Sympathy for the Devil (44 page)

Had The Butcher's Boy just changed his mind, figuring he was under no obligation to Greene since he had demanded no money in advance? Had he taken one good, hard look at the security surrounding Leffingwell and decided, "No not for me, too dangerous. There's easier ways of earning fifty grand."

Or had the killer's past caught up with him? You can't kill people, even mobsters, without making some other people mad - maybe that was especially true with mobsters. Could be, somebody who took one of The Grocer's Boy's hits as a personal affront had tracked the guy down and dished out a good, lethal dose of the killer's own medicine. Greene could have seen a news story about the killer's comeuppance and never even known it, since he had no useful name to go with the face he'd seen, and people got themselves murdered all the time.

Or was the heart-attack-in-a-bottle drug that Mary Margaret Doyle had provided for him defective in some way? Greene had no way of knowing where she had obtained it, or under what circumstances, or even what it was. It was not like the ever-efficient Ms. Doyle to fuck up like that, but she was only human. Wasn't she?

Thoughts of Mary Margaret Doyle eventually sent him to the post office. She'd said she was going to pay him another fifty thousand, the implication being that she wasn't going to wait until she'd read Leffingwell's obituary to do so. That was all to the good - if she was willing to pay him for failure, he was happy to accept it.

He wondered if it might be a good idea to go away for a while. Greene's finances had improved significantly of late, thanks to the nasty, well-paying tasks he'd been performing on Ms. Doyle's behalf. Maybe he should take a vacation until the election was over. Then the issues of Leffingwell's death and Stark's candidacy would be moot, one way or the other. She wouldn't take the trouble to exact vengeance by that point. Would she?

Greene had always wanted to visit Brazil. He had a smattering of Portuguese, and he thought he could pick up the rest fairly quickly. Languages had always been easy for Greene, who spoke four. He could work on his grammar while basking on the beach at Rio de Janeiro, enjoying the scenery offered by whatever genius had invented the thong bikini, and sampling the local talent.

At the post office, Greene was gratified to find the smudged, once-white card informing him of a package that was waiting. Even the line to the counter - long and slow-moving, as usual, did not spoil his good mood. It
had
to be from Mary Margaret Doyle. She was his only client these days, and his former associates had never shown any burning desire to keep in touch.

As Greene inched closer to the head of the line, he was using his meager knowledge of Portuguese to piece together in his mind the sentence, "How much for half-and-half?"

Bob Leffingwell was feeling good about things. Last weekend's round of six primaries had ended with Leffingwell taking first place in four, leaving Stark to suck hind tit with the other two. Martinez was still a distant third, and his catching up with the front-runners now was not only politically unlikely, but mathematically impossible.

Leffingwell had been thinking that matters had reached the point where he ought to have a quiet conversation with Martinez, or one of his top advisors. It was time for Ramon to face reality and cut the best deal he could before going into the convention. Besides, being the first Latino Vice President, although not quite the social leap forward that Barack Obama's election to the White House had been, was still enough to guarantee you a prominent place in the history books.

The campaign was not on the road today, for once, which meant Leffingwell was able eat all of his lunch in one sitting. But, wouldn't you know it, even a fairly leisurely meal had stimulated the acid reflux that had plagued him during the campaign.

Fortunately, there was a cure - or at least a temporary palliative. He called a five-minute break from the meeting he'd been having with Charteris and a few other top-level people in the living room of yet another hotel suite and made a beeline for his bathroom.

The toilet kit was where he'd left it after shaving this morning, and the bottle of Gaviscon was inside, just as he'd remembered. Leffingwell shook the bottle, like you were supposed to, and drew a glass of cool water from the tap. Thus prepared, he unscrewed the maroon cap from the plastic bottle. The manufacturer said you were supposed to take two tablespoons worth, but Leffingwell never traveled with a spoon or measuring cup. One substantial swallow usually did the trick.

He was bringing the bottle to his lips when one of his aides called from the living room, "Senator! Phone for you! It's O'Brian, from your Senate office. Says it's urgent."

