SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
A Morris and Chastain Supernatural Investigation
Justin Gustainis
SOLARIS
To Betsy Brown,
Cotton Mater's most unlikely descendant.
Because I keep my promises.
First published 2011 by Solaris, an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
www.solarisbooks.com
ISBN(.epub): 978-1-84997-279-6
ISBN(.mobi): 978-1-84997-280-2
Copyright © Justin Gustainis 2011
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Designed & typeset by Rebellion Publishing
"The best trick the Devil ever pulled
was convincing the world
that he didn't exist."
- Roger 'Verbal' Kint
in The Usual Suspects
"Easy is the descent into Hell."
- Virgil, The Aeneid
"When you dance with the Devil,
the Devil don't change.
The Devil changes you."
- Max California
in 8MM
I
INFESTATION
Prologue
Hynes Convention Center
Boston, Massachusetts
Halloween Night
His voice, booming though the state-of-the-art sound system, filled the hall and reached out to the people sitting in the cramped seats, as if he were speaking to each one of them individually.
"And so, my friends, even though our efforts have accomplished much, let us not fall victim to the comforting illusion that no battles remain to be fought. The war for the heart and soul of America will go on. Make no mistake about it, a hard and bloody fight it will be, and the victory of virtue is by no means assured."
He paused, looking out at the crowd, the grave expression on his face a testament to the concern he felt for his nation and its future. Then his face, almost but not quite handsome, broke into a reassuring smile.
"But although there is no unassailable guarantee of success in our endeavors, of this much I am certain: that with God's help, you and I, all of us who fight for right, will find within ourselves the strength we seek for the struggle!"
The audience erupted into applause and cheers, as they had done four times already.
In the press gallery, The Boston Globe looked up from its laptop and said to The New York Times, "Knows how to push their buttons, doesn't he?"
"Not hard to do with this crowd," The Times replied with a shrug. "Throw the animals a little red meat, and they'll jump through all kinds of hoops for you."
The Globe smiled slightly. "Does your editor mind you referring to the devout reactionaries of Believers United as 'animals'?"
"Not as long as I don't do it in print."
The two men resumed typing their stories as the applause from the 5,822 attendees at the Believers United annual convention rolled on like a mighty river. On stage, the man behind the podium was basking in their approval.
A few minutes later, as the speaker launched into his peroration, The Times asked, in a bored voice, "Think he's got a chance?"
"What, for the Big Enchilada?"
"Uh-huh."
"Nope," The Globe said dispassionately. "Not a chance in Hell."
At the reception following the speech, those members of Believers United who had made a minimum $10,000 tax-deductible contribution were given the opportunity to consume high-cholesterol hors d'oeuvres, wash them down with domestic champagne, and exchange a handshake and a few words with the guest of honor, Senator Howard Stark.
Since the paying guests numbered 108, the funds raised amounted to a tidy sum. By prior agreement, the money would be split down the middle: half into the coffers of Believers United, and the rest to the 'Stark for President' Campaign Committee.
Half a million dollars, give or take, for two hours of schmoozing sounds like easy money, but the Junior Senator from Ohio earned it. He did not resort to the repertory of techniques that every politico learns early on - the bright but meaningless smile, the quick, firm double-pump handshake, the artfully vague phrases that might mean anything and hence meant nothing at all. A typical politician would have used all of those tricks in a situation like this, but Stark was not a typical politician. The support of the Christian Right was going to be vital if he was ever going to use '1600 Pennsylvania Avenue' as a return address, and Stark knew he couldn't afford to go on automatic pilot. If Stark let his eyes glaze over, these people would notice, and remember. They were touchy about respect, and, as Stark was soon reminded, passionate about their concerns.
"More than a million babies every year, Senator, butchered in those abortion mills!"
"Since they've got that Brady law on the books, it's just a matter of time before the storm troopers come knocking on people's doors and confiscating our guns, you just wait and see if they don't!"
"And the man admitted he was a queer, right there in front of the School Board and everything, and they still couldn't fire him."
"Won't let a kid say the Lord's Prayer in school, but nobody minds if he smokes a marijuana joint outside on the playground. Hell, some of these hippie teachers would probably join him..."
To each guest Stark gave a handshake, a smile, and a few moments of his attention, whether he felt the speaker deserved it or not. Stark was sincere in his opposition to both abortion and increased gun control, but privately unsure about the degree of menace posed to the nation by gay marriage or the use of fetal stem cells in medical research.
It went on like that for the full two hours, and not once did Stark let his concentration wander. And so he was understandably relieved when his Chief of Staff drifted over and said softly in his ear, "We've put in our time, as agreed, and we do have that other appointment later. Do you want to get going, or are you having too much fun?"
Without changing his pleasant expression, Stark replied, in a near-whisper, "By all means, let's get out of here, before all this self-righteousness gives me hives."
