Diabolical (35 page)

“Everybody's experience is unique. Everybody's eternity is their own. Same place, different worlds.”

The wall was just a foot or so away now. The tinted-glass look of the surface became less and less opaque, more and more transparent the closer he got. He could see the thing on the other side with increasing clarity, seemed like he could almost touch it. Or it, him.

It reached out a hand, a large, taloned hand, not unlike the one Morris stuck through the wall. Hatcher thought it was going to reach for him, push through the wall the same way Morris did, only in reverse. Place those claws on his head and drag him through, straight into Hell.

But the hand didn't reach for Hatcher. It took hold of Morris's deformed hand, the claws of both interlocking, and as soon as it did, everything changed.

The world threw itself into sharp relief. The wall obstructed nothing, because there was no wall. There was only Hatcher, Hatcher plunging a knife into the sternum of a sixteen-year-old Taliban fighter on a perimeter watch, Hatcher hooking a car battery and telephone to the genitals of an Iraqi insurgent, Hatcher hammering tacks through the fingernails of a man identified as having been the one in a video of cutting the head off a kidnapped American contractor with a knife. Seamless transitions from one scene to the next, more like a vivid, three-dimensional dream than a movie, realer than real, realer than life, Hatcher both observing and participating, seeing and feeling, over and over, atrocities perpetrated, atrocities forgotten. Atrocities enjoyed.

Then the scenes began to repeat, same setting, same action, same sequence, only the subject of the treatment was different. The boy with the dagger plunged into his heart was now Amy, eyes wide with shock and betrayal; the electrocution was being performed on Susan, who screamed and pleaded for him to stop; the hammering through the fingernails was happening to Vivian, who cried and begged him to just tell her that he loved her, please, just once.

Hatcher doing it all, Hatcher watching it all, Hatcher experiencing it both ways at the same time.

It seemed to last forever, so many scenes of horror, so many third-world hellholes, so many blood-spattered floors, always the same, always different. Always torturing or killing someone. Always being tortured by it.

And yet, he could tell what he was seeing was only a glimpse of this world. His world. For him, of him, by him. A world where every shadow, every crevice, every moment harbored an unbridled nightmare, ready to pounce.

Then it was over. He felt himself snap back, like out of a daydream. He sucked in a breath, staring at his own see-through reflection coming off the shiny blackness of the wall, the burning eyes of a demon looking right back at him from the other side. His body felt drenched in sweat. He realized he was trembling.

Morris was no longer touching the thing, his claw-hand sticking out there on the other side, empty. The demon drew back and turned, carrying Sherman's head. The head was still trying to scream, its face red and burned and blistering, its eyes scalded but wide and moving. Sherman somehow still quite conscious.

Slowly, Morris withdrew his arm, pulling it back out of the wall. It came out like it was oozing, small rings of disturbance echoing in tremors as it moved, waves radiating across a liquid surface. Finally, his deformed hand came through, and the wall instantly darkened. There was no hole where he'd inserted it, no blemish of any sort to indicate he'd put his arm through it. Just smooth, prehistoric blackness.

The images were scorched into Hatcher's mind. Sensations still pulsing through him, like aftershocks. Time had seemed not so much to stop but to disappear. As if he'd been adrift in an ocean, no sign of land in any direction, no breeze and no current. Surrounded by forever, lost in eternity. Nothing existed but the experiences, observed and performed at the same time, to be repeated over and over and over. No chance of relief. The brink of insanity, always to be chased, never to be crossed.

Morris let go of the back of his head. “How did you like it?”

Hatcher said nothing. He was still shaking. Tried to stop, couldn't.

“That's what you have to look forward to. You know how they explained it to me? It's like you have a lawn that goes on for miles and miles and miles, hundreds of square miles of nothing but green, like an entire continent. And a bird picks up a blade of grass from it and starts to fly around the world. By the time it gets about ten feet, that's your life. The time you're in Hell after that is that bird flying the rest of the way around the world with that blade of grass, then getting another and flying around the world at like fifteen miles an hour, then getting another piece of grass, and another, until it's flown every blade of grass there is, trillions of them. And then the bird just starts over, bringing all the blades back, because Hell for you never ends. Pretty neat, huh?”

Hatcher shut his eyes. He was losing control of his thoughts, his mind running wild. He had to clear it, had to focus on other things, things that would get him through this. There would be plenty of time for Hell later.

The boy. He was there for the boy. He was also there to kill this creepy little abomination, though that was starting to look a lot more difficult than he'd anticipated.

But the experience would not be pushed aside so easily. He could still feel himself there. In the past, but not the past. The future, but not the future. He could sense the flames of damnation, the pits of despair, even as he was immersed in other horrors. Like he was in multiple places at once. Torment in stereo.

God, what a horrible feeling it was. Unbearable agony. Worse than any physical pain. The feeling that this was all he was, all he ever was, all he ever would be. An instrument of suffering. Inflicting it, experiencing it, watching it, projecting it, redirecting it, inflicting it on those close to him. Hating it, cursing it, fearing it. Enjoying it even as it terrified and agonized him and robbed him of all memories of joy. Every moment frozen, swollen with the knowledge that was all there would ever be.

Perpetual torture.

The boy. You're here for the boy
.

All of it serving as proof, an unending verdict. His life had been a waste. Damnation wasn't the result of contact with some demon in the flesh. It was what he deserved. No more, no less.

He bit down on his tongue, used the pain to scramble his thoughts. He breathed once, twice, then wrapped himself around those thoughts and buried them. Straightening his back, he opened his eyes.

“You promised me you'd let me go,” he said over his shoulder, practically yelling.