Leffingwell lowered the bottle and shook his head at the reflection in the bathroom mirror. Never a minute's peace. "I'll be right there," he yelled through the slightly open door.

Then he brought the bottle of Gaviscon to his mouth, tilted his head back, and took a big swig.

The Grocer's boy watched Nestor Greene's Jaguar pull into the post office parking area, and chose a spot for his own car that gave him a clear view of the lot's only entrance/exit. He'd see the Jag when it left.

Taking care of Greene inside his home looked like it would pose some difficulties. Perhaps because of all the enemies he'd made, Greene had spent what looked like a good deal of money making the place safe: floodlights, good locks, and what looked, through binoculars, like a state-of-the-art alarm system.

The Grocer's Boy was a killer, not a burglar. He had acquired a few housebreaking tricks along the way, but he didn't trust his skills sufficiently to test them against Greene's little fortress. Anyway, a fortress only protects you as long as you're inside it.

There were too many people around here to risk popping Greene as he came out with his mail, and the traffic in this part of town moved too slowly for a quick run to the nearest Interstate ramp. He would tail Greene unobtrusively and wait for him to stop in the right sort of place.

Then the killer could put on the big hat and sunglasses he'd brought with him, and get out of the car with the paper bag that contained the silenced pistol. He'd walk up to Greene, take out the gun, and put two bullets into him (one each in head and heart, if possible). Then he would replace the gun in the bag and keep walking to where he'd parked.

If Greene went straight home from here, there was always tomorrow, and the day after. Sooner or later, Nestor Greene would put himself within The Grocer's Boy's delivery area.

It was a good fifteen minutes before Greene appeared again, carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper. The killer watched him return to the Jag and get in, then started his own car, prepared to follow.
Come on, Nestor, take yourself out to dinner. You deserve it. Find a nice, quiet restaurant, maybe on a side street somewhere. Have a good meal in your stomach when you die.

But Greene didn't start up the Jag immediately. It looked like he was fiddling with something in his lap - probably the package he'd brought out with him. Maybe Mom had sent cookies, and Greene couldn't wait to try one.

Don't eat too many, Nestor. Wouldn't want you to spoil your appetite for dinner.

The explosion when it came wasn't very loud - certainly nothing like your typical car bomb. The Jaguar didn't blow apart. But the inside of the car lit up immediately with the bright glare of something that was burning very fast, and very hot.

The Grocer's Boy watched with professional interest. He could see Greene frantically thrashing around inside the car, and he could hear the screaming from where he sat, even with the windows closed. He was not moved to run over and offer assistance. A couple of local heroes did give it a try, but the intensity of the blaze drove them back. In time, the awful screaming stopped, and the bright fire seemed to be dying down.

He could hear sirens in the distance now. No point in hanging around. He didn't know who hated Nestor Greene enough to burn him alive, and didn't really care. The job was done, even if somebody else did it.

The Grocer's Boy left town with his reputation intact.

Chapter 41

"We have a lot working against us," Quincey Morris said. "What we're going to do is, in effect, abduct a candidate for the Presidency of the United States, under the noses of what is probably -" he nodded toward Arkasian "- the best security team in the world, get him somewhere secure, and maintain that security long enough for Marty to conduct an exorcism - that takes approximately how long, Marty? I have some experience there, but I'd like to hear your estimate."

"The answer," Father Martin Finlay told the group, "depends on whether you're talking about how long it takes to complete the ritual, or how long to drive out the demon. And the reason those times are different is that it doesn't always work the first time."

"So, you could be at it for a while," Jerry Arkasian said.

"Yes, I could. The process itself, if conducted strictly by the book - the
Ritual of Exorcism
, I'm talking about - without interruption, takes about an hour. Forty-five minutes to an hour."

"Maybe you ought to explain what you mean when you say, 'strictly by the book,'" Morris said.

"The book is the ritual," Finlay said. "But it was never intended to be set in stone. There's room for what, in a less serious matter, I might call improvisation. There are certain prayers that I sometimes use, even though they're not part of the ritual
per se
. I use them because they've been helpful to me in the past. That's all."

