What Would Satan Do? (20 page)

“Shut up,” said Whitford.

“You’ve got to have someone.  I can’t send my guys.  Just send some state troop—”

Dick Whitford was capable, when the occasion called for it, of being very convincing.  Most people assumed this had something to do with his habit of occupying positions of power.  Folks who’d been subjected to his persuasive powers, however, knew better.  They knew that Whitford’s my résumé of high-ranking jobs in the executive branches of various governments was merely a complement to his volcanic temperament. 

“Goddamnit!”  He slammed his hands down on his desk as he stood.  He leaned across the now disordered stacks of papers and pointed a meaty, sausage of a finger in Cadmon’s face.  “Don’t you fuck with me.”

“What?  I’m not fu—”

“Didn’t you hear what the angel said?  Your resources are mine now!”

“Okay,” said Cadmon, trying not to let the terror he felt show through his façade of pleasant cooperativeness.  “But—”  Cadmon saw the glowering expression on Whitford’s face and decided not to pursue the point.  “How do we find him?”

“He’s driving here, apparently.  In a bright orange sports car.”  Whitford rifled through some notes on his desk.  “Here,” he said, thrusting a slip of paper at the preacher.  “An orange Lamborghini.”

“You don’t have a license plate or anything?”

“It’s new, and has those new-car, paper plates.  So, no, I don’t.  But how many fucking orange Lamborghinis did you see today?

“Uh…”

“And how many did you see yesterday?  Or the fucking six months before that?”

“Well…”

“None.  That’s how many, you goddamned ninny.  Just tell your men to go stake out I-35 and look for the bright orange sports car hauling ass down the road.”

“How do they—?”  Cadmon hesitated.  “What do they do with – the demon?”

“Jesus!”  Whitford slapped a giant palm down onto his desk.  “You goddamned dumbass.  Weren’t you listening at all?”  For a second he looked as if he might eat Cadmon.  But then he subsided.  “Look,” he said.  “He said the demon is masquerading as a human, which somehow makes it vulnerable.  But he can change back, so Ezekiel said we have to catch him before he changes.  So, have your men shoot him.  Or blow him up or something.  Doesn’t matter.  Just get him, and do it quick.”

“What happens if the demon sees them first?”

“Then they’re fucked.  And so are we.  So don’t screw this up.”

“Oh,” said Cadmon.  “Alright.”  He sat for a moment.  “What—?  What do I – or they – do with his body?”

Whitford glared at the preacher.  “You dumbass.  You really oughta pull your head out of your ass next time a fucking angel talks to you.”  He shook his head to show Cadmon just how disgusted he was.  “You’re supposed to take him to your church.  I’m supposed to get an anesthesiologist – never mind, I’ll worry about that.  You just get him there.”

“Okay then,” said Cadmon.  He started to stand.

“Wait,” said Whitford.  “There’s something else.”  He sighed and slumped back into his enormous chair.  “I need— The angel wants us to get something.”  He looked Cadmon in the eyes, staring until he could see the man squirming.

Cadmon looked up expectantly.  “What is it?”

“It’s called Baphomet.”

“Stupid name.”

“Yeah, it’s some kind of CIA thing from years ago.  They were researching mind control techniques.  Apparently they were successful before being shut down.  Been trying get a hold of some of the research for a while.”  He saw Cadmon’s skeptical look and added, “The angel wants us to get it.”  He nodded.

“He … does?”  Cadmon didn’t remember hearing anything about this.  But then, he’d totally missed the bit about the demon too. 

“Yes,” said Whitford.  “That’s right.  He does.”  He glared at the skeptical preacher, daring him to express doubt again.

“Okay.  Alright.”  Cadmon held up two conciliatory hands.  “How can I help?”

“Clyde was supposed to visit with a man who lives just outside of San Marcos, after he came back from DC.  Now that he’s gone, I need someone to go out there.” 

“What was Clyde doing in Washington?”

Whitford waved a dismissive hand in the air.  “Trying to get the Congress to declare today as ‘National Mind Your Own Goddamned Business Day’.”  Whitford gave Cadmon a dirty look.  Cadmon glared right back.  “He was lobbying for federal money to fix potholes.”

