presence of a very large and heavy-looking gate which someone had – obviously in an egotistical and self-centered fit of aristocratic xenophobia – inconsiderately placed across the pavement.  It had a sign that read “Private Property” in large, unfriendly letters.  Liam smashed down hard on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop inches from the gate.  Festus and Lola immediately busied themselves breathing again and shivering and giving thanks to various deities.  Liam, on the other hand, calmly backed the car up a bit, and reached out the window to tap the “Call” button on an intercom panel that stood just outside his open window – having been installed there, presumably, by the same inconsiderate person who’d erected the gate.

He turned to Lola.  “I assume this is the place?”

Lola checked the scrap of paper on which she’d written the address.  “Yeah,” she said, craning her neck to read the numbers on the gate.  “This is it.”

Outside, the speaker on the intercom panel made a double-beeping sound as if Liam were placing an international call.  Festus piped up from the backseat.  “This is the United States calling with a collect call from Mr. Floyd to Mrs. Floyd, will you accept the charges?”

“Festus,” Liam sighed.  “Please shut up.”

The speaker made a staticky click and a smoky, Latin voice answered.  “Hhhello?  Hwho is it?”  His H’s were extra breathy and sexy.

Liam leaned toward the speaker.  “Liam McEwen and Lola Ford.  We’re here to see Alistair Preston.”  There was a murmur of protest from the back seat.  Liam glanced in the rearview mirror.  “You’re not officially here.”

“Jes.”  The speaker buzzed and crackled and, between the bits that sounded more or less like human speech, made staticky wooshing sounds.  “We hab been espectine jou.”

Liam turned back to Lola, a slightly confused look on his face.  But then the big gate swung open.  He shifted into gear, easing the automobile over a cattle guard and onto a road that wove its way off ahead through patches of gnarled cedar trees and dried-out, scrubby brush.

They traveled along the road – which was apparently just a driveway – twisting and turning for several minutes and catching only sporadic glimpses of their destination.  Finally the trees opened up to reveal a well-trimmed garden in front of a palatial building.  It was really less of a garden, though, than a football-field-sized menagerie of non-indigenous plants that had been trimmed and abused into an exciting array of chunky, geometric shapes that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a 1980s rock video.  Behind the Max Headroom garden sat the sprawling, multilevel building – a home, presumably – which looked as if someone had taken an enormous pile of surplused balconies, archways, and princess towers, covered the whole thing in pink stucco and Spanish roof tiles, and decided to call it “home.”

Festus leaned forward.  “Whoa.”

A man emerged from the building as they pulled up to the house.  He ignored Liam’s car, choosing instead to stare off into the unknown distance as a slight breeze picked up and toyed with his long, flowy black hair.  He came down the stone steps to the driveway slowly, giving each the time and attention it deserved.  He had no shoes and his jeans were ragged and well-worn.  He wore a loose, white linen shirt.  Buttons were, apparently, not his forte – he’d only managed a couple.  The top portion of his shirt therefore hung open, revealing a glistening expanse of chest, if you’re in to that sort of thing. 

“Hhhello,” he said, nearly swallowing the first part of the word.  He pronounced his ‘H’s from the back of his throat, sounding almost like he was about to spit something nasty onto the ground.  “My name is Ramón.”  His words dripped with passion, sexiness, and whatever the hell else makes fat old ladies buy romance books at grocery stores.  He refused to make eye contact with either Festus or Liam, opting instead to stare at Lola with his smoldering eyes and the kind of tough-guy-staring-into-the-sun look that actors and famous soccer players make when cameras are around.

“Um, hi,” said Lola.

“Jou are here to talk about the Baphomet?”  He tossed his hand back dismissively, as if he were discarding some trifling, unsexy thing, and tilted his head to regard them out of the corner of his eye.  “Jes?” he asked, with kind of a half-cocked, knowing smirk.  Lesser men would have looked stupid making that kind of face, but lesser men weren’t Ramón. 

Liam and Festus exchanged a “WTF?” look. 

Lola pulled out a pen and notepad and dove in.  “Ramón, you know about Project Baphomet?”

