Sympathy for the Devil (40 page)

Twenty minutes later, Arkasian was pulling the Fusion's rear door shut behind him.

"Nice service today, huh?" he said, tearing the little plastic tab away from the lid of his coffee. "Good turnout, too."

"I was a little surprised - pleasantly so - that he was buried in Arlington," Morris said. "I understand that's not easy to get, if you aren't active-duty military."

"You're right. But one of the exceptions is for veterans who've earned one of five decorations, like the Congressional Medal of Honor, Distinguished Service Cross, awards like that. The Silver Star's on that list, and so is the Purple Heart. Bat had one of each."

"I didn't know," Morris said. "He never even told me he'd been in the service."

"Operation Desert Storm, 1990 to '91. Our first little tussle with Saddam Hussein. Bat was doing some kind of Special Ops stuff. He never talked about it very much with me, either."

"Did his sister do all the paperwork to get him in? I didn't think they were close."

"They're not. I did it." Arkasian hesitated. "Bat and I were lovers, Mister Morris. For just over three years. If you've got some kind of problem with that -"

"I don't," Morris said.

"Neither of us does," Libby told him.

"Okay, then. Well, that's why I'm familiar with what Bat knew about the Senator and his pet shark, Mary Margaret Doyle. He also gave me a rundown on the conversation the two of you had last week. And that means I need to ask you something, before we go any further."

"Go ahead."

"I know that the bullet that killed Bat was intended for Stark. The only reason Bat caught it instead was because... because he was so damn good at his job."

There was a sob lurking in Arkasian's voice as he finished the sentence.

"Yeah, I think that's a pretty fair assumption," Morris said. "Sad to say."

Arkasian cleared his throat a couple of times. "Okay, then - I don't know if you'd tell me the truth, but I need to ask. Were you or Libby on the other end of the gun that killed Bat?"

Morris saw that Arkasian was watching his eyes intently in the rear-view mirror.

"No, Agent Arkasian, that wasn't either of us. I don't think assassination is a solution that I'd ever arrive at, but in any case I had just started to look into Stark. I wouldn't think of killing somebody over as little information as I had."

"I don't do murder, either," Libby said. "It's against my religion."

After a few seconds, Arkasian nodded. "Okay, thanks. Call me Jerry, by the way."

"Sure," Morris said. "I'm Quincey, she's Libby."

Morris sipped some coffee. "So, what is it you wanted to talk about, exactly?"

"Bat never came right out and said what he thought was going on with Stark. But the evidence he had, mostly from his own observation, all points in one direction. I'm not sure I believe in all this demon stuff. I mean, today's the first I was inside a church since a wedding I went to last Fall. Not really my thing. But I guess I'm more open-minded about it all than I was a few weeks ago. And even more so since... what happened at the rally."

"What do you want from us?" Morris asked.

"I want to know if you've got any more intel than Bat did. I want to know what to believe. Once I've got that straight, I need to figure out what the fuck I'm gonna do about it - pardon my language, Libby."

"We did come across some new information recently," Morris said. "Quite a bit of it, actually."

"I know you said you're developing an open mind, Jerry," Libby said. "But what we're going to tell you is going to push that to the limit. We're going to ask you to believe some things that would be, for most people, simply unbelievable."

Arkasian nodded grimly. "Okay, then. Try me."

Senator Bob Leffingwell was not in a good mood. After all the speech-making he'd done in the past few days, and even with all the money his campaign had poured into this state, the good citizens of Virginia had given him no better than a second-place finish behind Howard Stark.

The ballroom of the Hilton Oceanview was starting to fill up, although Leffingwell wasn't scheduled to address his supporters for another forty-five minutes, when he would do his standard "We almost made it this time, and next time, by God, we will!" speech. As usual, the campaign had paid for a good buffet spread, as well as an open bar, to show appreciation to the many local volunteers.

Leffingwell knew better than to drink in public, but he had been hitting the buffet pretty hard. He tended to eat too much when he was unhappy. Good thing he was blessed with a fast metabolism. Otherwise, given the amount of unhappiness that is often endemic to politics, he'd probably weigh three hundred pounds by now.

