Sympathy for the Devil (7 page)

A moment later, the reporter reappeared on the screen. "Kyra, officially, the FBI team investigating this tragedy will have no comment until its report is issued, probably several weeks from now. However, sources close to the investigation are expressing the belief that Congressman Brooks' death was an accident, brought about by the confluence of two unlikely events: a leaky pipe under the sink, and a defective light switch in the bathroom that caused electricity from the house current to come into contact with the Congressman when he flipped the switch on, while standing in about an inch of water. However, I want to stress here that this comes from off-the-record assessment, confirmation of which will have to wait release of the official FBI report."

The reporter paused for effect, then concluded, "Live from Georgetown in the nation's capital, this is John Rendell for CNN Headline News. Back to you, Kyra."

"Thank you, John," the anchorwoman said into the camera. "After the break, we'll be talking with CNN political consultant Jeff Bloomfield, to get his assessment of how Representative Brooks' death will impact the Republican presidential race. We'll be right back - stay with us."

"Mr. Morris? The Archbishop will see you now. If you'll come with me?"

Morris followed the young Monsignor down a carpeted hallway and into an anteroom of dark wood, leather furniture, and gilt-framed oil paintings of the Archbishop's predecessors. Morris wondered if the humility, piety and wisdom visible in those faces reflected decades spent in God's service, or the work of an especially skilled series of artists.

The Archdiocese of Detroit ministered to the spiritual needs of Catholics in four counties in Southeastern Michigan. One of those counties contains the town of Leesburg, from which Morris had recently come.

A very thin, middle-aged woman looked up from her computer and said to the Monsignor, "Go on in - he's expecting you."

Archbishop Thomas Stanton stood up from his desk, a professionally pleasant smile on his face. He said, "Mr. Morris, glad to meet you," and extended a hand in greeting.

As Morris sat in one of the armchairs facing the large oak desk, the Archbishop said, "I hope you don't mind - I've asked Monsignor Costello to sit in on our talk. He's my closest advisor, and eminently trustworthy."

"Of course," Morris said, as if he had a choice. Costello took the chair on Morris's right, but turned it a little so that he could see both his boss and the visitor at the same time.

"Archbishop Esperanza speaks well of you, Mr. Morris," Stanton said. "I can't say that I know Jorge very well, but we've met a couple of times at NCCB meetings."

He didn't bother to explain that NCCB was the National Council of Catholic Bishops. Either he assumed that Morris knew, or he didn't much care.

"He told me, when he called last week, that you've rendered valuable service to the Diocese of El Paso on more than one occasion." Stanton sat back in his chair and studied Morris for a few moments. "But he was rather vague as to what those services were."

"Archbishop Esperanza is a man of great discretion," Morris said evenly. This was a dilemma he had faced before. If he talked about the dark and bloody work he'd done on behalf of the diocese, down there in South Texas, it might help establish his
bona fides
here in Detroit. Or it could get him branded a lunatic, and treated to what Morris's father had liked to call 'the bum's rush' - right out the front door. Since he knew nothing about Archbishop Stanton, who was new in the job, discretion on that subject seemed like a good idea.

Stanton drummed his fingers on the padded arm of his chair. His tone was a little less friendly when he said, "I agreed to fit you into my schedule at short notice as a courtesy to my brother Bishop. But I have another appointment in fifteen minutes, so I'm sure you'll pardon me if I dispense with the pleasantries and ask you just what it is you want."

Short notice? I had to wait nine days to get in to see you, you sanctimonious prick. "
Fair enough," Morris said aloud. "I want you to authorize an exorcism."

Stanton's gray eyebrows slowly rose. "Do you, now?"

"Or, at least, I'd like you to order an expedited investigation, as a prelude to authorizing an exorcism. I believe you'll find a clear case of demonic possession - involving a teenage girl in Leesburg."

"Leesburg..."

"A small town just north of Poultny, your Excellency," Monsignor Costello said. "Population between two and three thousand, I believe."

The sign welcoming visitors to Leesburg, Morris remembered, had said the town numbered 2,643 souls. He began to see why Stanton kept Costello around.