“Jes.  Whell, maybe.  Hwhat do jou want to know?”  He scratched absentmindedly at his chest, tugging the edge of his shirt a little to reveal a chiseled and, apparently, waxed pectoral muscle.  Lola’s eyes bugged out.  She turned her head and coughed to stop from laughing. 

Festus interrupted.  “Wait, what did he say?”

“Jes,” smoldered Ramón.

“He means ‘Yes,’”  Lola explained.

“Jes,” said Ramón.  “Jes!”  He held his hands out, palms up, as if that explained it.  He looked Festus up and down and scoffed. 
Estupid idiota
, he thought. 

Festus made a smirking face of his own.  Only his came off looking uncomfortable and showing that he had way more chins than was really absolutely necessary. 
Stupid idiot
, he thought.

“Festus, you’re not helping, so shut up, and go sit over there.”  Lola pointed to a sharp rock.  She turned back to Ramón, who stood there looking vaguely tragic.  “Tell us what you know.”

“Whell...” Ramón ran his hand through his hair, closing his eyes and pursing his lips as he did so.  “It was a lot of, yo no se, how do you say... cabras?”

“I don’t know Spanish.”

“Goats,” volunteered Festus, from where he sat perched on his uncomfortable rock. 

“Jes.  Cabras,” said Ramón.  He shrugged as if it were absurd to suggest that there could be a CIA program that didn’t have something to do with goats.

Lola let her hands, pencil and notepad drop down by her sides.  “What on Earth do goats have to do with anything?”

“Los matan.  They kill them.”  He shrugged again.  What the hell else do the CIA do with goats?

“What?” she asked.  This was going nowhere.

“They kill them… con their cabezas.”  He pointed a finger and tapped his noggin.

“With their heads?  What?”  Lola turned a dismayed looked at Liam.  He shrugged. 

“Hey,” said Festus.  “I think I read about this once.”  He turned to Ramón.  “It’s real?  They really killed goats with their minds?”

“Jes.  Sus cabezas,” said Ramón.  Lola mouthed something at Liam, so Ramón took the opportunity to ogle her up and down.  A satisfied smile spread across his lips. 

Lola turned back.  “I—” she hesitated at the sight of Ramón’s post-coital expression.  “I don’t see the connection between goats and Baphomet.”

“Jou know,” said Ramón.  “Jus’ cabras.”

“Goats,” said Festus. 

“Jes.”  Ramón pointed at Festus as if he were to blame.

“Just ... goats?” asked Lola.

“Jes.”

“Ramón,” she said, “I think you need to take us to Mr. Preston now.”

Ramón looked sullen.  “Jou better come inside.”

They followed Ramón through an imposing entry that opened up onto an expanse of snow-white, crushed-leather sofas and other expensive-looking furniture.  The room was sprinkled with a variety of small recreations of famous statutes – David, The Thinker, The Easter Island heads – which someone had improved via the liberal application of some homo-erotic artistic license.

The main sitting area was bordered on two sides by colonnaded walkways with darkened halls leading off to other parts of the estate.  Thirty feet off, on the far side of the enormous room where the rear wall should have been, was another colonnaded walkway.  But this one opened up onto a multi-level deck and pool that overlooked the Austin hill country.

Ramón stopped and turned.  “Please hab a seat.  I be right back.”  He eyed Festus, and looked alarmed as he noticed the white couch Festus was poised to sit on.  “Jou sir, jou chould sit ober hhhere.”  He gestured to a dark and severe-looking wooden chair that looked like a leftover from the Inquisition.  The seat offered no padding, and the back was just a board that shot up from the seat at a ninety-degree angle.  “Is … mas comfortable,” Ramón said, pronouncing each syllable.  He patted the austere chair.

Festus regarded the chair as if it were a medieval torture device.  He looked back at Liam and Lola.  Lola turned away, pretending to be interested in one of the priapic statutes.  Liam just smiled and gestured toward the chair.  “Looks comfy,” he said.

“I be right back,” said Ramón.  He disappeared through one of the darkened doorways on the side of the room.  After a moment, an older gentleman strode in, Ramón padding in barefoot right behind him. 

Alistair Preston’s posture was aristocratic.  He wore a smoking jacket and very loud, plaid pants of the sort that only rich, old British guys can get away with.  “Hello, hello,” he said.  “Do come in, please, do come in.”