"I thought this was going to be an easy first place finish for us," he said to his campaign manager, Simon Charteris. "You said the numbers looked good."

"They did, Senator." From long practice, Charteris stood close to his client and spoke in a voice that was loud enough for Leffingwell to hear without straining, but which would not be fodder for eavesdroppers.

"But our polling was done before somebody took a shot at Stark in Richmond," Charteris said. "My guess is he's getting some sympathy votes out of that - enough to make the difference between first and second, maybe."

Leffingwell shook his head in disbelief. "I know that a lot about politics defies rationality," he said. "But a chain of reasoning goes, 'I wasn't going to vote for Stark, because I don't think he'd be as good a President as Leffingwell. Oh, wait - somebody just tried to kill Stark. Guess that makes him more qualified for the job of President now, and I'll vote for him, instead.' Jeez!"

"Well, I suppose you
could
argue that what happened to Stark adds to his qualifications for the White House, in a way."

"Oh? And what way is that?"

"It's taught him how to duck."

Leffingwell laughed harder than the dumb joke was worth. He and Charteris stood there awhile, discussing plans for the next week's round of campaigning. They were interrupted periodically by half-drunk supporters who came up to shake the candidate's hand.

Then Leffingwell checked his watch and said, "I'm on in fifteen minutes, but my gut is killing me, Simon. Ate too much of the wrong thing again, as usual. I've got to run upstairs and get a hit of Gaviscon before the speech. There's still time."

"Want me to find someone to fetch it for you?" Charteris asked.

"No, I've got to take the dose with a glass of water, and it wouldn't do for these folks to see me taking medicine, even over-the-counter stuff. I'm supposed to be indestructible, remember? I'll see you in a few."

Leffingwell appreciated the work of his Secret Service detail, even before learning that one of their colleagues had apparently saved Howard Stark's life recently. He tried to make it easy for them to do their job. He walked up to one of the agents, who was standing just inside the ballroom door. Frank Turnbull was a broad-shouldered man who looked like he might be of Polynesian descent.

"I've got to go up to my room for a couple of minutes, Frank."

"Yes, sir," the agent said. That meant he would accompany Leffingwell to his room and back.

As they left the noise of the ballroom behind and headed toward the elevators, the agent said, "If you need something from your room sir, I can just radio one of the guys upstairs, have him bring it down for you. Save you a trip."

"Thanks, Frank, but I've got an upset stomach. Too much buffet, I guess. There's medicine in my bathroom that'll fix me up."

As Frank pushed the button to summon the elevator, he said, "You take Gaviscon, don't you sir? I thought I read that someplace."

"Yes, I found that's what works best for me. Why - your stomach acting up too?"

"Not at the moment, sir. But it does sometimes, so I picked up some of these. Sort of on your recommendation."

Frank reached in a pocket and produced a small plastic container that looked like the Gaviscon bottle, but in miniature.

"Gaviscon tablets," Leffingwell said. "Huh. Didn't know they even made these. Do they work?"

"Work pretty well for me, sir. I just chew one, then drink a glass of water."

Leffingwell opened the bottle. "Mind?" he asked Frank.

"No, sir - you go right ahead."

Leffingwell shook on of the white pills into his palm and looked at it. Then the elevator bell pinged, announcing a car's imminent arrival.

"Did you still want to go up, sir?"

"No, Frank, the hell with it. Let's go back in. Maybe you can scare me up a glass of water somewhere?"

"No problem, sir. Happy to do it."

"And Frank? Thanks. You may have just done me a huge favor."

"Glad to be of help, Senator," the Secret Service man said.

Chapter 37

"Hello, Quincey?"

"Yeah, hi, Paul."

"I've got news for you, and I'm afraid it isn't real good."

"Uh-oh. What happened?"

"I made some calls, as I promised. It seems you're poison with the Jesuits right now, my friend."

"You mean, because of what happened to you?"

"Yeah, afraid so. You know that I don't hold you responsible for what happened. We've already had that conversation."

"Yes, and thank you."

