Sympathy for the Devil (18 page)

"D-does it really matter?" Seeing his glare she hurried on. "I mean, they've probably suspected it all along, since we share a suite whenever we travel. The Secret Service types don't talk about such things. They'd lose their jobs, if they did."

He stared at her in silence for a few seconds. "You may be right, although do not think you will escape punishment for your carelessness. We can afford no mistakes.
None.
Republican politicians, even widowed ones, don't fuck the help. It could cost votes among the Bible-thumping crowd. They leave that to the Democrats. The Master we both serve will not show mercy if we fail him."

He ran his gaze slowly over her naked, still dripping body. "Any more than I will show mercy to you now."

Chapter 17

"It was black magic," Colleen O'Donnell said. "The smell of it was all over her."

Special Agent Dale Fenton nodded slowly. "I guess you'd know, if anyone would."

Fenton and O'Donnell had been partners in the Behavioral Science Unit for nearly three years. Although the unit's brief covered criminal psychopaths who crossed state lines, there were some cases that transcended psychology and edged into the territory of the occult. Within the unit, these cases were collectively known as 'the weird shit.' Ever since budget cuts five years ago had forced the elimination of the semi-secret department known as Shadow Unit, all investigation of 'the weird shit' fell to a small group of agents within Behavioral Science. At present, that group consisted of O'Donnell and Fenton.

Colleen O'Donnell, being a white witch, was uniquely suited to investigate such cases, but Fenton was the only person in the Bureau who knew of her special abilities.

They were sitting across from Gate 34 at Reagan National, where a Delta Airlines clerk had just announced that their flight to Indianapolis was being postponed 45 minutes, due to bad weather in the Midwest.

"I didn't know what to think," Colleen said. "At first, I wondered if Mel had actually gone over to the, uh -"

"Dark side?" Fenton smiled, his very white teeth standing out in contrast to his black face.

"Yeah, them. But I realized that the psychic odor wasn't strong enough to be coming from her directly. She'd picked it up by being around a person who used it, or a place where it was used."

"Her partner - what's his name - Garvin? Could it be him?"

"Doubtful. I ran into him at the federal courthouse in Baltimore last month. We were both giving depositions, but in different cases. We chatted in the hall for a couple of minutes, and there wasn't a whiff of black magic on him then."

"So it must've come from somebody else. Or some
place
else."

"And that's why I got a funny feeling when she told me about the last case she'd been on - not even a case, really, just one of those make-work deals that the bureaucrats come up with."

"Bullshit Federal regulations are as thick as fleas on an old dog. Which particular flea we talkin' about here?"

"The one that says when a member of Congress croaks, the Bureau has to make sure that the death wasn't suspicious."

"Even if he dies in a hospital? Seems like the COD would be pretty obvious there."

"No, that's the exception," she said. "And I expect most of them
do
die in hospitals - either of illness or iatrogenic medicine."

Fenton shook his head a couple of times. "You're using big words again. You know that just confuse us poor black folk."

"You're a riot, Dale. I bet that routine went over really well at - where'd you go, Yale?"

"University of Virginia - the 'Harvard of the South,' if that's not a contradiction in terms, and it probably is. I was in the same class as the chick who joined the Bureau and later shot that serial killer, Buffalo Billy. Clara Something."

"Sterling, I think it was. Damn, I'd have liked to meet her. What was she like - at UVA?"

"Didn't really know her," Fenton said. "Just to say 'Hi.' I was in a couple of classes with her, though - sharp lady. Very focused. I bet she'd have known that iatrogenic medical treatment is the kind that kills you, instead of making you better."

She gave him a look. "Yeah, well, Mel's guy died at home, in some kind of freak accident."

"Do tell."

"Apparently he got up during the night and went into the bathroom. There was some water on the floor, and he was standing in it when he flicked the light switch. Got electrocuted. Pronounced dead at the scene."

Fenton frowned. "That's not supposed to happen. That's why they make the damn switches out of plastic."

