What Would Satan Do? (7 page)

“Bacon, lettuce, and what?”

“Bacon, Lettuce, and Death,” she said.  But Robertson still wore a confused expression.  “‘Tod’ means ‘death’ in German.  B.L. Tod.  B.L.T.  Bacon Lettuce and Death.  Simple really.”

Robertson shook his head.  “Great,” he said, stretching the word out like a sardonic, cynical version of the cereal-chomping tiger.  “Danvers, have you been smoking the dope?”

Danvers turned to him and smiled, apparently taking Robertson’s statement as a joke.  “Look here.”  She flipped the pages.  “I contacted the ISP, and I asked for the IP address.”  She ran a finger along the side of her head, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ear.

It took a second for Robertson to remember where he was.  “What?”

“I got Mr. BLT’s IP address.”  Robertson gave her a blank look, so she continued, “It’s a unique identifier – an address – and every computer connected to the Internet has one.”

“Do we need a warrant for that?”  Robertson wasn’t up on all this computer mumbo jumbo.

She gave him a sly smile.

“Okay…” he said.

“Anyway, it didn’t tell me much.  Just that he’s been posting from a computer here in Washington.”

“That kind of seems like a lot to me.”

“Well,” she said, “yeah.  I guess so.”  She paused, giving him a look he recognized and remembered as the same look he used to get from girls in high school.  And college.  She nodded emphatic nods and spoke slowly, as if that would help the information penetrate.  “It just … won’t actually … allow us … to find him,” she said.

Robertson squinted, so Danvers soldiered on, flipping pages.  “There’s a big party for a senator tonight,” she said.  “A fundraiser. 
Here in town
.  And apparently one of the Star Wars producers is going to be there.  Tod keeps asking ‘Are you sure?’ and ‘How do you know?’”  She smiled triumphantly.

Robertson just kept staring at her with an intense but confused look on his face.

“I think he might be planning to go to a fundraiser here in town,” she said.

No change, other than a slight twitch of his mustache.

“Tonight!” she said.

Robertson looked skeptical.  “How can we be sure it’s him?”

She put her hand on her hip, tilted her head, and just generally imbued her whole body with you-ain’t-all-that attitude.  “We can’t,” she said.  “But have you got any better leads?”

Robertson eyed the young woman skeptically, careful not to stare or linger too long or do anything that might be interpreted the wrong way.  Which is to say that Robertson’s gaze slid down the length of her body and then settled on a random point in space, precisely one foot to the left of Ms. Danvers, and definitely not anywhere near her perky breasts. 

“Well,” he said to the air, “let’s get a team together and go get this guy.”

Chapter 8.
                
Asthmatic Dugong

Governor Dick Whitford grunted as he finished his breakfast.  He took a moment to extract a bit of something tasty from his teeth, let out an ear-splitting belch, and dabbed at his mouth with an embroidered linen napkin before subsiding back into his enormous leather chair.  Then he reached out a pale and pudgy hand to press a button on his phone.

“Withers,” he croaked.

A moment later a woman worthy of the name “Withers” bustled in and began clearing Whitford’s breakfast mess off of his desk.  She was powerfully-built and efficient – all business – but then there were a couple of stray wisps of graying hair that dangled from an otherwise severe bun. 

Whitford waited for her to finish with a vaguely impatient, almost sarcastic look on his face. 

“Send them in,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“And check the thermostat,” he said, “it feels warm in here.”

“It’s not warm, sir,” she said.  “It’s 64 degrees.”  Ms. Withers was one of the few people who could contradict Dick Whitford without fear of being declared an enemy of the state and shipped off to a Caribbean summer camp for insurgents.  “And 50 degrees outside.”

“It’s warm, goddamnit.  Fix it.”

Ms. Withers made a show of pulling up the collar of her sweater as she bustled out.

There were a lot of people who thought that the former Vice President of the United States was Satan, and that, after two terms, a couple of minor Constitutional “transgressions,” and a handful of cardiac episodes, Dick Whitford would make his way back to one of the inner circles of Hell.  But he hadn’t.  Instead, he’d gone home to Texas, which, in some ways isn’t all that different.

