A Friend of the Devil

by David Beers

  “Why?”

  He had to be careful here. Abel understood what was at stake for himself, if not exactly for Emi—but he also knew that if he said the wrong thing, Thoran would simply deny him the privilege.

  “I think she can make the dreams stop.”

  The psychiatrist didn’t move. “Why?”

  Don’t lie, he thought. Don’t lie but … don’t tell him everything.

  “Because she’s who I’m dreaming about.”

  “Your father and sister aren’t there?” Thoran asked.

  “They are, but it’s different. She’s prevalent. She’s the one being hurt.”

  “And you think that if you talk to her, it’ll make everything end? That seems hard to believe, Abel, especially given everything we’ve talked about over the years.”

  “No, not everything. The dreams won’t stop forever, but I think if I can talk to her, it’ll make them stop this time.”

  Silence passed between the two, Abel not knowing what else to say, nor what the doctor was thinking.

  He couldn’t tell him the entire truth. He couldn’t say the dead stared at him, and that’s why he thought he had to talk to Emi. They said nothing—their voices nonexistent. Only screams filled his dreams. That and their stares. Because each time they killed Emi, they looked at him.

  As if he could do something.

  As if he had to do something.

  And Abel thought that might be the case. He wouldn’t do something for Emi; he wouldn’t try to help her under any conditions. He refused to bring her back into his life, not for all the money in the world. Yet if he did nothing, this would kill him, and then he’d join his family … down there with the dead. Or worse, maybe his mind would simply snap like his mother’s, and he wouldn’t even get the opportunity to die. He’d simply finish his life in a haze of drugs, the dead never leaving him. This torture could go on endlessly, then.

  “You know if you call her, it’ll be monitored, right?” Dr. Thoran asked.

  Abel nodded.

  “And you know if there’s anything … untoward, I’ll be forced to revoke your phone access?”

  Abel nodded again.

  “Be honest with me now, Abel, because I think this is the closest you’ve ever come to lying in all the years we’ve worked together. Are you asking me to do something that could hurt you or someone else?”

  Abel’s eyes flashed to the diploma. The question was one he took seriously. Could calling Emi hurt him? No, he didn’t believe so. His pain was here, now, a near constant presence.

  But Emi? Could it hurt her?

  Again, Abel saw room to tell the truth, but not the whole truth. A phone call wouldn’t hurt her. The damage he’d done all those years ago (before he knew the truth of his curse)—that was already past. A phone call would do nothing one way or the other. It would only let him know what to do in order to stop the dreams, or at least postpone them.

  The call could lead to something else, though. It could lead to him seeing her, and then, yes, Emi might get hurt.

  But the call itself?

  “No,” Abel said, finding the doctor’s eyes again. “Calling her won’t hurt anyone.”

  Emi awoke at 3:30 in the morning. She threw on clothes, did her best to brush her hair, and looked herself over in the mirror for a brief second.

  He’s going to know, she thought, but it was too late for such things. Those types of ideas should have come last night when she was staring at the vodka bottle.

  Emi got in her car and reached the office building at 4:10. She’d been given 24 hour access to the building yesterday; Brett was already waiting for her in their little war room.

  “The new agents should be in here at 8:00. Forensics came back at some point last night.” He didn’t look up from his computer as he spoke.

  Emi pulled her laptop out of her bag and sat down. She reached back in and grabbed a water bottle; thirsty didn’t begin to describe her current state. She felt like she’d slept in a sauna, all the liquid in her body sweating out her pores.

  She unscrewed the cap and took a deep drink.

  “Long night?” Brett asked, still not looking up.

  “I’m here,” Emi said, her eyes focusing on the password screen in front of her. She typed it in, her fingers shaking a bit. She knew what she needed, not water, but another drink. That wasn’t going to happen, though—at least not for hours upon hours. This was going to be a completely full day, and despite what happened last night, Emi wasn’t at the point of sneaking shots in the bathroom.

  Not yet, a part of her whispered. But maybe soon.

  Both looked through their email in silence for a few minutes, reading the message containing the forensic results.

  “Fuck,” Brett said, breaking the room’s quiet.

  Emi said nothing, just kept scrolling, trying to take any of it in.

  “More than 10 different hair samples found in the master bedroom,” he said, shaking his head. “Fucking fingerprints aren’t matching with anyone in the system.”

  Emi stopped scrolling and only stared at the words. She wasn’t able to focus at all.

  “Blood types in the room are from the four deceased,” Brett continued. “No other blood was found, though how can they be sure with what that place looked like?”

  Emi blinked hard.

  I’m losing it, she thought. I’m actually fucking losing it. Read the damned email. Be here in the moment. Stop whatever else is going on in your head.

  Brett finally leaned back in his chair and looked at her.

  “Got any ideas?”

  Emi swallowed. She’d woken up okay, or as okay as someone could after drinking as long as she had. She’d driven here without any problems, not truly even dreading the work—though, maybe that was because her body had been preoccupied with getting water.

