Quincey Morris had seen a lot of life's seamier side. If asked a minute earlier, he would have told you that he'd lost the capacity to blush. But he would have been wrong. He felt his face reddening as he averted his eyes to stare at his hands, fingers clenching the bed frame.
Morris understood now why her father had not accompanied them. If she did this all the time, it would be a Freudian nightmare for him every time he got near her.
Is that why they've locked her up? The kid's got some kind of emotional disorder prompting compulsive masturbation, and the parents are so ashamed they won't even try to deal with it?
And yet, they had invited Morris here - into their home, into the girl's room. If it was such a dirty family secret, why share it with a stranger?
Maybe they're so old-school-Polish-Catholic, they figure only the devil could make a girl be so sexual, in such a public way? Is that what the nuns taught them, forty years ago?
He could hear that the girl's breathing was returning to normal, and decided that he could look her in the face again.
"Sorry for the interruption," she said matter-of-factly. "That one kind of snuck up on me."
"You do that a lot?" He tried to match her casual tone. "Masturbate, I mean?"
"Every chance I get," she said, and winked at him. "Which, at my age, is pretty much all the time."
Morris didn't know what to say to that.
"Isn't the female body wonderful?" She might have been discussing a new shade of lipstick she'd discovered. "I can just come, and come, and come, over and over. Sometimes my poor pussy gets so swollen it's sore, and I have to take a break. But after a few hours sleep, I'm good to go again."
Morris had faced vampires, werewolves, black witches, zombies and the very fires of Hell. But a teenage girl's sexuality run wild was something he was not prepared for, by either training or experience. Where was Libby Chastain when he needed her?
"I reckon that -" Morris stopped, cleared his throat, started again. "I reckon that most girls your age must masturbate sometimes," he said. "Some, they probably do it a lot of the time. It's normal, a part of life. But I'm guessing that most of them keep it kinda private, you know? A personal thing."
"Yes, I suppose they do, the poor dears. But I can't seem to help myself, Mr. Morris." Her eyes were wide. "It's like there's something inside me, making me do it. I just can't stop. It's like the devil's got hold of me, or something."
So that's where the parents got the notion she was possessed - the girl thought so, herself. Morris wondered if her shame over this hypersexuality, fed by a nice big case of Catholic guilt, was so profound that she had reached a psychotic state where she felt Satan himself was inside her, controlling her, making her act so wickedly.
Morris knew more than he ever wanted to about Satan and his ways, and he was fairly certain that making teenage girls in Michigan play with themselves was pretty low on the Evil One's agenda.
"Susan, I think maybe you need -"
"Oh, gosh, Mr. Morris, he's doing it again! Look!"
With one quick jerk of her legs she kicked the covers aside, to reveal that she was naked underneath them, both hands busy, busy.
Morris wasn't able to stop himself from one quick glance toward her groin, where he saw she had what looked like the standard female equipment, even if it was being put to rather vigorous use. Embarrassed for both of them, he turned his back on her.
"Susan, why don't you put the covers back? Please?" He tried not to look at Mrs. Kowal, who was still standing at the door, head down, weeping softly. "You don't need to show yourself to me like this."
"But it's so much fun!" Her voice was mocking. "It turns you on, doesn't it? Huh? Doesn't it?" She was breathing in short gasps now, and Morris tried to banish from his mind the image of her tight, young body, and what she was doing, right behind him.
Maybe once she was done, he could persuade her to get under the blanket again. He wanted to find out more about where this idea of a demon inside her had come from.
"Why don't... you... turn around... Mr. Morris?" Morris was trying not to listen to her gasping voice, and the wet sounds that accompanied it. "Show me that... hard cock... in your pants. Take... it out and... fuck me hard! Come on!"
Okay, that's it. I'm only making it worse.
Morris began walking toward the door. He was starting to wonder if the girl was exhibiting Klüver-Bucy Syndrome. He'd have to ask Mrs. Kowal whether Susan had recently recovered from encephalitis, or received a severe head injury. Maybe he could find a local psychiatrist who would work pro bono and try to help this poor kid. Oddly, the scar on his neck was itching like crazy. It hadn't done that since the burn healed, months ago.