"Yeah, I know. Mel said the light switch was all melted. She's thinking manufacturer's defect, or something. Accidental death, anyway - open and shut."

"Except..."

"Yeah, except she may have picked up traces of black magic at the scene. And that means the accidental death..."

"Wasn't so damn accidental."

Fenton scratched his nose a couple of times. "Why would somebody use black magic to kill a Congressman? Which one was it, by the way? You didn't say."

"Ronald Brooks, Republican, New York 23rd."

"That name rings a bell. Is he Chairman of Appropriations, or something?"

"No, but he is - was - running for President."

"That's right, seen him on the news - I remember now. So why would somebody use black magic to take out a dude who's running for President?"

Colleen O'Donnell looked up at the closest Departures board, which was still showing their flight would be delayed. "Maybe they want somebody else to win," she said softly.

Fenton was quiet for a while before saying, "Look, we're getting ahead of ourselves, here. This whole thing is predicated on the assumption that your buddy picked up that black magic at the Congressman's place. And you know what they taught us at the Academy about assumptions."

"'When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me'," she quoted. "Yeah, yeah. That was probably clever as hell back in 1920, when somebody came up with it."

"But you know I'm right," Fenton said. "Without the established fact that Brooks's house is where the black magic came from, whatever you're thinking is nothing but smoke."

She nodded slowly. "Then I guess we'd better see if that fact can be established."

He looked at her. "Colleen."

"What?"

"I know what you're thinking."

"I bet you don't."

"I sure as hell do - you want to go to the Brooks house and sniff around, literally. I understand the impulse, but we need to catch this plane, Colleen. We have
got
to be in Indiana tonight."

According to the Indianapolis field office, local police had found the body of a female murder victim, strangled, with upside-down crosses carved, post-mortem, into her flesh in three places. That M.O. was the trademark of a serial killer dubbed 'The Reverend' who, over the last eight months, had left similarly mutilated corpses in Pennsylvania and Michigan. Fenton and O'Donnell had been working the case for Behavioral Science, and when word of the latest depredation came in, they had been ordered to get their asses over to Indianapolis, 'soonest.'

"I know that," Colleen O'Donnell said.

"We stepped in enough shit over that Idaho business to sink anybody's career, and it's only because the Office of Professional Responsibility couldn't prove any of the -" Fenton stopped talking and blinked a couple of times. "What do you mean 'I know that?'"

"I mean just what I said, Dale. Sure, I'd love to be on my way to Georgetown right this minute, but I realize that one more fuck-up could cost us our jobs. And not getting to Indy tonight would qualify as a
major
fuck-up."

"So, you're planning on doing what, then?"

"Something brilliant," of course." She sighed. "I just don't know what it is, yet."

"I had a flash of insight," Quincey Morris said, "or maybe you could call it a revelation."

"That sounds promising," Libby Chastain said. She and Morris had stayed up late, talking, and Libby had spent the remainder of the night in Morris's guest bedroom. This morning she had made tea, and they sat in the kitchen drinking it, the pale winter sun coming in through the window. The cottonwood branches it passed through caused the light to form ever-changing chiaroscuro patterns on the table where the two mugs sat, side by side like old friends.

"It occurred during the four or five seconds it took you to walk from my couch and out through the door of the living room."

Libby nodded, saying only "Um-hmm." It was a technique she'd learned from her therapist, a sister-witch who had a thriving practice in Manhattan. Libby had been doing therapy off and on for three years. Witches have problems, too.

"I realized that only one part of my 'decision' to quit the business" - Morris had put air quotes around the word with his fingers, which gladdened Libby's heart - "was due to the guilt I felt over poor Hannigan."

Another "Um-hmm." Libby knew that Morris's head was feeling better. The tea had a lot to do with that, especially because Libby had added a pinch of something from her purse and muttered a few words over the pot while Morris was out of the room. If Morris knew she had used a little magic to help him feel better, he might be angry with her; ergo, she decided not to tell him. Sometimes white witches tell white lies.