“Hey, there’s a giant pothole on my street,” said Cadmon.  “It’s ridiculous.  Fills up with water every time it rains.  Looks like a lake.  We’ve got a family joke:  What drives on water—”

“That’s nice, and I’m terribly interested,” said Whitford, the expression on his face indicating a variety of sentiments that did not include interest, empathy, or concern.  “Right now, though, I need you to send a couple of guys out there, pick up the guy who Clyde was gonna meet with, and bring him back.”

“Alright.”  Cadmon reached for a notepad on Whitford’s desk.  “What’s the guy’s name?”

“How the Hell am I supposed to know that?” asked the Governor.

“Well, you’re the one—”

The Governor didn’t let him finish.  He tossed a folded sheet of paper at Cadmon.  “Here’s the address.”

“Okay,” said Cadmon, reaching for the paper.  “But I still don’t understand how they’re supposed to find him if they don’t have a name.”

“Parker had the name, and he’s dead, okay?  All I’ve got is the address.  But the man is a freak, apparently,” said Whitford.  “Very, very strange guy.  Just tell your men to go to that address, find the weirdo, and bring him back.”

“Okay,” said Cadmon, pocketing the page. 

And with that, Whitford was done.  He picked up a stack of paper, sat back, and began reading.

Cadmon waited for the Whitford to say something.  “Is that all—?”

Whitford didn’t even look up.  “That’s all I need.  Thank you.” 

Cadmon stared for a second, mouth agape.  The Governor just ignored him though, and with nothing else to say, he stood up and left.

Chapter 24.
          
A Second Date with Lola

People often say – as a friendly alternative to phrases like “shit happens” or “life sucks and then you die” – that everything happens for a reason.  It’s a way of putting the vicissitudes of life into perspective by saying that there’s some kind of larger plan or scheme, and that, however much your life sucks now, things will ultimately work out for the best.  That may be so, but it raises several questions: First, just who the fuck is in charge of choosing these alleged reasons why everything happens?  Second, what kind of arcane, coin-tossing, quantum-mechanical-undead-cats-in-a-box, new-math worldview is he or she or it using as a basis for his or her or its reasoning?  Third, how do we get him or her or whatever just to stop it already?

Lola Ford walked into Liam’s guitar shop.

It was early.  Nobody buys guitars before lunch, but Liam always insisted on opening the shop right after breakfast anyway.  Festus was manning the register and, after his long night in jail, had fallen asleep.  His lower half was perched on top of a stool, while his upper half lay sprawled on top of the glass top of the store’s main display case.  He awoke with a start, saw Lola, and promptly fell off the stool and onto the floor. 

He sprung back up in an instant, and started to brush himself off, but then paused to look down at the rumpled, filthy clothes he’d been wearing for the better part of twenty-four hours – a good chunk of which he’d spent in jail – and decided his time would be better spent attempting to impose some kind order on his beard and wild-man hair, so he tried that instead.  He quickly gave that up, however, and pinned all his hopes instead on his winning smile.

“Hello!” he said with a slightly manic – and not at all winning – grin.  He held out the hand which he’d just been running all over his dirty clothes and hair. 

“Um …  Hi,” said Lola.  She ignored his hand.  “Who are you?”

“I am whoever you want me to be,” said Festus, rearranging his face into what he intended to be a charming smirk, but ended up being just a cockeyed version of the same, manic look as before.  “Name’s Festus Bongwater.  How do you do?”

Liam heard the commotion from where he was checking stock in the back and felt, for the first time in a very long time, just a tiny bit nervous.  The feeling took him by surprise. 

He’d spent the last decade or so as a monk.  In fact, his buddies at the CIA had called him “Father Liam.”  It wasn’t a conscious choice.  Women just didn’t seem to affect him anymore – not since that praying mantis bitch, Anna.  Fuck her.

But then, last night, he’d felt something.  He wasn’t even sure what, but it was … compelling, and it was the first time in as long as he could remember that he’d felt anything at all.  He’d allowed himself to feel it.  He’d had to.  After all, she was pretty hot.  Really hot.  More than that though – well, he wasn’t sure.  But he hadn’t been able to dismiss whatever it was.  And, of course, it had all worked out pretty well when she’d got up after two minutes and left.

And now?  Now it seemed like fate was fucking with him.  Just a little bit.  He sighed, set down his clipboard, and headed up to the front of the shop to see what fate had in store.

“And watch this!  I can totally—”  Festus noticed Lola craning her neck to see around him and stopped, mid-brag.  He put down his hands, which he’d been holding above his head as if he’d been singing about diminutive arachnids and water spouts.

