Sympathy for the Devil (47 page)

Mary Margaret Doyle had been looking at Stark when this horror occurred, and was thus largely unaffected. And the demon Sargatanas, once he recognized one of his own kind, let Stark's face twist in anger before growling "
You!
"

Ashley, looking once again like the Playmate of the Year's prettier sister, turned her face to the ceiling and said "
Now
."

Three seconds later, the lights went out. All of them. Every one of the thousands of lights and other electrically-powered devices in Madison Square Garden was extinguished - for seven seconds.

In a hotel suite in Newark, New Jersey - the same suite that the demon Ashley had visited ten days earlier, seven women sat in a circle on the floor of the suite's living room. They had been chanting a series of spells for the last half hour, ready for the psychic signal that their leader, one Eleanor Robb, was waiting for.

When Ellie 'heard' the word 'Now,' she repeated it aloud, and she and the other witches began to focus the magic they had prepared. It was a tough job, taking down the power grid that services Madison Square Garden, even if you're only doing it for seven seconds. But they managed beautifully.

As soon as everything went dark, something happened to one of the walls near where two demons stood and a number of unfortunate human men writhed on the floor in mental and spiritual agony. The painted cinderblock shifted, changed, and became a brown metal door, like so many others to be found on the lower levels of Madison Square Garden.

Magic had not been used to create that door - magic had been employed to
conceal
it.

The door formed quickly, then opened wide. Libby Chastain slipped out, using witch sight to see where she was going. She saw Ashley, and Stark, and a woman in a business suit staring around frantically in the darkness. Ashley, being a full-blown demon and not merely one inhabiting a human body, was stronger than Stark, whom she grabbed and hustled through the newly-appeared door. As she did so, Ashley said to Libby, "This one, too. Yes, we have too!"

Since Libby could see and Mary Margaret Doyle could not, it was not extremely difficult for Libby to drag the woman the short distance through the door.

Ashley slipped back out of the room and slammed the door behind her. The door disappeared and, a moment later, so did Ashley. In two more seconds the power, including juice to the many surveillance cameras, was restored.

More Secret Service agents came running around the corner, slowing when they saw their fallen comrades. Several of the agents knelt next to downed agents, looking for bleeding, or other evidence of wounds - and finding nothing.

One of the agents remained standing and said loudly and firmly into his wrist mike, "I've got men down in Corridor C-9. I say again, we have men down. I'm gonna need ambulances, with stretchers for - let me see - fourteen men. No, Dragon is not among them. Neither is Princess. No, none of the agents are deceased. Their wounds are" - the agent looked about in confusion at the men obviously in pain, and not one drop of blood spilled. Nerve gas? "Their wounds are serious, but undetermined. There is the possibility that some kind of nerve gas or paralyzing agent was used. Now get those ambulances!"

Ellie Robb nodded with satisfaction. "Nicely done, my Sisters. Thank you. I have another Sister monitoring a police band radio across the river. Once she learns what hospital the Secret Servicemen are being taken to, we can get over there and do our best to sooth the minds of those poor, brave men."

"It's a pity they had to suffer like that," one of the younger Sisters said.

"Yes, it is. And I'm not usually a proponent of situation ethics. But if Stark gets elected President with that demon inside him, those men will ultimately suffer even more, and the rest of the world will doubtless join them."

Room C-109 had a low ceiling, with a flickering double-tube florescent set in the middle. The walls were painted institutional green over the cinderblock surface; the filthy floor seemed to be patterned gray and white linoleum that was coming up in places. Institutional junk was stacked around the room. One corner held a pile of folded chairs that looked like they belonged at some graduation ceremony. A couple of wooden crates contained what looked like parts for industrial lawn mowers.

In more or less the center of the room sat an elaborate wooden armchair, like something that might be used as a throne in a high school play. A coil of rope lay on the seat.

"Not the most elegant place for an exorcism," Father Martin Finley thought, "but I've seen worse, too - far worse."