"I want to see if I can establish some parameters of what's possible, versus what's likely," Ellie said. "I'm not sure how much help the Sisterhood will be in this endeavor, but we'll do whatever we can. So when I ask about statistics, Father, understand that I mean no disrespect. I'm not treating the sacred ritual like baseball cards. But the numbers may be important."

"Ask what you want, Ellie, and I'll answer what I can. God knows -"

"
Aaaah
." Ashley had given vent to a short, sharp scream and was now hunched over in her chair, hands clasped tightly over her ears. After a few seconds she straightened up, her face wet with tears. "Well, turnabout is fair play, I guess" she said.

"Ashley, I'm sorry if I -"

"No, it's okay, it's not your fault. I should have realized the obvious - that you can't discuss this subject without using... that name. But it shouldn't surprise you, Marty that hearing it - well you just saw what happens."

Ashley stood up. "I wouldn't ask you to refrain from saying it, Marty. Even if you tried, it would be only minutes before you forgot yourself and said it again. Therefore," she said, heading towards the door,"
I
am going for a walk."

Libby was frowning. "Does this mean you're abandoning the... whatever this is... the operation?"

"No, it doesn't, Libby. It just means I'm going for a walk. What we're doing is too important for me to bail out now."

She turned to Peters, "When you want me back, just say, out loud, 'Ashley, please.' I'll be here immediately. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Peters said carefully. "I'll do that."

Ashley glanced around the room. "I can't really say that it's been nice meeting all you folks, but I will say it's been interesting. I'll see you in a bit."

Then she was through the door and gone.

"If I had any doubts about what she is," Finlay said, "which I most certainly don't, that would clinch it for me. During exorcism, demons often can't stand to hear the name of God, or that of Our Savior Jesus Christ, or any other holy name."

"Let's get back to it, shall we?" Morris said. "Although Ashley's reaction, and the understandable reaction earlier of you and Jerry here, is giving me the beginnings of an idea. I'll tell you all about it later, if it makes sense."

"You were asking about my experience expressed statistically, Ellie," Finlay said. "This will have to be off-the-cuff, since I've never sat down with a calculator and tried to figure this stuff out."

"I understand," Ellie said. "Now, have you ever succeeded in an exorcism with the first attempt?"

"Yes, I have."

"Can you give us an idea, just approximate, of what percentage of your exorcisms worked the first time?"

Finlay's brow furrowed. "I'd say about a quarter of the time - yeah about twenty-five percent."

"What was the greatest number of times you've had to go through the ritual, in a single case?"

"Successfully, you mean? Hmmm. I'd say it was nine, over several days. Exorcism is exhausting - I don't think there's a priest alive who could do nine back to back without rest. And don't forget, this is a religious ritual - it must be treated with reverence."

"You said 'successfully,' a minute ago," Peters said. "Does that mean sometimes you've failed?"

"Yes, sad to say, it does."

"I don't mean to seem obsessed with this," Ellie said, "but how many times did you not succeed?"

"I can remember four cases where I was unable to bring deliverance to the possessed," Finlay said. "And before you ask, Ellie, I believe that I've performed a total of sixty-four exorcisms, although I could be off by a couple either way."

"So, there's no guarantee," Arkasian said bleakly. "We could risk everything, and it might all be worth diddly-squat."

"Yes, Jerry, I'm afraid so," Finlay said.

"I think I remember an old David Bromberg song," Arkasian said, "that goes, 'A man should never wager more than he can afford to lose.'"

"Good advice," Morris said.

"Yeah," Arkasian said. "Too bad we can't follow it."

After Leffingwell called for a break, the senior campaign staff and their aides were standing around the room in groups of two or three, chatting quietly. The phone rang, and a nearby staff aide named Patrick Connor picked it up. He listened for a moment, said, "Yes sir, I'll get him."

Connor had seen Leffingwell go into the bathroom. The door was partly ajar, so he called out toward the gap, "Senator! Phone for you! It's O'Brian, from your Senate office. He says it's urgent."