Mrs. Kowal had the door open, and had already slipped out into the hall. Morris was almost out of the room when he heard the girl's voice say, "Next time, bring Libby with you! I hear she licks pussy reeaal nice!"
Chapter 4
The Washington Post had the story first; one of the crime reporters always kept a police scanner going, and Mrs. Brooks' semi-hysterical call to 911 had resulted in both an ambulance and a D.C. prowl car being dispatched to the residence. The crime reporter working the graveyard, a newbie named Miles Kincannon, had recognized the name, and alerted the night editor.
So the Post got the scoop, if that's what it was, then the wire services moved it twelve minutes later. But CNN was first to get it on the air.
At 6:01 a.m., the female anchor aimed her blonde good looks at the camera and said, "This is Headline News and I'm Kyra Baldwin. Thank you for joining us this morning. Our top story: the nation's capital is reeling after the reported death early this morning of Representative Ron Brooks, a Republican member of the House from New York, and one of the early front-runners in the race for his party's presidential nomination.
"For more on the story, we now go live to John Rendell in Washington."
Rendell was a thirtyish, handsome black man with short hair and a thin mustache. The camera showed him standing outdoors in a residential area, the uncertain light of approaching dawn supplemented by the news crew's own harsh illumination. The reporter's breath was visible in the cold air as he spoke into the microphone held in one gloved hand. "Kyra, I'm standing in front of the Georgetown home of Congressman Ron Brooks, who was electrocuted here early this morning, in what police are describing as a freak accident."
Then came a videotaped segment focusing on a man identified at the bottom of the screen as 'Martin Hanratty, D.C. Police Spokesman.' Hanratty was a thin man with pewter-gray hair and stooped posture. His beak of a nose and bushy eyebrows gave him a defiant look, and he glared at the forest of microphones and miniature tape recorders in front of him as if he found them a personal affront.
"District police officers were dispatched to the residence of Representative Ronald J. Brooks at 1:58 this morning, in response to a 911 emergency call placed by a woman who identified herself as Mrs. Evelyn Brooks." Hanratty referred frequently to a yellow legal pad that he held in one hand like a talisman. "An EMT unit was also dispatched at the same time. The police officers, who arrived first, found the house in darkness as the result of an apparent power failure. They were admitted to the house by Mrs. Brooks and, employing flashlights, were led upstairs to a man who was lying on the floor of a bathroom in an unresponsive state."
Hanratty paused to turn a page of his legal pad. "The EMT unit arrived a few minutes later. They attempted to resuscitate Congressman Brooks at the scene, but were not successful. Another attempt was made to resuscitate him in the ambulance while en route to Bethesda Naval Hospital. This attempt was also unsuccessful. A third attempt was made in the emergency room of Bethesda Naval Hospital, but without favorable result. Congressman Brooks was pronounced dead at the hospital at 2:44 this morning."
Hanratty stopped and let the hand holding the yellow pad fall to his side. The shouted questions began again, a trickle that threatened to quickly become a flood. Again, Hanratty ignored them. "Any inquiries concerning the
medical aspects of Congressman Brooks' unfortunate demise should be directed to the appropriate personnel at Bethesda Naval Hospital. Questions concerning the investigation into his death should be directed to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which assumed jurisdiction of the case at 3:35 this morning." The questions came in a torrent then. Hanratty stared at the frantic reporters impassively for a moment, then turned on his heel and walked away from the microphone without saying another word.
A moment later, the reporter reappeared on the screen. "Kyra, officially, the FBI team investigating this tragedy will have no comment until its report is issued, probably several weeks from now. However, sources close to the investigation are expressing the belief that Congressman Brooks' death was an accident, brought about by the confluence of two unlikely events: a leaky pipe under the sink, and a defective light switch in the bathroom that caused electricity from the house current to come into contact with the Congressman when he flipped the switch on, while standing in about an inch of water. However, I want to stress here that this comes from off-the-record assessment, confirmation of which will have to wait release of the official FBI report."