"Of course." Stanton nodded, as if he had known it all along. "And what is it about this young lady in Leesburg that leads you to believe an exorcism is warranted, Mr. Morris? Have you performed exorcisms, yourself?" The question was more a challenge than a request for information. Morris was used to that, too.

"No, of course I haven't. I'm not a member of the clergy."

"That hasn't stopped some individuals, if the news reports can be believed," Stanton said.

"Well, it stops
me
. A true exorcist, of whatever faith, needs years of preparation - including training, meditation, and prayer. Anybody else who tries it is either a fool or a fraud, or both."

Stanton was apparently not used to being addressed in such a tone. When he spoke again, his tone was cold enough to skate on. "Then perhaps you can at least answer my question. What leads you to believe that this girl needs an exorcism?"

"Two things. One, she has betrayed knowledge she couldn't possibly have."

"What knowledge?" Monsignor Costello asked.

"She made an insulting reference to my... business associate, Elizabeth Chastain. I had never mentioned her to either the girl or her parents."

"That's all?" Costello wasn't bothering to hide his skepticism. "Surely there are a dozen ways the girl could have heard of your associate, especially in this Internet age."

"I'd be inclined to agree." Morris kept his voice even. "Except that the family doesn't have Internet access in their house. They can't afford it."

Costello shrugged his thin shoulders. "At school, then. She simply used a computer at her school library."

"The girl is home-schooled. Always has been."

"Then one of her little friends." Costello did not quite sneer. "Perhaps their parents are more affluent, and have the Internet at home."

"The information the girl had isn't publicly available, but let's not play Twenty Questions over this, Monsignor. There's a second reason I believe an exorcism may be necessary, and it's a little harder to explain away."

Morris loosened his tie, then undid the collar button of his blue shirt, and the button below it. He used one finger to pull down his collar, turning in his chair so the two men could see what had been hidden underneath.

After a moment, Monsignor Costello said, "That's a nasty looking burn, Mr. Morris, and it was quite painful to receive, I'm sure. But I fail to see its relevance."

As Morris returned to a normal sitting position, Stanton said, "The burn looks quite recent. Are you claiming the girl gave it to you?"

"No," Morris said. "Not directly."

The two clergymen looked at each other, but before either could speak, Morris said, "You should know that I received that burn four months ago. Apart from the scar, it had healed completely. Until yesterday."

Stanton looked pointedly at his watch. "Your time is almost up, Mr. Morris. It you were planning to start making sense, I'd recommend you do it now."

Morris nodded grimly. "Then you'd best know," he said, "exactly where that burn came from."

Chapter 5

In the condo on M Street, the TV was tuned to MSNBC. By now, all the news outlets were carrying the Ron Brooks story.

"That was nicely done," Sargatanas said. He touched the remote control, cutting off Chris Matthews in mid-sentence.

"Thank you," Mary Margaret Doyle replied. "But it was your plan - or, should I say 'scheme?' I merely carried it out. The hardest part was the spell for the bathroom light switch. I'm just a novice at magic, as you know. But your instructions were very clear."

"And you're certain you were not spotted leaving?"

"Quite sure. As you predicted, the house's fuse box shorted out after Brooks fried himself, and Mrs. Brooks was too busy having hysterics to hear me leaving in the dark."

The demon nodded with satisfaction. "Well, I'd say that we've made a good beginning."

"Yes, we have. But I can't keep doing this. It's too dangerous."

"I don't
expect
you to keep doing it, as I told you earlier. If we kill off
all
of the competition, even the stupid authorities will become suspicious, eventually."

"There are other ways to 'thin the herd,' as you put it, and I think they seem very promising. But I can't keep playing the role of hatchet man to carry them out."

A sardonic smile appeared on the demon's human face. "Not losing your nerve, surely?"

"Don't you worry about my nerve!" she snapped, but as soon as she'd said it, the part of her brain where the self-preservation instinct resided kicked in, reminding her of how very unwise it would be to offend this creature.