His Chief of Staff gave the barest hint of a bow, and a murmured "Fiat voluntas tua, Domine," before turning to address the room in a clear and commanding voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, it was really great of you to invite us here tonight. I know the Senator would stay to talk with you all night, if I let him. But somebody's got to be the bad guy and make sure he gets his rest, so that he can have his wits about him when he goes back to telling the President how to run the country, tomorrow."
There was good-natured laughter in response, partly at the corny humor, but mostly at the idea that the label 'bad guy' could possibly refer to Mary Margaret Doyle, the tall, charming, and beautiful woman who had just paved the way for her boss's departure. And so, after a few final words with Believers United Director Miles Miller, Senator Howard Stark made his exit. As he did so, his Chief of Staff was at his elbow - a position she had occupied since Stark's days as a freshman member of the Ohio legislature.
Mary Margaret Doyle drove with the same quiet competence that she brought to everything she did. It had been quiet in the car for a while, but as the headlights picked out a sign reading 'Welcome to Rhode Island,' Stark said, "Let's hope the media doesn't get wind of this little errand of ours. Laughingstocks don't get elected Pre
sident in this country. Well, give or take Jimmy Carter."
"The media won't know anything about it," she replied, with calm assurance. "Right now you're in your suite at the Copley Plaza, alone, suffering from a bad headache, probably brought on by all of the MSG in those awful hors d'oeuvres at the reception. You have given orders that you are not to be disturbed, under any circumstances, before breakfast time tomorrow."
"Great, terrific," he said sarcastically. "So if something major hits the fan overnight, something that we should issue a statement about right away, we won't even find out about it until 7:00 in the morning?"
Mary Margaret sighed. "'Woe unto ye, oh ye of little faith,'" she said. "In the unlikely event that something hits the fan, as you so elegantly put it, one of our staff people, either back at the hotel or in Washington, will hear about it. They have orders to call my phone, which is right here." She tapped the black leather bag on the seat next to her, an immense Italian-made thing large enough to serve her as both purse and briefcase. "I have no doubt that our people, properly instructed by phone, would be able to cope with your hypothetical emergency for the ninety minutes or so it would take us to return to Boston, drafting your hypothetical statement en route. Then we're back in the Copley Plaza through a rear door, up to the 18th floor in a service elevator to which I have obtained a key, and back in our respective rooms, in plenty of time for you to issue a statement or get in front of the cameras, as needed."
"You think of everything," Stark said grumpily. "Too bad, while you were at it, you couldn't manage to think up a more convenient time for us to go on this wild goose chase."
"The man said that Halloween night was an excellent time for it. The balance of forces is favorable, or something like that. Besides," she said, "if you really think it's a wild goose chase, then why are you here? Why aren't you back in your room, on the bed with your shoes off, watching boxing on HBO?"
There was no response. Finally, Stark said, "If what you've heard is true, if this el-Ghaffar guy can really do what he says he can do, then the implications could be just... staggering."
"The national security implications, you mean." There was a touch of mockery in her voice now.
"Yes, damn it, that's exactly what I mean," Stark said. "What did you think, that I want to use this guy to find buried treasure, or something? Last I looked, the value of assets in the blind trust was something like six and a half mill, not counting the house in Chagrin Falls and a couple of other properties."
"It's just over 7.2 million now," she said. "The quarterly statement arrived last week, and has been sitting in your 'In' box. You really should read your mail more often."
"You know, sometimes you can be a real fucking pain, M.M."
"So can you, Senator, especially when you use that kind of language, knowing full well that I don't like it."
There was stony silence for the next three-tenths of a mile. Then Stark took in a deep breath, let it out and said, "I'm sorry, M.M. I just can't shake the feeling that this whole thing is going to be a colossal waste of time, and it's got me kind of cranky. But I'm sorry for the way I spoke."
"I'm sorry, too," she said. "I expect I was being something of a pain, at that. And you might be right: it could turn out to be a fool's errand. But everything I've been able to find out says there's something to it."
"Conjuring demons," Stark said, shaking his head. "Just like in the movies."
She nodded. "Yes, I know. It sounds like very bad late-night TV - except that it might just possibly be for real."
They continued south on Route 95, which soon brought them to the outskirts of Providence, although they did not take any of the exits leading into Rhode Island's capital city.
"Lovecraft country," Stark said, as if to himself.
Mary Margaret Doyle's brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"
"H.P. Lovecraft. He used to live in Providence."
"Is that someone I should know? He's doesn't work on the Hill, does he?"
Stark gave a growl of laughter. "No, he's been dead a long time. Lovecraft was a writer. Still quite well known, in some circles."
"I don't think I've ever come across his work," she said. Clearly, if she hadn't read Lovecraft, he wasn't worth reading.
"Good to know that there are some gaps even in a Vassar education," Stark said. "Lovecraft wrote a lot of stories, back in the Twenties and Thirties. Pulp fiction, I guess you could call it, but well done, nonetheless."