  Now that she was here, though, her mind was rejecting everything. She hadn’t even really thought about Vince Demsworth this morning, but his very name caused a sick weight to come alive in her stomach. Some dying swamp creature that was trying to climb up her gullet and out her mouth.

  “Emi?” Brett said, his eyebrows raising.

  “Can we go outside for a minute?” she asked.

  He looked at his watch then back to her. “Okay, sure. We’ve got some time.”

  The two took the elevator down to the bottom floor and then out the front door. The sky was still dark, though the building had adequate lighting stretching out to the street. Emi didn’t waste time at the doors, she kept walking, heading further away from the looming structure.

  They reached the road, though it was a private one that led only to the parking deck to the right of the office building.

  Emi turned around and looked at the office building.

  “I’m taking it you drank last night?” Brett asked as he turned around at her side.

  Emi nodded. “Yes.”

  He waited a second, then asked, “Do you think it’s becoming a problem?” It didn’t sound like a question, though. It sounded like he knew the answer, and was only asking so that he could hear her confirm it.

  “How long have we worked together, Brett?” Emi asked.

  “Two years,” he said, sounding as if that didn’t matter in the slightest.

  “Did you research me when you found out I was going to be your partner, especially coming onto this division?”

  Both of them knew what she meant by that. Years ago, this division had been run by three men: Phillips, Windsor, and Titan. Those three names had become larger than life for a time, and in the end, disaster took almost all of them. The division, though, couldn’t be shut down.

  When it became known that the FBI was reinstating the Exceptional Crimes Unit, there were whispers that those previous men hadn’t been insane—rather, the crimes here had caused insanity. Just whispers, though. Nothing that anyone would actually say too loudly. It was rumored the FBI Director himself was picking the replacements, so of course people kept quiet about their re
servations.

  “Yes, I did,” Brett answered.

  “I looked you up, too,” Emi answered. And she had, because the whispers were just that—whispers—but she still wanted to know who she was working with. She wanted to know that the person could handle the crimes put in front of them. “What did you find out?”

  “Physically superior to most men with a gun. Mind was agile, if a bit stubborn. Calm under pressure, and a good person to work with. Sympathetic to both partners and victims,” Brett listed the attributes off as if he was reading them from a piece of paper. He paused though, then sighed. “I wanted to work with you, Emi. You seemed like a good partner and someone that would help me further my own career, but there wasn’t anything about your drinking. No one mentioned it.”

  “It wasn’t this bad back then,” she acknowledged. “I’ve always drank and you know that, but it has gotten worse over the years … Yeah. It’s a fucking problem.”

  A breeze blew across the two of them, Emi’s hair flowing to the side with it. She pushed it behind her ears, but didn’t break away from staring at the building.

  “I don’t know what’s happening, Brett, but something is. I’m going to tell you what happened to me last night and just now, and then we can discuss what you think. I don’t know what else to do.” She didn’t look at him as she asked, “Okay?”

  “Okay, Emi,” he whispered.

  “I’m hearing Abel Ease’s voice. A lot, and that in itself scares me. I don’t know why I should hear it now, other than I saw some fucked up shit as a kid and I’m seeing it now, too. But I’ve seen a lot of fucked up shit with you over the past couple years, so that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. All of yesterday, I felt this pressure building in me—as if my mind was trying to get me out of this building. To get me away from it. When I sat in there with Vince Demsworth, I couldn’t focus at all. I could barely keep from bolting from that room—”

  “Why?” Brett interrupted.

  “I don’t know.”

  A silence fell over them as Emi tried to think of a reason, but she couldn’t find one. Just like last night, there was no reason to any of this.

  “I honestly can’t give you a why to any of this, Brett. I didn’t throw up yesterday because of what I’d eaten. When I went home last night, I had to drink. I know you won’t understand that, but I didn’t have a choice. It was either I drank and decreased that pressure inside me, or I burst right there in my apartment. That’s what it felt like. I drank or I died. So I drank, and I did it until I fell asleep. I don’t even remember setting my alarm.”

  She paused again and Brett remained quiet.

  “I woke up. I got here, and then the pressure started building again. I couldn’t even get through the email. My brain does not want me in that building, and if I’m being honest, I think it’s got something to do with Vince Demsworth. I was fine until I was in front of him. Or, if not fine, I certainly wasn’t this bad off. Something about this whole case has thrown me from the beginning. That’s when I started hearing Abel’s voice. But, yesterday, the gravity of it changed.”

  She went silent, the whole truth out in front of both of them.

  Brett was quiet and Emi shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, trying to ward off the cold early morning air. The time was most likely nearing 5:00, and others would start arriving soon. The overachievers that wanted to climb the corporate or government ladders. The two of them couldn’t stand out here talking forever.

  “What do you want to do?” Brett asked, the disappointed apathy that plagued his voice earlier now gone.

  “I want to keep working on this, but I don’t know if that’s possible. I don’t know if you’ll even want me to keep working on it with you.”

  “I guess the question is, can you work? Can you go back in that building and do what is necessary, or are you going to freak out again?”

  “If I say no, what happens, Brett?”

