by Vic Kerry
“A bodybuilder?”
“Only recently. After he discovered how to record emotions, he went on this weight loss kick and dropped mega pounds and beefed up a little. I guess he thought fame would be better if he were in shape,” Smalls said.
“Is he always this messy? He makes me look like Good Housekeeping magazine.”
“Never. He likes to keep everything in order so he can find it easily. I think someone has come in here looking for something.” Cooper flipped on the light. The room filled with harsh fluorescent light. She tapped on a filing cabinet. “Look at this.”
Smalls walked over. It looked like the lock on the filing cabinet had been melted away. There was a circle on the side of the cabinet where the lock would have been and a long line of melted metal ran from it like a steel teardrop. Black soot surrounded the hole. He ran his finger around the edge of the hole. It was smooth as if finished by a master metal worker.
“What could have done that?” he asked.
“A blow torch. People use them all the time to get into safes.” He took her finger and put it into the hole. “It’s smooth, too smooth.”
She opened the top drawer. A fireproof box sat in the otherwise empty drawer. The lid was open after the lock mechanism had been burned off just like the one on the filing cabinet.
“What about that?” Smalls ran his finger around that burned area as well.
“I don’t know. Why wouldn’t they just take the box and open it elsewhere?”
“Because he didn’t have to,” Smalls said, lifting the box out of the drawer. A slight smell of sulfur wafted up to him as he did so. “The Devil has great power.”
“Not that again.”
“Smell.” He shoved the box under her nose. “Just like rotten eggs, right? It’s not though. That’s the smell of brimstone. I believe that we are dealing with satanic powers and plots beyond anything we can hope to handle. If we arrest Rogers, it will get worse.”
Cooper looked worried. “At least he may be able to answer some questions.”
“I don’t believe that will happen.” The tone of the voice fell flat.
Cooper jumped, and Smalls turned around. He already knew what he would find standing in the doorway. Sure enough, the man who claimed to be the manager for the Goth Sox filled up the only way out of the room. His face remained steely calm and stone firm. The eyes had as much personality as the flat verbalizations.
“Who are you?” Cooper asked.
“Francisco San Roman.”
“A heretic burned at the stake many centuries ago, am I right?” Smalls asked.
“Heretic is a harsh word. Only those who burn others for their beliefs and practices would use such a word.”
“He looks good to be a long dead heretic,” Cooper said. “Only looks about 45 or so.”
“That’s because the body isn’t that old. The soul is that of Francisco de San Roman,” Smalls said. “Why are you here?”
“My master wants to know the same of you. You do not have the right to be in this place.”
“Where is Dr. Rogers?” Cooper asked. “He’s wanted for questioning about a murder in Pascagoula.”
San Roman cocked his head to one side and seemed to be studying the two of them. To Smalls it appeared that the man had to process who she might be talking about. The large man remained silent for a little too long. It made him seem unreal or at least out of sync with the current reality.
“I do not know of whom you speak.”
“Don’t give me that crap. You know exactly who I’m talking about. Now that I’ve gotten a good look at you, I’m pretty sure you assisted him in the murder of Amanda Moore in the old dock parking lot a few nights ago.”
“I do not know what you are talking about.”
This time San Roman answered too quickly to be truthful. Cooper eyed him just like Smalls expected a seasoned detective to do when dealing with a liar.
“Where’s the man who owns this office?” Smalls asked.
“I will not tell you. My master gave me one duty and that is to eliminate you both.”
“The power and light of God and our Lord Jesus Christ compels you to answer me.” Smalls fished his rosary and crucifix from his pocket. He pushed it out in front of him.
San Roman laughed a deep hollow laugh. It sounded like a corpse laughing. All the joy associated with such an action, even when villainous, was not present in the noise coming from him.
“Although we know of God and the power He has, your petty attempt at evoking that power does nothing to stop me.”