"The rest of it," Morris went on, "was fear."

"But you've encountered fear before, Quincey," she said. "We both have. I remember you saying that anybody who dealt with the stuff we do who
wasn't
afraid was probably crazy. And I agree."

"Yeah, but that's not the kind of fear I mean."

"What, then?"

"It's being scared shitless that the next time the crunch comes, it'll happen again - I'll fold, like a bad poker hand. And somebody else will get hurt, or killed, because I let them down."

"But what you described as happening during that exorcism wasn't a failure of nerve, Quincey." She covered his hand with one of her own. "It was an involuntary reaction to sudden, excruciating pain. And I think the operative word there is 'sudden.' It came out of nowhere, you said. And it had never happened before, not since you got the scar months ago. Am I correct?"

"You know you are. So?"

"So, something can only take you by surprise once. You're aware the potential exists now, and you'll be ready for it if it happens again."

"You think that'll make a difference?"

She looked at him for several seconds before speaking. "I know that it must. Therefore, I believe it will."

"I reckon that'll have to be good enough."

Libby stared into her mug, as if seeking inspiration there. She may have found some, because she looked up and said, "I don't usually invite myself to be somebody's houseguest, but how about if I hang out here with you for a while? After a spurt of activity in the witch business, things have gone kind of slow. I only have one appointment scheduled for this week, and I can easily postpone it."

Morris gave her a lopsided grin. "You think I need a nursemaid?"

"Not a nursemaid, but maybe you could use a friend. I can help you put this place back together, and maybe we can do some meditation exercises to see if we can loosen up a few of those knots in your psyche."

Morris nodded thoughtfully. "I don't think I ever asked you, Libby," he said. "Do you play Scrabble?"

"I
love
Scrabble."

"In that case," Morris said, "you can stay as long as you like."

Suite 501 at the Hay-Adams hotel had a view of the White House and, beyond it, the phallic majesty of the Washington Monument. But Malachi Peters had not been interested in the scenery after one brief glance out the window. He spent most of his time staring at the screen of the Dell laptop he'd bought at Costco a couple of days earlier.

He was still having trouble getting used to the idea that you could have access to such an immense amount of information without even getting up from your chair. Peters had been prepared to spend long hours at the Library of Congress, finding out everything he could about Stark, as well as the current presidential race. Then he had planned to hit News World, the greatest newsstand that ever was, and buy the current issue of every U.S. newspaper they had, along with every magazine that covered politics.

Peters had recalled that in the early 1980s, a 24-hour news channel had started broadcasting, and some people had said it was going to be the next big thing in TV. He'd hoped that the CNN channel was still in business; it would save him from having to wait until 6:30 every evening to catch the network news.

Home computers had been on the market the last time Peters had walked the earth, but he remembered them as being expensive novelty items, good for playing games and maybe writing your novel, and little else.

Peters had been amazed by the power and variety of the personal computers you could get today, often for very little money. And soon thereafter, he had discovered the Internet.

He'd been prepared for a certain amount of technological advancement while he'd been gone, but he hadn't expected changes so drastic. He'd been utterly unprepared for the digital revolution, and it had just about blown his mind. That had lasted two hours. Then he had decided that he fucking
loved
it.

Which didn't mean that learning to use this new technology had been easy. His new computer sat on the oak desk the Hay-Adams provided for its guests, and next to it were piled
The Idiot's Guide to the Internet, PCs for Dummies
, and several other books with insulting titles that promised to teach you the basics - just in case you were from Mars, or had spent the last thirty years in Hell, or something.

There had been many times over the last three days when Peters felt like screaming in frustration, books or no books. But he was starting to get the hang of it now. Then, late on the third day, he discovered Internet porn.

Things really
had
changed since the Reagan era.

He shouldn't have been surprised. His memory was largely restored now, and he recalled reading somewhere that every new development in communications technology had always been immediately co-opted for three purposes: politics, commercial advertising, and pornography - not necessarily in that order.