"But apparently Strubeck
does
blame you. Before he went into the hospice, he apparently told anybody who'd listen that you'd conned me into performing an exorcism, then failed to exercise prudence during the ritual."

"In other words, I got you into it, then I let go of the girl's arm because I had to scratch my ass, and you lost your sight as a result."

"Yeah, something like that.
You
know that's total bullshit, and
I
know it's total bullshit. But Strubeck's not taking any calls. Apparently the cancer was further advanced than first thought, and he's in kind of bad shape right now."

"Sorry to hear that, even under the circumstances."

"I also wonder how much of this stems from Strubeck's desire, unconscious or not, to free himself from whatever responsibility he may bear in this mess."

"Think that's possible?"

"I do. He doesn't deserve the blame, any more than you do. But good people sometimes feel guilt, even when they don't have to."

"Yeah, I've heard that somewhere. And the Church doesn't exactly discourage it, either. A Rabbi I know once told me, "We may have invented guilt, but it took the Catholics to institutionalize it."

"Guilty as charged - so to speak. So, anyway, I talked to Callahan, the new Rector.
Nada
. He and Strubeck go way back, and apparently whatever Strubeck said is good enough for him."

"Sweet fucking Jesus. Uh, sorry."

"Don't be. I think the Lord would forgive a little blasphemy, right about now."

"So, Callahan believes a guy who wasn't even there, over the guy who
was
there? The guy who's the injured party?"

"Exactly. I told him what happened, and explained that I went in there with my eyes open, so to speak."

"Please, Paul."

"Sorry. Bad joke. Anyway, Callahan seems to have convinced himself that I'm deluded - as a result of undue loyalty to an old friend, and a psychological need to justify what happened - to myself, if no one else."

"Forgive me for asking this, but can you go over his head?"

"Already tried, but the Father Provincial is apparently buds with Callahan, too. He wouldn't even talk to me. And I got my wrist slapped by the Socius, his Chief of Staff, for attempting to circumvent my Rector, who has apparently been placed in authority over me by the express wish of either the Lord God Almighty or St. Ignatius of Loyola, whoever comes first."

"Sorry you got your butt reamed, Paul."

"Not to worry - my career's not exactly in jeopardy. In my job, it's pretty hard to get fired. Even molesting altar boys doesn't do it, apparently - although it damn well should."

"The stakes are pretty high, Paul. I know I haven't told you why I'm looking for an exorcist, but take my word that if I fail, the consequences are likely to be
real
severe. Maybe if I explained that to your -"

"Forget it, Quincey. Jesuits are human beings, like anybody else, with all the attendant human failings. These guys have their minds made up. They might reconsider, eventually - but it's not gonna happen by tomorrow, or even the day after."

"Well, shit, what am I supposed -"

"What you ought to do is talk to the Dominicans."

"Oh. Them."

"I know you've got an irrational prejudice against those guys, over stuff that happened five hundred years ago, but they're the only game left in town - among religious orders, anyway. Individual parishes sometimes have an exorcist on staff, but unless you know the Bishop..."

"Yeah, I've already been down
that
road."

"Then I guess it's the Dominicans or nothing, my friend."

"Well, shit. The Dominicans it is, then - because
nothing
is just not an option."

Nestor Greene had spent almost $60 on a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch, a single malt that its distillers pretentiously labeled 'The McCallan.' As he sat at the desk in his study, the height of the liquid in the bottle already reduced by several inches, he thought,
This stuff is so fucking good, maybe a certain amount of pretension may be excused. Here's to you, Mister McCallan, wherever you are.

Greene poured more of the amber liquid into his glass with hands that were still steady, but not likely to remain so for much longer. The glass itself was a beautiful piece of Swedish crystal. Nestor Greene liked nice things, and he had always been willing to do what was necessary for him to afford them.

The things he had done for money over the years had never troubled him very much. Until now.

Greene took another sip from his glass, and concluded that Scotch this good almost compensated the world for atrocities like bagpipes, haggis, and The Eurhythmics.
If you could bottle Heaven, this is what it would taste like - just as well, since it may be the only taste of Heaven I ever get.