She took a deliberate deep breath, and when she spoke again her tone was much more reasonable. "What I meant was, I'm too well known - in political circles, at least. I'm very closely tied to you, to Stark, I mean, and the campaign. If something should go wrong, if my involvement in these... activities should become public, it would be very difficult for you to preserve deniability."

He understood immediately, of course. "So, in an approximation of 'plain English,' you mean if you get caught putting cyanide in some old fart of a Senator's Ovaltine, I would not be able to deny all knowledge of your clumsy intrigues, throw your fat ass to the wolves, and bring the campaign to a successful conclusion without your fumbling assistance."

The insults, she knew, were punishment for her brief insolence. That was all right.

He continued, "I assume you brought this problem up because you have some notion as to how it might be solved?"

She nodded, tight-lipped. "I do."

He sat back in his chair, waved an indulgent hand. "Enlighten me, then."

"If I can't play hatchet man, then we need someone else to do it. Not a thug - someone who can work discreetly, but effectively, and whose involvement with the campaign can be convincingly denied, if need be."

"And someone who can be himself removed quietly, once his usefulness to us is over."

"Yes, exactly."

"Do you have someone in mind?"

"I do, yes. I've compiled a dossier for you to read. It's locked in my desk - excuse me for just a moment."

Halfway across the room, she stopped, looking back over her shoulder. "Do you really think I have a fat ass?"

He glanced at his watch. "Let's take a look at this dossier of yours. Then, I think we will still have time for me to answer you. In a way that will leave no doubt whatever in your mind - or elsewhere."

She continued on to her office, walking a little faster now.

"And then they threw me out on my ass," Quincey Morris said.

"Did they really?" Paul Hannigan, S.J., blew on the surface of his double skinny latte. "About time somebody did."

The Starbucks was half empty at this time of morning, so it was possible to have a conversation without shouting. Considering the subject under discussion, that was just as well.

"Not literally, of course. I don't think the Chancery actually has bouncers on staff." Morris took a sip of his double espresso. "Although some of the nuns I saw over there might've handled the job pretty well. The Archbishop just made it very clear that our little interview was over. His pet Monsignor showed me the door."

"You can't hardly blame him, can you, Quincey? Some dude they never even heard of waltzes in there with a story like that? You wouldn't be the first nut to show up at a Chancery, asking for something right out of a comic book. Happens all the time."

"I
did
have an introduction from the Bishop of El Paso," Morris said.

Hannigan shrugged. "Even Bishops make mistakes. At least, that's the way Stanton's probably looking at it."

"How about you, Paul?" Morris looked at the old Jesuit. "Do
you
think I'm a nut?"

Hannigan gave him half a smile. "Shit, I've thought that for years." Then the smile faded. "Which doesn't necessarily mean that there isn't really a creature from Hell down there in Leesburg."

"So, you'll do an exorcism? Religious orders don't come under the Bishop's authority. You guys can do whatever you want."

"It's always the Jesuits," Hannigan said, shaking his head. "Ever since that damn movie, everybody thinks that the Jebs are the go-to guys for demonic possession. Why didn't you ask the fucking Dominicans?"

"I don't know any Dominicans," Morris said. "Anyway, I don't like that bunch. Never have."

"How come? As a religions order, they're no better or worse than anybody else. Except the Jesuits, of course, who are better than everybody."

"
Domine cani
," Morris said. "
The Hounds of the Lord.
"

Hannigan drank some coffee and stared at Morris over the rim of his cup. He put the drink down and said, "Tomas de Torquemada is a long time dead, Quincey. The Spanish Inquisition closed up shop centuries ago."

"Still, that order has a lot of blood on its hands."

"Generational guilt is bullshit, my friend. The Church doesn't believe in it anymore. We've even let the Jews off the hook for killing Christ, in case you hadn't heard. Only took us about two thousand years to get around to it, too."

"We've all got our prejudices, Paul," Morris said. "I never claimed to be perfect. Anyway, the Dominicans aren't here - but you are. And you're the only exorcist I know. So, what do you say? Are you gonna help this poor kid, or not?"

Hannigan stared into his cup for several seconds, then said, "I'll have to go down there and see for myself."