Texas has many things going for it, but unless you’re the kind of person who enjoys vacationing on the surface of the sun or inside a blast furnace, summer is not one of them.  Native Texans often refer to the warm season, which generally runs from February to November, in loving, dulcet tones and using phrases such as “Oh holy fuck, will it never end?!”

Whitford hated the heat.  But he hated Liberals and Communists even more, so he had no choice but to live in Texas.  And so he did whatever it took to shield himself against the infernal Lone Star climate, such as having two entire backup cooling systems installed in any building where he was likely to spend much time.  After all, why would any God-fearing Texan settle for just one monster-truck-sized air conditioning unit when he could install two, or even three, thereby flipping the Lone Finger at the idea of “centralized” climate control?  Well, he wouldn’t.  Because that would be un-American, you dirty Communist.  Which is why Whitford had multiple air-conditioning units lined up in nice, environmentally friendly rows outside each of his houses. 

The governor didn’t spend much time at any of his houses though.  He preferred to spend his days – and his nights – lurking within the dark, frigid confines of his office, which he kept at a hypothermia-inducing fifty-nine degrees.  Which is why members of his staff usually scoffed at the idea of their boss being the Prince of Darkness.  They had all decided that the idea that Satan would come to Earth and sequester himself in a freezer just seemed preposterous.  Which of course, only shows that they had actually given the question serious consideration.

The icy temperatures had, in fact, led those who worked under Whitford (or near rather – any unfortunate soul who worked under Whitford would not do so for long) to come up with an entirely different set of theories.  First among these was the idea that Whitford was a cyborg; that the frigid temperatures were essential to maintain the proper function of the super-conducting microprocessors in Whitford’s robot components.  The guy had, after all, survived a string of heart attacks that would have killed all but the most robotic overlord.

Nobody was really sure how many heart attacks he’d had.  In his second term as vice president, his trips up Connecticut Avenue to the National Naval Medical Center had become so frequent that CNN stopped covering them.  After his last visit to the hospital he trudged out, hunched over, with a look of grim determination on his face, and glared with a cynical eye at the few newspaper reporters who’d showed up. 

“I’m fine,” he said, and he stalked off to get into a waiting town car.

Whitford’s last heart attack had been a very anxious time in the underworld.  In Hell, several of the higher-up demons sighed with relief.  Their job had been to prevent the Vice President’s arrival at all costs, and they had succeeded – again – in putting it off for another day. 

A nervous demon had approached Satan.

“My Lord,” the demon said, “I thought you might like to know that the Vice President of the United States is scheduled to arrive today.”  He handed the Dark Lord a parchment scroll.

There was a long-standing policy in Hell:  Any time a despot, dictator, tyrant, or genocidal maniac was on his way down, Satan himself was to be informed.  He unfurled the scroll and began reading.  It was covered in a tiny, handwritten script, written in blood (which Satan thought was disgusting, but it seemed to make his minions happy, so he went with it). 

Under normal circumstances, a welcoming committee of high-ranking demons would be convened, and the new soul would be led off to endure a uniquely tailored program of ironic torture. 

“You must get up there and
stop
this,” he said, his eyes wide.  Satan, by this time, already had some inkling that he might not be sticking around.  Leaving Hell unmanned was one thing.  Leaving it unmanned, with a guy like Whitford running around, well, that was another matter entirely.

“My lord?”

“Er... This one is not meant for us,” he said, handing back the scroll.  “Go and intervene.  He cannot come here.  Go.” 

“Yes,” said the demon.  He crept off to do his master’s bidding.

And so, after his eighth or twelfth or fifteenth heart attack – the one that really, definitely should have killed him – Whitford had spent almost a week recuperating, and then had returned to work.  Six months later, he and his cadre of support staff (rumored to be technicians) removed themselves to his ranch just outside of Austin. 

Their sojourn there, however, was a short one.  For just a few weeks after Whitford returned to Texas, the Governor and the Lieutenant Governor – both of whom had far less going for them in the bionic parts department than Whitford – departed this mortal sphere.  And through a series of maneuvers that will be puzzled over by government professors at the University of Texas for decades to come, Whitford stepped in as the Governor of Texas, sworn in by his long-time friend and spiritual advisor Bill Cadmon.

There was tiny, almost inaudible squeak as the giant, oak door to Whitford’s cold, dark office swung open.  Two men entered.  Their names were Clyde Parker and Sam Harris.  Both had worked for the Governor since before he’d left Washington.  Parker had been with Whitford since before he went to Washington in the first place.