Ashley had declined to stay for the exorcism - for obvious reasons. The name of God was likely to be said in this room - many, many times.

Stark drew himself up to his full height. "What is the meaning of this? What is wrong with you people? Who are you? Don't you know who I
am
?"

"Nice try," Quincey Morris said. "But we know exactly who, and what, you are, Sargatanas."

The thing that had once been Howard Stark abandoned the expression of outraged indignation and looked at Morris with narrowed eyes. "You seem to think you know my identity. Who, might I ask, are you?"

"You don't need to know our true names - except for one." Morris gestured toward Finlay, who wore a simple black cassock with a purple cloth stole around his neck. The stole had prayers in Latin imprinted on it, and the image of the cross sewn onto each end.

"Meet Father Finlay. He'll be your exorcist this evening."

Sargatanas looked the priest up and down. "Nice dress," he said. "But I believe most of the cock-sucking faggots in this town usually go for something more elaborate"

"Not very original," Finlay said, "for Hellspawn."

He looked at Morris. "We might as well get started."

Morris looked at Libby, and made a head gesture toward the door. She went over and stood with her back against it. She would monitor the spell that created the illusion of a plain blank wall on the other side, and listen for any activity that might take place in the hallway.

Morris looked to Peters, who had just finished unfolding one of the metal chairs for Mary Margaret Doyle. "Sit down." When she looked at him blankly, he said, "That wasn't a request, lady."

Morris said to Peters, "It's time."

Peters nodded. He pointed a finger at Mary Margaret Doyle and said, "You stay in the fucking chair - no matter what happens. You get out of the chair, and I'll knock you fucking stupid. Understand?"

She nodded, wide-eyed, without speaking.

Peters walked to the large chair and picked up the coiled length of rope.

"We can do this easy," Morris said, "or we can do this hard. The outcome's the same either way - you end up in that chair, tied down securely. Only question is, do you have to get beaten up in the process, or will you just sit down and get it over with?"

"Well, if those are the choices..." Sargatanas seemed to tense his muscles, but before he could do anything with them, Peters punched him in the right kidney from behind. The man screamed in agony, arched his back, and Morris shoved him into the chair.

With a pocketknife, Peters cut lengths of rope from the coil. Some he passed to Morris, who tied Sargatanas from one side of the chair, while Peters did the honors on the other side.

When they were done, the man's arms and legs were tied firmly the chair, and a length of rope passed around his middle secured his trunk in place, as well.

"Pity we didn't buy more rope," Peters said. "I was hoping to have some left to secure the princess over there. Guess I'll just have to keep an eye on her."

Finlay picked up an extra prayer book he'd brought. "Will one of you guys read the responses as we go through this? It's not essential for the ritual, but it does help things go a little faster."

Peters looked at Morris. "Guess it better be you. I'm not sure what my standing is with the Big Guy right now. No point screwing everything up if somebody on that side is still mad at me."

Sargatanas turned his head to study Peters. "So you're not entirely a creature of the white? Maybe you're on the wrong side here, young man."

"Don't bet on it, asshole."

Father Martin Francis Xavier Finley opened his prayer book to the ritual of exorcism, and it began.

Chapter 44

"Look, a U.S. Senator, and maybe the next fucking President of the fucking United States of America
does not just
disappear
!"

John Crossman, Special Agent in Charge of the Secret Service detail at the Republican National Convention, was not an excitable man, usually. The Secret Service does not hire hotheads - it values men and women who can keep their cool, even in highly stressful situations.

But this was more stress than Crossman had signed on for.

"You've checked all the cameras, for the last hour." Crossman was talking to Elmer Irvin, whose job was to supervise the technicians who worked the immense security cam system that Madison Square Garden is so proud of.

"Yes, sir, every damn one." Irvin, as a Garden employee, did not work for Crossman, but 'Sir' still seemed like a good idea. The amount of quiet fury that Crossman was exhibiting tended to impress people.