He heard movement to his rear, strained to see Carnates moving, clearing a pathway. Deborah strolled through them. She placed a hand on Hatcher's head, stroked the sweaty strands of hair to one side.

“And if I don't, does that mean you're not going to like me anymore?”

Hatcher said nothing. His jaw tightened until he felt something pop beneath his ear.

Deborah tipped her head back and let out a laugh. “You are so amusing, you know that?”

She glanced at one of the Sedim holding him, then the other. A look heavy with meaning. Hatcher felt his arms suddenly drop to his sides, a rush of cold through them. Blood began to surge into his hands. The numbness started to give way to pins and needles, then waves of pain. It took him a few tries before he could flex his fingers with any strength.

“I'm keeping my word, Hatcher. Now, before you leave, there's something we should discuss.”

Hatcher studied her face, filled with self-loathing over how he couldn't muster the kind of anger toward her that he wanted to. She was simply too attractive, too beautiful. He didn't trust her in the least. But her looks, her scent, her
presence
were so damn disarming his fury just seemed to dissipate. In its place brewed a storm of disgust. With himself.

“Bartlett is not who you think he is,” Deborah said.

Hatcher rubbed his arms. “Why doesn't that surprise me.”

“Let me guess, he's told you that he wants to stop us from opening The Path.”

“You're saying he doesn't?”

“I'm saying that's not the whole truth. He wants to have a say.”

“I'm not sure I follow.”

“He's been negotiating with us, Hatcher.”

“Why?”

“Because like everyone, he has an agenda.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Why would I lie?”

“Because you want the tablet.”

“Let me ask you something. What does it matter? What do you care if we open some silly portal to a place you don't believe in?”

Hatcher glanced over at the smooth black wall. “You've got a funny way of making me not believe in something.”

“Oh, that. Sure, eternal damnation and all. But do you really believe there's an actual Hell? A place where devils with pitchforks and goatees walk around? I would think a worldly man like you would chalk it up as a creation of the mind.”

“I don't know what I believe. I just know I don't believe you.”

“Fine. Then what say we just make this a straight business proposition. You deliver the tablet, we won't touch the boy.”

“What's the catch?”

“No catch.”

“You didn't go through all the trouble of finding him only to hand him over to me.”

Deborah hitched a shoulder, tilted her head. “Okay, we'll need a tiny bit of his blood. And his right hand. And an eye.”

Hatcher stiffened.

“I'm kidding! You really need to lighten up.”

“I'm not exactly feeling jovial.”

“I promise you this, Hatcher. Get us that tablet, and the boy will be exactly where he was a few days ago, before you ever found his mother. Nobody will lay a hand on him.”

“And in exchange for that, I help you end the world?”

“Don't be so melodramatic. The world won't end. It will just add a few demons to its population. The Path has been opened before. The world survived.”

Hatcher let his gaze drift past her. Morris was standing a few feet back, admiring his deformed limb. Scores of beautiful women, insanely attractive women, stood in loose gaggles, occasionally whispering to each other but mostly silent. Watching.

Sedim lurked in the wings, coiled and ready to pounce. Others spidered up the walls, clinging and crawling like bats, peering down with impassive stares.

“Think about this, Hatcher. Every day, people are murdered, raped, brutalized. Wars are constantly being waged. People are blown up in cafes and bombed in their homes. And, as you're well aware, tortured, for reasons big and small. Do you really think a few demons could make things appreciably worse?”

Hatcher's eyes wandered up to the concave dome overhead, stared up at the images in the circular center, a ringed depiction of devils dancing through flames. He thought about Vivian, knowing that he'd failed her. Then he thought about Susan.

He dropped his eyes back to Deborah. “Where does he keep the goddamn thing?”

HATCHER PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT AND SHUT OFF THE headlights. He reached over to the passenger seat and picked up the piece of paper that had been tucked under one of the windshield wipers, read it one more time.

Same handwriting as the one he got in the bar, right before Sherman almost punched his ticket. Showing up was not the wisest move, he told himself. If this was some sort of trap, he decided he deserved whatever he got. Only an idiot would fall for the same thing twice.

Hatcher glanced around. It was late, and the lot was empty. A few minutes passed, and he started to wonder if maybe it was a little too late, that perhaps Edgar had given up and left. But then a pair of headlights flashed from the lot behind where he was. A car parked in shadows. Whoever was in it had been watching him the whole time.

Nothing else happened, no movement or signals, so Hatcher got out and walked toward it. The passenger door popped open as he drew near.

Edgar was sitting behind the wheel. He offered a grim smile that was more like a frown stretched sideways.

Hatcher got in and shut the door. “How did you know where I was?”

“I know they have things going on at that church.”

“More like, under that church.”

“Right. Anyway, after I managed to get away from the others I went looking. Your car was right there.”

Hatcher nodded. “Mind telling me what the hell that dogand-pony show with Bartlett was all about?”

“He was lying.”

“Yeah, you tapped it out on my foot a dozen times. About what?”

“Pretty much everything. He has his own agenda.”

“So I've been told. The question is, what's yours?”

Edgar's mouth collapsed into an ambiguous shape and he turned his head. Hatcher couldn't tell if it was a smirk on his lips. “I have my reasons for doing what I do. Let's just say I don't want him to succeed.”

“And the Carnates? Do you want them to succeed?”

Stabbing a finger toward Hatcher, Edgar clucked his tongue and winked. “I want you to succeed.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.” The finger he was pointing snapped off his thumb, made a loud pop against his palm. “Hey, before I forget.”

Edgar's hand slipped beneath his vest, produced a long, folded knife. “Take this.”