Sympathy for the Devil (29 page)

"When I first announced, just nine short months ago, my intention to seek the highest office in the land, there were those in the media who called me 'Howard Who?'"
Smile, and pause for good-natured booing.
"There were even some so-called political 'experts' who considered my candidacy a joke."
Pause for sustained booing, careful not to look serious, but not angry
. "However, I think it is fair to say that on this occasion, thanks to your efforts, and those of many good people across this great land of ours, that everyone knows who Howard Stark is, and nobody is laughing now!"
Pause for sustained applause and cheering. More of the happy and humbled, with a touch of righteous satisfaction.

The rest of it was boilerplate derived from several of the standard Stark campaign speeches - red meat to his followers, of little interest to anyone else. Even Mary Margaret Doyle had to clench her jaws to keep from yawning - although, it must be admitted, she had not had much sleep the past two days.

It was left to Fernando Garrett, speaking off the record to reporters in the hotel bar, to put it in perspective.

"California is our only first place finish so far, but it's a big one. For the electoral votes, sure, but it means a lot more than that. And don't forget - we did no worse than third in the other states, and came in a close second in five of them. This shows that Senator Stark's candidacy must be taken seriously - that he has a very real chance to go all the way. And not just to the nomination in August. I'm talking about all the way to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

"Success breeds success - you guys know that as well as I do. More money is going to come in now, from donors large and small. The Senator can put his checkbook away, and let the American people, through their donations, fund this campaign. We'll be getting a lot more media coverage - at least, I sure as Hell
hope
we will, which means more of the public will learn about our message, in addition to the paid media which the increased donations will allow us to increase exponentially."

While Garrett and other members of his growing entourage were spinning the press for all they were worth, the subject of their earnest advocacy was on the way to bed. As their party approached the Senator's suite on the 16th floor, Mary Margaret Doyle idly said to Special Agent Jerry Arkasian, "Where's Agent Masterson? I don't think I've seen him all day."

"He had to take a couple days' leave, ma'am. I understand his Mom's real sick."

"Oh, I see." She nodded her acknowledgment, but a pair of frown lines appeared on her forehead.

Five minutes later, she walked across the suite's living room and through the open door of Stark's room.

Sargatanas was still dressed and reading something on the screen of his laptop. He glanced up when she came in and said, "I'm busy."

"I just thought you'd like to know something I learned from one of the Secret Service dolts."

Without looking up from the computer, Sargatanas said, "I'm listening.

"I realized that I hadn't seen Masterson around lately, so I asked one of them. He told me that Masterson had taken leave to see his mother, who's seriously ill."

"What do you want me to do - send the old bitch flowers?"

"Of course not. It's just that I once heard Masterson say that he'd grown up in an orphanage."

He was looking at her now, and she could tell that he was thinking. "Could be that he's just got some pussy waiting somewhere, and used the mommy excuse to get away and get laid."

"Yes, that could... could be it, I suppose."

"Confront him with the orphanage thing, when he gets back. See what he says."

"Yes, of course. I'll take care of it."

"Now get out of my sight."

An hour after Bat Masterson had left to rejoin the Stark campaign, Quincey Morris was back behind his desk. This time, his laptop open in front of him, he was staring at the screen with a sour expression.

There was no shortage of video clips of Howard Stark to be found online. YouTube boasted half a dozen, presumably posted by fans of the Senator. There were more to be found at the websites for the big news organizations: CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News, not to mention the network news operations. Even the Stark's campaign website provided some footage of the candidate out committing rhetoric. Morris was scowling because Stark seemed so...
ordinary
. Just another specimen of
politicos Americanus
, genus
moderato rightus-wingus
. He was perhaps a little smoother than the usual presidential candidate, a touch more articulate - but there was certainly nothing about him that would cause you to point your finger and scream 'Spawn of Satan!'

Morris shook his head over his own optimism.
What did you expect - horns? A pointed tail protruding from the back of those expensive suits? Maybe a little hellfire scorching the podium?