Parker ambled in.  Harris’ entrance fell more toward the frenetic end of the spectrum.

Parker wore cowboy boots, a ten-gallon hat, and a poncho for warmth.  He walked slow and talked slow, and he and Whitford had known each other since back around the time Lincoln was President.  He was Whitford’s general problem solver and the guy who dealt with whatever nastiness needed to be dealt with.

Harris, on the other hand, had on a shirt and tie underneath a tasteful grey sweater and horn-rimmed glasses and talked through his nose.  He did a lot annoying stuff that made people want to punch him in the face, like always being right about everything and insisting that people call him “Samuel” instead of “Sam” or “fuckwad.”  Even the unflappable First Lady of Texas had commented to the Governor that she had felt the urge to smack Harris on more than one occasion.

But Harris was smart.  Off-the-charts smart.  And so Whitford ignored the complaints – he didn’t give a crap about Harris’ assheadedness himself – and kept the kid around.

“So,” said Whitford, “what did you boys find for me?”

Parker nodded at Harris.  Harris turned and held one of the massive wooden doors open for an aide who rolled in a television.  He searched around for a plug, reminding himself, as he always did, to address Whitford as “sir” or “governor” and not, as he was tempted to call him, “Master Jabba.”  When he finally got the television set he turned to face the governor.

“Well, sir,” he began.

“You know I don’t like TV,” interrupted Whitford.  He was always saying things like that – pointless crap to put people off their games.  He smiled suddenly and lurched in his chair like an asthmatic dugong in an ill-fitting suit.  His leather seat squeaked flatulently as he shifted.  “Unless it’s another torture video from the base in Cuba.  I like those.” 

“Well, sir, you’re going to want to see this.”  Harris dropped the disc in the player, turned the set to face the governor, and stood back.  “Just watch,” he said.  “Please.”

The screen showed a slight, disheveled man, dressed in what looked like hospital scrubs.  He sat alone in an empty, institutional room, and muttered to himself as he stared at the floor, rocking back and forth, as if he were in some kind of trance.  “No, no, no, no, no, no...” he droned.

“What the hell is this?” asked Whitford.

“Just keep watching.” 

Clyde Parker watched Harris in very much the same way that a Doberman Pinscher might watch its owner’s pet bunny.

On the screen the man’s droning rant grew louder.  “No, no, no, no, no, no...”  Suddenly he stood up, grabbing the sides of his head, moaning and turning in circles with increasing violence.  “No! No! No! No! No! ...” 

“Harris?”

“Just ... please ... wait, sir.”

Clyde Parker and the former VP glanced at each other. 

The man on the screen grabbed the chair and flung it toward the camera.  The picture flashed and flickered and pointed at the ceiling while the man’s moaning rant turned to violent, irregular screams.  “No! No!! Nooo! No! Nooo! No!!”  There was a thudding sound – the sound of the man hitting something with his hands maybe? – and then another, and another, punctuating the man’s screams.  His screaming turned into incoherent howling.  And then it stopped. 

Whitford glanced at Harris and then at Parker and then back at the screen.  Parker leaned over, as if the edge of the television set were blocking his view and he thought he would be able to see what was really going on if he could only see around it.

“What the hell
is
this?” asked the Governor. 

Samuel Harris didn’t respond, but pressed a button on the remote, skipping ahead slightly to where someone finally repositioned the camera in the movie.  The man was gone.  The chair was gone.  There was a red stain splattered on the wall.

Whitford scowled.  This was interesting – whatever it was – but it wasn’t as good as an angel.  Cadmon had one – Parker had actually seen it – and Whitford wanted one too.  But looked more and more like he was going to have to settle for something else.  “What happened to the laser?” he asked.  “I thought you were bringing me some kind of laser.  A laser might actually be useful.”

“We couldn’t get that, sir,” said Harris.  “But this is better.”  He fumbled with the remote, pressing various buttons and kind of waving it at the television, as if that might imbue the infrared signals with a little more oomph.  He finally set the remote down and crouched in front of the machine to fumble with those buttons instead.  The image on the screen froze.  “The CIA had a program,” he said, standing back up.  “They called it Project Baphomet.”