The reporter paused for effect, then concluded, "Live from Georgetown in the nation's capital, this is John Rendell for CNN Headline News. Back to you, Kyra."
"Thank you, John," the anchorwoman said into the camera. "After the break, we'll be talking with CNN political consultant Jeff Bloomfield, to get his assessment of how Representative Brooks' death will impact the Republican presidential race. We'll be right back - stay with us."
"Mr. Morris? The Archbishop will see you now. If you'll come with me?"
Morris followed the young Monsignor down a carpeted hallway and into an anteroom of dark wood, leather furniture, and gilt-framed oil paintings of the Archbishop's predecessors. Morris wondered if the humility, piety and wisdom visible in those faces reflected decades spent in God's service, or the work of an especially skilled series of artists.
The Archdiocese of Detroit ministered to the spiritual needs of Catholics in four counties in Southeastern Michigan. One of those counties contains the town of Leesburg, from which Morris had recently come.
A very thin, middle-aged woman looked up from her computer and said to the Monsignor, "Go on in - he's expecting you."
Archbishop Thomas Stanton stood up from his desk, a professionally pleasant smile on his face. He said, "Mr. Morris, glad to meet you," and extended a hand in greeting.
As Morris sat in one of the armchairs facing the large oak desk, the Archbishop said, "I hope you don't mind - I've asked Monsignor Costello to sit in on our talk. He's my closest advisor, and eminently trustworthy."
"Of course," Morris said, as if he had a choice. Costello took the chair on Morris's right, but turned it a little so that he could see both his boss and the visitor at the same time.
"Archbishop Esperanza speaks well of you, Mr. Morris," Stanton said. "I can't say that I know Jorge very well, but we've met a couple of times at NCCB meetings."
He didn't bother to explain that NCCB was the National Council of Catholic Bishops. Either he assumed that Morris knew, or he didn't much care.
"He told me, when he called last week, that you've rendered valuable service to the Diocese of El Paso on more than one occasion." Stanton sat back in his chair and studied Morris for a few moments. "But he was rather vague as to what those services were."
"Archbishop Esperanza is a man of great discretion," Morris said evenly. This was a dilemma he had faced before. If he talked about the dark and bloody work he'd done on behalf of the diocese, down there in South Texas, it might help establish his bona fides here in Detroit. Or it could get him branded a lunatic, and treated to what Morris's father had liked to call 'the bum's rush' - right out the front door. Since he knew nothing about Archbishop Stanton, who was new in the job, discretion on that subject seemed like a good idea.
Stanton drummed his fingers on the padded arm of his chair. His tone was a little less friendly when he said, "I agreed to fit you into my schedule at short notice as a courtesy to my brother Bishop. But I have another appointment in fifteen minutes, so I'm sure you'll pardon me if I dispense with the pleasantries and ask you just what it is you want."
Short notice? I had to wait nine days to get in to see you, you sanctimonious prick. "Fair enough," Morris said aloud. "I want you to authorize an exorcism."
Stanton's gray eyebrows slowly rose. "Do you, now?"
"Or, at least, I'd like you to order an expedited investigation, as a prelude to authorizing an exorcism. I believe you'll find a clear case of demonic possession - involving a teenage girl in Leesburg."
"Leesburg..."
"A small town just north of Poultny, your Excellency," Monsignor Costello said. "Population between two and three thousand, I believe."
The sign welcoming visitors to Leesburg, Morris remembered, had said the town numbered 2,643 souls. He began to see why Stanton kept Costello around.
"Of course." Stanton nodded, as if he had known it all along. "And what is it about this young lady in Leesburg that leads you to believe an exorcism is warranted, Mr. Morris? Have you performed exorcisms, yourself?" The question was more a challenge than a request for information. Morris was used to that, too.
"No, of course I haven't. I'm not a member of the clergy."
"That hasn't stopped some individuals, if the news reports can be believed," Stanton said.
"Well, it stops me. A true exorcist, of whatever faith, needs years of preparation - including training, meditation, and prayer. Anybody else who tries it is either a fool or a fraud, or both."