The thought of hellfire prompted Morris to scratch the burn scar on his neck, although it wasn't itching. He was about to go back to his background research on Stark when his phone, which had a separate ringtone programmed for each person on his call list, began to play Billy Joel's 'Uptown Girl.'

Morris smiled as he picked up the phone. "Hi, Libby."

"Hi, Quincey. I hope I'm not calling at a bad time."

"Nope, not at all. My coke dealer left twenty minutes ago, and the hookers won't be here until 6:30."

There was silence on the line.

"That was intended as humor, Libby," Morris said gently. "In poor taste, maybe, but humor nonetheless. It's okay to laugh."

To her credit, Libby Chastain managed something that sounded reasonably like laughter, before saying, "I wasn't calling to play Big Sister. Really."

"Just as well. For one thing, I'm older."

"Like
that
would matter. No, I've got some work for you - for
us
- if you're interested."

It was Morris's turn for silence.

"Quincey?"

"Sorry. I was just thinking that when it rains, it really does pour. Oh, wait - that only refers to bad stuff, doesn't it?"

"I haven't the faintest. What's been raining on you?"

"What I meant was, I just took a job. Sort of."

"Well, that's good news, but why 'sort of'?"

"I don't know if I'll ever get paid for it, so I guess that makes it more of a favor than a job. Remember Bat Masterson, who I told you about before you left?"

"The Secret Service guy?"

"That's him. He's heading the detail that's guarding Senator Howard Stark this primary season. You know who that is, right?"

"He's the one with the hair."

Morris snorted laughter. "Yeah, that's him. Thing is, Bat's come across some stuff that's got him... concerned."

"Concerned? About what?"

"He's seen and heard some things that have him kind of spooked. And I can't say I blame him."

He summarized for her everything that Masterson had told him, adding his own observations and conclusions along the way. When he was done she said, pensively, "Black magic has its roots in the demonic."

"Yeah."

"The practice of black magic is really nothing more than the invoking of demonic power, then channeling it - almost always for evil purposes."

"You're, uh, not telling me anything I don't already know, Libby."

"Then let me see if I can change that. You ever hear of a Congressman from New York named Ron Brooks?"

"Don't think so - should I?"

Libby told Morris what she knew about the death of Ron Brooks - as well as what she, and others, suspected. When she was done, Morris said, "When you first mentioned his name, it rang a bell but I couldn't say from where. So while you've been talking, I Googled the guy. Says here he was running for President."

"That's right, Colleen said something about that. Maybe you and I should both start paying more attention to what's going on in the political world."

"If the Forces of Darkness ever give us a break, maybe we'll have the time." Whenever they used that term with each other, Morris and Libby always gave the words a light coat or irony. But that didn't mean either of them denied the very real nature of what they had fought against so many times.

"And speaking of the Forces of Darkness," Morris went on, "Ron Brooks's name was familiar because Masterson mentioned it when he was giving me a rundown of some of the weird things that have happened to Stark's political opponents."

"I have the impression that a fair number of people try for the major parties' presidential slot every four years," Libby said. "Was Brooks a serious contender, or just one of the attention hogs?"

"According to his obit in the
New York Times
, which I have in front of me, he had a definite shot at it. The House of Representatives isn't usually considered a prime launching pad for the White House, but I guess Brooks made a name for himself last year, when he chaired those hearings looking into right-wing extremism in America. He exposed some very nasty groups that like to stay below the radar."

"Sounds like something that conservatives and liberals would both agree with, which makes it something of a minor miracle."

"Yeah, and that's probably why he decided to make a grab for the brass ring. And it cost him his life, poor bastard."

"You believe that was the reason? To get him out of the way?"

"Based on what we know, I'd say it's a good working hypothesis. It sure fits Occam's Razor."

"'The simplest explanation that fits the known facts is probably true'" Libby quoted.

"Uh-huh. I reckon that it's time we got a closer look at Howard Stark," Morris said. "Especially you."