"That's interesting." Her tone said otherwise.
Stark ignored her sarcasm. "Lovecraft wrote a lot of his stories about this race of creatures he called the Great Old Ones."
"Sounds like the Foreign Relations Committee," she said, smiling.
"Lovecraft's guys were even older than some of my esteemed colleagues," he said. "The Old Ones were supposedly on Earth long before man. They were immensely powerful, almost like gods. Eventually, some savvy humans found a way to control them, to lock them away where they couldn't do us any harm. But in Lovecraft's stories, the damn things keep getting loose, despite man's best efforts."
Mary Margaret Doyle drove in silence for half a mile or so, then asked her boss, "Is there a moral in there somewhere? Some point you're trying to make, however obliquely?"
"No, I don't think so," Stark said.
"I mean, if you don't want to go through with this, I can take the next exit and turn around. We can stop for coffee somewhere and then head back to Boston. Believe me, I'd understand. I'm a little frightened at the prospect of doing this, myself."
Frightened did it. "No, keep going, damn it," he said. "We started this, we'll see it through. If this guy turns out to be a fraud, it'll be something we can laugh about later, maybe."
"Maybe," she said softly. "Maybe we will."
They left Interstate 95 a little south of Warwick. After that, it was all secondary roads, past innumerable fields bordered by low stone walls. The frost covering the plots of farmland twinkled and sparked in the moonlight.
There were few road signs to guide them, but Mary Margaret Doyle never hesitated at any intersections or forks in the road. Finally, a little west of Kingston, she slowed the car and began peering at the road's right shoulder. A few moments later, she murmured, "Ah, there we are," and made a right turn that took the car down a narrow dirt road, tall pine trees lining both sides like sentinels.
"We're almost there," she said.
"Good," Stark replied, and almost sounded as if he meant it.
Another quarter-mile brought them to the clearing, and the house that stood within it. If Stark was expecting Castle Dracula, he was disappointed. The place looked like it might have once been a farmhouse, although what there was to farm in the middle of this forest was anybody's guess. In the abundant light from the full moon, he could see that the building was not quite ramshackle - the outside walls badly needed re-staining, but were all upright nonetheless; the roof appeared to be missing a few shingles, but was still intact; the porch steps groaned when subjected to Stark's weight, but they did not break.
Since Mary Margaret Doyle had set this meeting up, he let her do the knocking at the weathered front door. It was opened almost immediately.
The man silhouetted in the doorway smiled. "Miss Doyle, I presume," he said smoothly. "What a pleasure to meet you in person, at last. Please - come in."
They entered what seemed to be a living room, its rugs faded, the furniture old and a little shabby. As their host turned back from closing the door, Mary Margaret Doyle said, "Dr. Hassan el-Ghaffar, I'd like you to meet Senator Howard Stark."
The men shook hands. Hassan el-Ghaffar, who looked to be about fifty, was over six feet tall with a build that was slim bordering on skinny. His hair, black with a few touches of gray, was combed straight back from his forehead. The skin tone was on the swarthy side, and his face bore a few tiny craters that spoke of an early acquaintance with chicken pox, or maybe smallpox. A carefully-trimmed goatee covered el-Ghaffar's chin and upper lip. The only incongruity was the
pale blue eyes, a color sometimes seen among the Berbers of Northern Africa.
"I am delighted you could be here this evening, Senator," el-Ghaffar was saying. "And Miss Doyle, too, of course." The last was said almost as an afterthought, which led Stark to suspect that the man shared the common Arab attitude toward women. Too bad for him, Stark thought. Any man who underestimated Mary Margaret Doyle usually regretted it sooner or later.
"I'm not entirely sure if 'delight' describes my own feelings about this evening, Doctor," Stark said. "I suppose that will depend on what you have to show us."
"Ah, a skeptic!" el-Ghaffar said with an enthusiasm that Stark suspected was rehearsed. "I derive great satisfaction from introducing skeptics to the mysteries of the Nether World. It is always interesting to watch them readjust their weltanschauung to the new reality that is revealed to them."
"Readjust their what?" Stark was not going to be intimidated by some intellectual's command of ten-dollar words.
"'World view,'" Mary Margaret Doyle said absently. "Literally, it refers to a comprehensive way of seeing the world, as well as humanity's place within it."
Both men turned and looked at her.
"Well, whether my world view is due for adjusting remains to be seen, Doctor." Stark said. "But if you're willing to make the attempt, I'm willing to observe."
"Of course, of course," el-Ghaffar said. "I think you will find it an interesting experience. Rather like that enjoyed by those observing the first test of the Manhattan Project." He gestured toward a door in the living room's far wall. "Come, let us descend."
As el-Ghaffar led them down the creaking basement stairs, Stark said, "It's interesting you should mention the Manhattan Project. I saw a documentary last month on the Discovery Channel or someplace. I hadn't realized before then just how much uncertainty there was about the test explosion, out there in New Mexico."
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