He advanced into the room. Smalls and Cooper retreated a little deeper into the office. The priest fought with himself on the inside. He should not fear something like San Roman. The power of God was with him. As the looming heretic-possessed corpse kept lumbering into the room, Smalls searched through all his knowledge of paranormal religious activities. The email he had sent to Ashe popped to the front of his mind. The Buddhist incantation to make evil spirits and good spirits live in harmony might do the trick.
“I can destroy you,” Smalls said. A look of derision came on San Roman’s face. It surprised the priest. He thought that the reanimated corpse couldn’t have an affective response. “I will if you do not cooperate.”
“I hope that it is better than your last try, priest.”
San Roman grabbed Smalls by the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. The hair on the back of Smalls’ neck stood on end. The feel of the other man’s grasp was as unearthly as his countenance. Now the heretic’s other hand reached for his neck.
“Where is Ashe Shrove?” Smalls twisted his head from the hand.
“I do not know of who you speak.”
Smalls began to chant the Buddhist exorcism prayer. He did so in the English translation. A slight tremble from San Roman’s hand ruffled his shirt. The heretic retracted his other hand, and his grip on Smalls slipped. The priest pushed himself away from the heretic. Something was happening. He continued to chant the mantra over and over.
The large man backed up, stumbling over his feet and slamming against the doorjamb. The whites of his eyes became visible as they rolled back into his head. It looked like San Roman was having a seizure. Smalls pressed on with the mantra. The room began to change. Objects elongated as if being pulled toward the door by a strong magnet. The overhead lights blew. One of the fluorescent tubes shattered. Bits of powdery glass showered down on Smalls. He closed his eyes and continued.
San Roman screamed. It sounded like nothing Smalls had ever heard before. He opened his eyes and looked at the man. The whites of the eyes had not just turned black but looked to be blistering as if the thing inside the corpse was being incinerated. Cooper screamed. Smalls had forgotten about her. He had no idea what effect the mantra had on her if any.
More loud pops filled the air, but nothing showered down. Instead a spray of deep red blood spewed from San Roman. The body was hurled against the door by the mantra and crumpled to the floor. The horrible screaming of someone being burned alive ended. Smalls was certain that he saw something like a dark shadow float from the eye sockets of the corpse and disappear like smoke.
“The power of 9mms compels you,” Cooper said.
Smalls looked at her. She held out her service pistol. A hint of blue smoke curled from the barrel. The smell of spent gunpowder wafted to him. He realized that the blood had sprayed him from bullet wounds, not from the mantra. He stopped reciting it.
“Why did you do that?”
“He tried to kill you. I’m a cop. It’s what I do.” She put her gun back into the holster behind her back.
“My mantra was working. It was expelling the spirit.”
“That’s what you were doing?” she said. “I thought he was doing something to your mind. Doesn’t matter, I expelled it.” Her face hardened. “I think I saw it leave the body.”
“I saw it too. You should have let me finish him with the mantra alone. It’s the only way I’m positive it will work without any other kind of intervention. That is the mantra I told Ashe to use to deal with evil spirits. He may try it on the others, and we don’t know if it works at expelling them or if killing the host is necessary for expulsion.”
Cooper walked to the body and bent over it. She sucked in air through her teeth. “Come and look at this.”
He walked behind her. The corpse stared up at them, or would have if it had eyes. The sockets were empty, charred black to the point that the eyebrows were singed off and the skin around the eye blistered.
“My pistol didn’t do that.”
“I think you are right. Do you believe me now about the Devil?”
She rubbed her own eyes as if they were burning. Smalls understood the feeling. The sight made his eyes a bit watery as well. He crossed himself and made a quick prayer for the body of whoever’s soul had occupied it before San Roman possessed it.
“I don’t know about the Devil, but I do know that I’ve never met a murderer that had his eyes do that. I think I ought to get a warrant to search that warehouse.”
“I can go with you when you raid it?”