"Then check 'em again."

Irvin grimaced. All of them?"

"Right. Start with corridor C-3 and work outward. Also, look for glitches in the video, any suggestion that a camera's reception might have been interfered with by some kind of electromagnetic pulse, or something, I don't know what the fuck. Just check them!"

Crossman turned his swivel chair away from the perspiring Irvin and took three long, deep breaths. He hoped this would help to bring his blood pressure down into a range that did not threaten imminent cerebral hemorrhage.

"Agent Vincent, Agent Brewser," he called to two men sitting glumly over against one wall. He made a 'come here' gesture.

"Sit," he said. The two agents sat.

"Look," Crossman said, "I want you to work with me here. Nobody is saying you fucked up. Something weird is going on, and I admit we don't have a handle on it yet. But if two experienced agents with spotless records tell me they saw a man with a gun, then I believe they saw
something
."

Crossman sat back in his chair, the springs creaking under his weight. "The guy with the gun - you've independently described his build, what he was wearing. But I don't see anything about his face. What did he
look
like?"

Brewster and Vincent studied their shoes. Without looking up, Vincent said, "He was a man with a gun, sir. That's what we focused on. I guess nothing else mattered to us."

"Did you at least notice his race? People
always
notice that. Was he white, African-American? Asian?"

The two agents just shook their heads.

After a while, Crossman said, "Your shift is over soon, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Another hour or so," Brewster said.

"I'd like you to stick around. You're not being punished, understand? But I want you here to answer questions when more come up. And I'm pretty damn sure they will."

"Yes, sir. We'll be here as long as you need us," Vincent told him.

"Dismissed."

"Holy Lord, almighty Father, everlasting God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who once and for all consigned that fallen and apostate tyrant to the flames of hell, who sent your only-begotten Son into the world to crush that roaring lion -"

"
Why don't you try praying to Santa Claus? Maybe he'll bring you a dolly!"

"- hasten to our call for help and snatch from ruination and from the clutches of the noonday devil this human being made in your image -"

"
That's right, shaman! Shake your rattle over me. Now dance around like a nigger with a bone through his nose!
"

"- your image and likeness. Strike terror, Lord, into the beast now laying waste your vineyard..."

"Agent Crossman speaking."

"Sir, this is Ron Fanyak. I'm at Bellvue with the guys who got... hurt, or whatever they did guarding the Senator."

"Yeah, hiya. Have any of the poor bastards said anything?

"Just fragments. The hospital won't let me in with any of 'em - I have to sneak in when the nurses aren't looking. Then they see me and kick me out again."

"Tell me about these 'fragments.'"

"One of the agents keeps saying something like, 'She was so beautiful, the girl of my dreams...'"

"What the fuck does
that
refer to?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, sir. One of the other guys is saying stuff about the devil. He says he saw the devil, and the devil's a woman."

"Shit. Are these agents being tested for exposure to some kind of gas? Something that would induce hallucinations or psychotic breaks?"

"I asked one of the docs, and he said they're looking into that, but no news so far."

"All right, keep me posted."

"Will do, sir."

Crossman put the phone down and sat there, rubbing his jaw and scowling. Then he raised his head and looked around until he saw the man he wanted, at a computer terminal fifty feet away. "Agent Stevens! Come here a sec!"

When Stevens stood in front of him, Crossman said, "I remember when we started working on the security plan for the convention we had access to the complete set of blueprints for the Garden. What happened to those?"

"No idea sir, but I'm guessing you want me to find out."

"I sure as shit do - and when you find where they are, have 'em brought up here, ASAP. Got it?"

"Yes sir, I'm on it."

"A Lesson from the holy Gospel according to St. Mark.

'At that time Jesus said to His disciples: "Go into the whole world and preach the Gospel to all creation. He that believes and is baptized will be saved; he that does not believe will be condemned. And in the way of proofs of their claims, the following will accompany those who believe: in my name they will drive out demons; they will speak in new tongues -'"