Stanton was apparently not used to being addressed in such a tone. When he spoke again, his tone was cold enough to skate on. "Then perhaps you can at least answer my question. What leads you to believe that this girl needs an exorcism?"
"Two things. One, she has betrayed knowledge she couldn't possibly have."
"What knowledge?" Monsignor Costello asked.
"She made an insulting reference to my... business associate, Elizabeth Chastain. I had never mentioned her to either the girl or her parents."
"That's all?" Costello wasn't bothering to hide his skepticism. "Surely there are a dozen ways the girl could have heard of your associate, especially in this Internet age."
"I'd be inclined to agree." Morris kept his voice even. "Except that the family doesn't have Internet access in their house. They can't afford it."
Costello shrugged his thin shoulders. "At school, then. She simply used a computer at her school library."
"The girl is home-schooled. Always has been."
"Then one of her little friends." Costello did not quite sneer. "Perhaps their parents are more affluent, and have the Internet at home."
"The information the girl had isn't publicly available, but let's not play Twenty Questions over this, Monsignor. There's a second reason I believe an exorcism may be necessary, and it's a little harder to explain away."
Morris loosened his tie, then undid the collar button of his blue shirt, and the button below it. He used one finger to pull down his collar, turning in his chair so the two men could see what had been hidden underneath.
After a moment, Monsignor Costello said, "That's a nasty looking burn, Mr. Morris, and it was quite painful to receive, I'm sure. But I fail to see its relevance."
As Morris returned to a normal sitting position, Stanton said, "The burn looks quite recent. Are you claiming the girl gave it to you?"
"No," Morris said. "Not directly."
The two clergymen looked at each other, but before either could speak, Morris said, "You should know that I received that burn four months ago. Apart from the scar, it had healed completely. Until yesterday."
Stanton looked pointedly at his watch. "Your time is almost up, Mr. Morris. It you were planning to start making sense, I'd recommend you do it now."
Morris nodded grimly. "Then you'd best know," he said, "exactly where that burn came from."
&n
bsp; Chapter 5
In the condo on M Street, the TV was tuned to MSNBC. By now, all the news outlets were carrying the Ron Brooks story.
"That was nicely done," Sargatanas said. He touched the remote control, cutting off Chris Matthews in mid-sentence.
"Thank you," Mary Margaret Doyle replied. "But it was your plan - or, should I say 'scheme?' I merely carried it out. The hardest part was the spell for the bathroom light switch. I'm just a novice at magic, as you know. But your instructions were very clear."
"And you're certain you were not spotted leaving?"
"Quite sure. As you predicted, the house's fuse box shorted out after Brooks fried himself, and Mrs. Brooks was too busy having hysterics to hear me leaving in the dark."
The demon nodded with satisfaction. "Well, I'd say that we've made a good beginning."
"Yes, we have. But I can't keep doing this. It's too dangerous."
"I don't expect you to keep doing it, as I told you earlier. If we kill off all of the competition, even the stupid authorities will become suspicious, eventually."
"There are other ways to 'thin the herd,' as you put it, and I think they seem very promising. But I can't keep playing the role of hatchet man to carry them out."
A sardonic smile appeared on the demon's human face. "Not losing your nerve, surely?"
"Don't you worry about my nerve!" she snapped, but as soon as she'd said it, the part of her brain where the self-preservation instinct resided kicked in, reminding her of how very unwise it would be to offend this creature.
She took a deliberate deep breath, and when she spoke again her tone was much more reasonable. "What I meant was, I'm too well known - in political circles, at least. I'm very closely tied to you, to Stark, I mean, and the campaign. If something should go wrong, if my involvement in these... activities should become public, it would be very difficult for you to preserve deniability."
He understood immediately, of course. "So, in an approximation of 'plain English,' you mean if you get caught putting cyanide in some old fart of a Senator's Ovaltine, I would not be able to deny all knowledge of your clumsy intrigues, throw your fat ass to the wolves, and bring the campaign to a successful conclusion without your fumbling assistance."
Sympathy for the Devil Page 5