She looked at him. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. That chant is better than a bulletproof vest.”
“Only toward evil spirits,” Smalls said. “It won’t work for actual bullets.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
Smalls nodded. He crossed himself again and said a prayer to purify the room. It was a Buddhist prayer. Although he was a priest, he believed that the power of God and good and the Devil and evil knew no exclusive religion. That room needed good karma to ward off any other problems.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ashe finished the last tweak on the final engram recorder. He slid the small blue device away from him and rubbed his face. Everything twinned as he looked from his fatigued eyes. He couldn’t remember working so hard on anything. Even when he created the first engram recording devices, he hadn’t spent as much effort or time bent over a magnifying lamp. The muscles in his neck cramped down, not allowing him to fully extend it. A boxer after a prize fight probably didn’t feel as rough as he did right then.
He stood and stretched out his back. Czernobog had removed the possessed helpers a few hours ago. He mentioned they had other work to do tonight. Ashe figured it must be sometime pretty late by the way he felt. He hadn’t seen the outside in a few days. The Devil had kept all time devices away from him. A quick twist of his neck one way then the other popped the vertebrae and loosened his stiff muscles. The repaired cot that stood against the far wall of his lab enticed him. With everything finished, including programming the chant Smalls had emailed him into the engram recorders, he figured that Czernobog wouldn’t care if he slept for a while.
The minimal support the canvas bottom of the cot gave his back didn’t matter. The second-hand army cot felt like the plushest bed Ashe had ever slept in. The flimsy, flat pillow under his head cradled it just enough to be soothing. He blinked and rubbed his eyes again, and finally he saw only one image. The only noise he heard was the humming of a few mechanical instruments in his lab. The sound of the other corpses working in the warehouse had ended hours ago. The Devil must have sent them out on some other work as well. He closed his eyes and thought about two people, Cybil and Marianne.
Both of their faces floated in the dark space behind his eyelids. They weren’t reconciled with each other in his mind. Worry for Cybil and her safety prodded him into doing the dumbest thing he might ever do. Marianne haunted him both in his conscience and literally. Her likeness walked around the building. He watched Rogers have his way with her. Only because of his promise, strike that, verbal contract with Satan was he sure Rogers hadn’t done the same with Cybil.
The door to the lab slammed open. “Wake up.”
Ashe opened his eyes and looked toward the door. Rogers hurried across the room. He pulled a long strip of silver duct tape out as he did so. The door to the room remained wide open. Ashe sat up and tossed his feet off the cot. Before Rogers could have known what happened, he was on his feet and hit the other man in the chest with his elbow. Rogers spun and buckled to the floor. Nothing blocked Ashe from the door. He was almost there when orange light flamed up in the doorway. The whole place filled with sulfur odor. The sudden wind and heat from fire knocked him backwards. Czernobog stepped into the room through the curtain of fire. He put his foot on Ashe’s chest, pinning him to the floor.
“Hurry up and get this done, you fool,” the Devil told Rogers.
The psychologist grabbed Ashe’s wrists and put them together. Then he wrapped them with duct tape. Ashe felt the need to yell building up in his chest. Czernobog must have read this in his eyes because he put his finger to his lips.
“I would recommend that you stay very silent, Dr. Shrove. I would hate to have something happen to your dear Cybil.” He nodded his head from Rogers to Ashe. “Over his mouth for extra insurance.”
Rogers placed the end of the tape at the edge of his mouth and wrapped the tape twice around his head, leaving a two-ply barrier between Ashe’s mouth and the outside world. The taste of the tape’s glue was bitter on his tongue. Czernobog removed his foot and grabbed Ashe by the wrists. With a mere movement, the Devil pulled him to his feet.
“When you hear the lock on this door rattle, take him out the back door into the main area. When you hear me heading in there, you bring him back in here.” Czernobog looked deep into Ashe’s eyes. “You do anything stupid, and I will kill Cybil slowly and agonizingly. You will be forced to watch, and I will take great pleasure in doing both.”