  “One of us goes to Hartwell and tells him you need to be removed.”

  “And then what?” Emi asked, knowing but wanting him to say it aloud.

  “You come back on the next case.”

  “Bullshit and you know it,” Emi said. “They’re not going to risk anything with this division given what happened five years ago. They’re not going to risk me being a Christian Windsor. Fuck that.”

  Brett was quiet for a few moments. “You’ll be reassigned.”

  “And my career is over. If I get reassigned from here because I can’t handle a case, I’m done. I might as well go into the private sector.”

  “What are you getting at, Emi? What are you asking me to do?”

  And Emi almost couldn’t believe she was going to say it aloud. She certainly hadn’t planned it when coming out here. She’d just wanted to get out of the damn building and try telling him what was going on. Now, though, she saw only one choice.

  “We’ve got another month on this at the longest. If the guy kills again, it’ll be more pressure and more agents. We’ll catch him. I can work on this if I drink. The alcohol relieves the pressure. I’m asking that you to let me do it. I’ll be discrete and it’ll be a low, low amount. Just enough to keep me on an even keel until we’re done with this.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Brett asked. “That’s insane. I’d lose my job too.”

  “Yeah, Brett? Who’s going to know? You think I’m going to rat you out if I get caught?”

  “Okay, let’s say you don’t. You’re still sitting here asking me to enable your alcoholism, and turning it into some kind of positive thing. You realize that, right? You’re asking to drink on a high profile job and for me to look the other way. I care about you, Emi. Hell, I love you the same as I would a sister, but that’s not happening. If you can’t do the job, then you can’t do the job. I’m not letting you booze it up in order to get through it.”

  Emi was quiet. She could guilt trip him, say something like, then you’re ending my career, but she wouldn’t do that. Brett was right; it was an insane thing to ask, but she didn’t know what else to do.

  “You need to sit down with a shrink and maybe get on some antidepressants. I’m not going to Hartwell yet, but if you can’t do this anymore, you need to throw in the towel. There’s nothing wrong with that. You’ve seen and done a lot, Emi. If you have to go to the private sector, do it happily. You’ll make more money.”

  And with that, Brett Lichen left, heading into the building and leaving Emi to consider the ramifications of her question.

  Vince stood on the top level of the parking deck. He was dressed in black clothing, and while there were lights around the perimeter, none reached the corner he stood in.

  He looked down at the two FBI agents. He couldn’t hear what they said, though he wasn’t too concerned about that. He wasn’t concerned about the man at all, only the woman. Agent Emi Laurens.

  The voice had told him what to do, whispering its sweet instructions over and over so that he couldn’t possibly forget them.

  Get her close to you, Vince. That’s what we want to do. Get her to come back and talk to you. Get her in the same room with you, yes that’s what we want. Yes. Yes. Yes. You just have to get her to talk to you.

  Get her close to you.

  That was the instruction, but the voice wasn’t done talking. Because to give a goal was fine, but to give a path to make it happen—that was true leadership.

  Vince hadn’t slept again, but that didn’t matter. Sleep was something his past life needed. The voice could sustain him now, at least it better, because there were things it wanted done.

  Like last night.

  He had no idea if he was going to be caught, though a part of him thought the chances were much higher than with the previous two murders. That wasn’t a major concern anymore, though; there would be no stopping. The voice wouldn’t let him, so then it was up to the voice to make sure he didn’t get caught.

  You won’t be caught, it whispered as he watched the two agents speaking. Everything
is taken care of on that front. Trust me, Vince. You and I, we’re partners, and that means we take care of each other. You took care of me last night, and so I’m going to take care of you this morning.

  Vince had taken care of the voice last night.

  Get her close to you, it’d told him.

  Sherry had worked late the previous night—if she’d gone home at her normal time, she’d most likely be alive today.

  “I’m getting out of here, Vince,” she’d said, standing at his office door. “I hope you have a good night.”

  The sun was down outside; it was nearly 8:00 in the evening.

  Get her close to you, the voice had instructed.

  Vince cocked his head slightly as the idea came to him.

  “Yeah, have a good night, Sherry,” he’d said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Get her close to you.

  Vince had waited around for another hour, until about 9:00.

  Sherry wasn’t married. She lived alone.

  Vince stood up and walked out into the larger office. About 50 people usually sat on the main floor and Vince walked up and down the rows, looking at the computers. All of the screens were black, but he kept going, checking with a madman’s focus.

  Finally, he found one that was actually on and unlocked. He stopped and looked at it for a second, hyper conscious of the cameras across the floor. They were watching everything, all the time. Finally, either Vince or the thing controlling him decided against using the computer. Instead, he walked forward, clicked a few keys, and then shut it down.

  That won’t work. That will break the RULES, the voice whispered. Because they’ll eventually trace it back to you. The computer being accessed, combined with the cameras. No. That won’t work.

  Another idea clicked. Vince went back to his desk and worked for 30 minutes, or at least appeared to. He checked 15 different employees’ records, looking at their addresses and phone numbers. Sherry Beatty was one of them.

  Just checking employee records. No big deal.