“Hi, Liam,” said Lola.  Her eyes seemed sparkly or something.  Was that normal?  Did all eyes do that?  Liam couldn’t remember.  He wasn’t generally the sort to pay attention to that kind of thing.  Unless the eyes belonged to a bad guy.  And those didn’t typically sparkle.

She had on a shirt and pants that looked pretty normal, except for the fact that the shirt (it was probably actually a blouse, but nobody in the guitar shop other than Lola could have said for sure) was bright red and purple.  Liam thought about complimenting her pants, but then decided it’d be better not to go there.

“Hi.”  He reached around Festus and shook her hand.  “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Yeah, I—well—sorry about last night.  I guess you understand now.”  She gestured vaguely at the shop, as if maybe the hollow-body Gibson in the corner explained everything.

“Sure,” said Liam.  “You know.”  He nodded and shrugged and shook his head all at the same time. 

She glanced at Festus, who was still standing well within the bounds of what any normal person would have regarded as Lola’s personal space, and looked back at Liam.  “Is there somewhere we can sit and talk for a couple of minutes?”

“Sure,” said Liam.  “Back here.”  He stepped aside and motioned her through the door to the back room.  Festus gave a single, Teutonic nod, and fell in step behind her.

Lola stopped just inside the doorway, surveying the war zone of nacho leavings, pizza boxes, beer cans, and bong paraphernalia.  She turned with a hint of a smile to look at Liam, but found herself face-to-face with Festus, who wore the surprised look of a tailgater who wasn’t expecting the car in front of him to stop so soon.

“Fes—?

“Ma’am?”

“It’s alright,” said Liam.  Lola raised an eyebrow at him.  “Really.  He’s actually got some information that might be helpful.”

Lola eyed them both skeptically, but then turned to try to find a comfortable seat among the nacho crumbs.

“And who’s that?”  She pointed to the young man of Indian descent perched awkwardly on a desk chair, asleep. 

“Raju!  Wake up!” said Liam.  Raju stirred.  “Wake up!  It’s your turn to man the register.”  Raju did not move again.

Liam stood up, grabbed the back of the chair and gave it a quick spin.  Raju rolled and kind of dove headfirst onto the floor in a heap of arms and legs.  Without a word, he picked himself up and staggered off to the front of the store.

“Okay,” she said.  Liam and Festus had pulled up a couple of chairs and were now seated across from Lola.  “Well, first, tell me – how long ago did Boehner call you?”

“Last night,” said Liam.  “Uh, this morning I guess.  Early.  Like 3:00 a.m. early.  Why?”

“So why did you ask me about Whitford last night?”

“Well,” said Liam, “I wasn’t really asking you.” 

Lola raised an eyebrow. 

Liam tried to recover.  “I mean, I was asking you, but not because it was
you
.  I was just making conversation.”

“Ah,” she said, sounding not at all convinced.

“He hates Whitford,” said Festus. 

Lola didn’t bother using her skeptical face on Festus, and gave him kind of a weary look instead.  “What?  Why?”

“We—we had a few run ins,” said Liam.  “Back in DC.  Doesn’t matter.”

“What?  What would the Vice President want with the CIA special forces?”

It was Liam’s turn to raise an eyebrow. 

“Fair enough,” she said.  “What did he want?”

“It was the thing with the banana-farming insurgents in Paraguay …”

“I heard about that!  I thought it was just a rumor.  That was you?”

Liam bobbled his head this way and that.  “Yeah, I guess.”

“What?” said Festus.  “What?”  They ignored him.

“Hmm.”  Lola resettled herself, brushing her hands down the front of her pants.  “Okay then.  Well, I assume then that you know all about Whitford and this Baphomet thing.”

“I know Clyde was in DC, trying to find it,” said Liam.

“You’re on a first name basis with Clyde Parker?”

“Well, not anymore I’m not.”

“Right.”  She gave him a wry look, but then the look faded, in much the same way smiles and warm faces tend to disappear when people look out their front window and see a homeless guy defecating in the yard.  She pointed to Festus.  “Does he really need to be here?”

Liam put up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.  “Just— Yes, he does.”

“Right,” said Lola.  She picked her bag up from beside her feet, and began rummaging through the stacks of papers inside.  “So, yesterday, Parker turns up dead, and they search his hotel room and find bunch of notes about something called Project Baphomet.”  She produced a manila folder stuffed with papers and dropped it onto the coffee table.