"I don't disagree, but why me in particular?"

"Because you're the one who can smell black magic."

Chapter 28

There were plenty of open parking spaces at Dedrich's Guns & Ammo in Newport News this time of day, so Peters was able to park the rented Toyota Camry within fifty feet of the front door.

"Think this will work?" Ashley asked.

"If Charlie's in the store, it might. Their web page says he's the proprietor, but that could mean anything. Maybe he runs the place from a condo in Miami Beach. But it's our best chance to get what I need."

"And you don't want me to do anything?"

"Just be your usual charming self. I told you that you didn't have to come down here with me."

"Uh-uh. Where you go, I go - at least until this is over. Besides, if you left me alone in that hotel room for several hours, I might get bored. Then who
knows
what might happen."

"As I was saying, thanks for coming along, Ashley."

"My pleasure, Peters. Now let go get us some ordinance."

Two clerks stood behind the long rectangular counter. One was talking to a burly man in a camo jacket, but the other was idly thumbing through a copy of
Shotgun News
. He was in his forties, had a round face and brown hair that receded in a pronounced widow's peak. He looked up as Peters and Ashley approached.

"Afternoon," he said with a professional smile. "How can I help you folks today?" His name tag read 'Vince.'

"Howdy, Vince. I'm Mal, and this is Ashley."

Vince looked at Ashley longer than he needed to, but he was, after all, human, and male.

"Pleased to meet y'all," he said finally. "Were you interested in some -"

"You'd be Charlie Dedrick's son, right?"

Vince looked at Peters for a second. "That's right. You know my Dad?"

"Not personally, but my old man used to talk about him quite a bit. They used to work for the same... Company."

"'Company' was spook lingo for the CIA, and this was an easy way to find out if Charlie Dedrick had told his son the truth about his past.

"That right?" Vince said. "And when would that be?"

"Late Seventies, early Eighties. Your dad was based in England. Mine used to... travel around a lot. But Pop said he could always count on your dad for the right machinery when he needed it."

Vince was smiling again, and this time it reached his eyes. "Well, now, don't that beat all?"

"We're just down on vacation," Ashley said, "but as soon as we passed this place and saw the sign, he just had to come in and see if it was the same Dedrick his daddy used to know."

"Well, my daddy's in the back, in the office. I'm sure he'd like to meet you folks. What'd you say your last name was, Mal?"

"Peters. Mal Peters."

And that was how, forty minutes later, Peters and Ashley walked out of Dedrick's Guns & Ammo the proud possessors of a Remington Model 7 .300 Ultra-Mag, two boxes of Savage 99 180-grain cartridges, a Leupold 3-9x 40mm scope, a steel rifle case with a handle and two locks, the address of a local gun club that sold day passes to its rifle range - and a SWR Omega 300 rifle silencer.

Nestor Greene stood resignedly in the slow-moving line, holding the smudged white card notifying him that he had once again received something too big to fit within the 4x4-inch dimensions of the box provided him by the U.S. Postal Service. He had figured he was due for one more little package from Mary Margaret Doyle. Thanks to his efforts (and, unbeknownst to him, a touch of black magic), all but one of Howard Stark's competitors for the Republican nomination had encountered serious problems - in Chesbro's case, a fatal one.

He had lost precisely zero sleep over Senator Chesbro's suicide. As the result of a long career in politics, Nestor Greene had developed the mental capacity to rationalize pretty much anything.
I'm not the one who told him to suck dick back in his college days, and it wasn't my bright idea to take pictures of it, either. He brought it on himself, the fucking faggot.

Greene had experienced homosexuality himself, at the Catholic boarding school where he spent his formative years. The older boys had given him no choice in the matter. As a result, Greene could not now imagine why any man would suck cock of his own free will. Women, well that was different. That was natural.

Greene finally reached the head of the line and handed over his card to the bored-looking clerk. Two minutes later, he was in the Jaguar with a small package, wrapped in plain brown paper and about half the size of a shoe box.