A puff of acrid, sulfurous smoke enveloped the Devil, and he was gone. The curtain of fire disappeared leaving no trace on the doorjamb as the door slammed and locked on its own. Ashe cut his eyes around. He would have moved away, but Rogers held him. His former partner’s grip felt stronger than he had expected. Part of his deal with the Devil must have involved a subclause about strength. They walked closer to a door in the wall that led into the main area of the building where the floats were assembled.
A door somewhere not far from them slammed open. The sound echoed through the metal walls of the building. Voices muffled by distance but obviously shouts followed the boom of the door opening. Ashe strained to hear who it was. One of the voices was definitely female. It bore authoritative undertones.
More loud clattering sounds mingled with yells. Someone slammed desk drawers closed in the main office. Another sound was similar to a chair rolling across the floor ending with an echoing cymbal-like crash. The place was being ransacked.
“The police got their warrant.” Rogers’ breath felt hot on his ear as he whispered to him. “They’re probably looking for me. I killed a doctor in Mississippi.”
Ashe cut his eyes up at his former friend. A childish grin of pride split Rogers’ face. He nodded and winked as if to tell Ashe that was just another thing to add to his delinquent record. Ashe wanted to yell but knew it would be wasting his breath.
The door to the lab rattled. Rogers opened the rear door and forced Ashe through it before closing it without making a sound. The wall between the lab and the main chamber was thinner. It looked like little more than tin sheeting held up by two-by-fours, a makeshift lab put up on the fly. Ashe started to believe that the Devil was a little more haphazard than religion would have people believe.
“This is my electronics lab where I have techs mock up and knock together the more technical aspects of my floats.” Czernobog’s voice came clearly through the wall.
“Where are your techs tonight? I would think troubleshooting would be happening this close to showtime.” Ashe recognized the female voice now. It was Detective Cooper.
“All my people have been told to go to the MOT’s parade tonight. That society knows
how to make a technically impressive series of floats. I want my people to make any last minute adjustments they need to top those guys.”
“Where do you build the floats?” Cooper asked.
“In the larger room. Follow me and I will be happy to show them to you.”
Rogers put his ear to the wall. After a few seconds he opened the door back into the lab, and dragged Ashe back inside. Making a sound would be so easy, and could be considered a mistake. The Devil couldn’t read his mind so blaming him for doing it purposefully wouldn’t work. Ashe stopped. Rogers kept a good grip on him and listened at the wall. They stood a long time in silence. The tape around his mouth began to burn and sting as it started to slip, pulling at the whiskers on his face. He mumbled, but Rogers twisted his arm like an Indian burn. Ashe quit.
After another eternal period of standing still taking short breaths to try and keep the tape from slipping more, Rogers let him go.
“They’re gone. I guess they didn’t find what they were looking for.”
Ashe walked to his cot and sat down. He put his elbows on his legs and entwined his fingers. After a span of time Czernobog walked in through the rear door. He smelled overwhelmingly of sulfur. Ashe looked at him, and the Devil’s features were more demon-like, sharp and angry.
“Unbind him,” he said to Rogers.
The psychologist did what he was told. Ashe rubbed his face when the tape was ripped off unceremoniously. Twin stripes on his wrists were red and bumped from where the tape had torn the hair from his arms.
“Are they on to you?” he asked the Devil.
“Silence!” Czernobog turned to Rogers. “I am very angry. They are looking for you. The Pascagoula Police Department wanted to question you about the murder of a doctor in the Singing River Hospital. You are becoming a liability, Dr. Rogers.”
“You told me to get more corpses. I was just doing your bidding.”
“I did not mean that you needed to gloat on camera. You have gotten sloppy.” The Devil flashed with anger. “I will deal with you later. For now, you have a job to do. Get to it and hope my rage subsides after you do.”