A compartment behind the credit cards yielded a driver's license in the name of Malachi Ezekiel Peters, with an address in Brooklyn, NYC. The photo more or less matched his memory of the reflection that he'd examined in the window of the bus.
The license had expired in 1984.
He looked for a car registration, but apparently Malachi Peters didn't own a car. He did own a card from the New York Public Library (expired), a Playboy Club membership card (ditto), a charge card at Brooks Brothers (likewise dead) and a Social Security card. That one, at least, lacked an end date - a Social Security card doesn't expire until you do.
In the other side of the wallet, another compartment, yielded a pocket calendar for 1982, along with an appointment card from Jerome Fletcher, D.D.S. Malachi Peters had been due for a routine exam and cleaning on November 8, 1982. He supposed the dentist had been pissed when Peters didn't show up - or had he?
Last was a membership card from the National Rifle Association. It had expired like all the rest of the stuff, but he was interested to learn from it that Malachi E.Peters was designated a 'Distinguished Expert - Pistol.'
Apparently, he knew how to use that gun in his coat pocket - or he had, once.
Replacing these treasures in the wallet, it occurred to him what he hadn't found. No pictures - if he'd had a wife, kids, parents, or even friends, you couldn't tell from the wallet contents. No letters from anybody, either. No professional correspondence, unless Dr. Fletcher's reminder card counted. There was no hint of what Malachi Peters did for a living. Although the pistol and silencer he was carrying did suggest some unpleasant possibilities.
His attention was diverted from the wallet when the coffee shop's door opened. A white-haired man in the black suit and clerical collar of a Catholic priest came in and stepped up to the counter.
Figuring that he probably wouldn't be called upon to shoot the padre, Peters returned to thinking about the wallet and its contents. He had forgotten about the priest entirely, until the old guy slid into the empty chair directly opposite him.
Peters looked up and scowled. "Whatever you're selling, peddle it someplace else, Father. I came in here for coffee, not pie in the sky."
The priest gave him an impish smile. In an Irish accent right out of some old movie, he said, "Ah, well, a pity that. 'Tis always a shame to see a man pass up his chance of salvation, and thereby risk falling into the clutches of the wicked demons in Hell."
And just for half an instant, his face changed. The transformation came and went so fast, Peters wasn't even sure he'd seen it. In fact, he was hoping he hadn't, because his impression of what he thought he'd seen was of an inhuman visage so terrible it would give Dracula nightmares for a month.
Peters realized the back of his head was pressed against the wall behind him. Without even realizing it, he'd recoiled from the sight, so horrible that it cannot be described in any language known to this world.
A small smile appeared on the kindly old face. "Now that I've acquired your full attention, Mr. Peters, there are some pressing matters for us to discuss." He leaned forward, and his breath was indescribably rank. "First among which, as far as you're concerned, is how you might avoid being condemned to Hell." The blue eyes twinkled at Peters. "For a second time, I mean."
"You're all going to fry in Hell! All of you!"
The exorcism of Susan Kowal began at 9:16 a.m. on Tuesday, January 9th. It ended at 11:41 p.m. the same day.
"Your faith isn't worth shit! And neither is the One you pretend to worship!"
Demons, Morris knew from experience, did not go gently into that good night. In fact, since it wasn't a good night at all, but Hell itself, that the creature was being sent to, it shouldn't be surprising that the thing usually fights hard to stay on this earthly plane.
"You're all going to roast for eternity, like big fat pigs! And I'll be the one turning the spit!"
Hannigan had brought with him three Jesuit seminarians in their early twenties. They were a year or so away from ordination and had volunteered to assist with the exorcism ritual. He also brought Quincey Morris.
The seminarians were all tall and slim with dark hair. Morris had difficulty telling them apart, so in his own mind he called them Hughie, Dewey, and Louie. When Hannigan made introductions, Morris had been struck by how young they looked - young, and innocent. He hoped one of them wouldn't lose his nerve when things started to get intense.
Apart from the demon's obscene verbal abuse, the exorcism didn't resemble the famous movie very much. The being inside Susan Kowal did not spew pea soup, or anything resembling it. The bed did not levitate; the girl did not defy human anatomy by pivoting her head 360 degrees.
But it was still a nasty experience. Nasty and ugly and stressful on all concerned.
And it didn't work.
Not the first time, anyway. Hannigan had told them before it all began that the ritual might not succeed the first time. There was ample precedent for that.
Morris had asked what the record number of attempts was.
"For a successful one? I believe it's nine."
"I'm not sure I want to know what the record is for an unsuccessful one," Morris said.
"I'll tell you anyway," Hannigan had said. "It's seventeen."
"After seventeen, they gave up?"
"No. The exorcist died."
"Numquan certiore havet mater!"
After screaming foul obscenities at them in English for hours, the demon switched to Latin. If there had been any doubt, this confirmed for Hannigan and Morris that they were dealing with the real deal, and not an extreme case of Tourette's Syndrome - there was nothing in Susan Kowal's history to suggest that she had ever been exposed to the ancient language.
Morris had picked up enough Latin at Princeton to understand what the demon was saying, although he had never done any of those things with his mother that the demon was suggesting.
Hannigan and the seminarians were each dressed in a black, ankle-length cassock covered with a white surplice - a tunic-like garment that has its roots in the Middle Ages. Hannigan alone had the addition of a purple stole draped over his shoulders. Morris, not being clergy, wore a dark suit - although he took the precaution of removing his tie. It didn't take long for the surplices, and Morris's jacket, to become stained with sweat - and not just because it was warm in Susan Kowal's bedroom.
The prayers went on. Hannigan led them, and periodically sprinkled holy water on the girl. Morris joined in the responses, for all the good it might do, saying "Have mercy on us," "Pray for us," or "Deliver us, oh Lord," as called for.
When, at the end of each ritual, it was clear that the demon still remained, Hannigan would call for a brief break, drink a little water, and begin again. And again.
After a while, the demon tired of Latin and switched its screechings back to English. Morris tried not to pay attention. By then, the foul curses and blasphemies had lost their shock value, anyway.
Then, midway through the fourth administration of the ritual, the demon inside Susan Kowal said something that got Morris's attention, since it was a break in the pattern of threats and obscenities.
"Even if you win, you lose, you pathetic faggots. One greater than I is here already, and soon he will have the power to bring this world of yours to an end. Then you will all be sent to Hell, where my brothers and I will be waiting! And then the torment will be yours to suffer - for eternity!"
Morris tried to focus on the responses, but by now he was saying them by rote. This left a good part of his mind free to puzzle over what the demon had just said. You can't believe anything a demon tells you, ever, and Morris knew he should probably give this stuff as much credence as he did the demon's earlier blasphemy about what Jesus had supposedly done with His twelve disciples. But still...
It was after the fifth unsuccessful exorcism that someone noticed the girl's wrists were bleeding.
They had tied her to the bedposts before beginning, of course. That was standard practice. Morris
hadn't been happy about that part, but he understood the necessity, which was only confirmed by the girl's behavior once the ritual began. Considering how viciously the demon had fought them verbally, it didn't take a genius to imagine what it would have done with the girl's fists, feet and teeth, given the opportunity.
The exorcist may not harm the person possessed, no matter how strong the impulse to do so, except in unavoidable self-defense. Susan Kowal was the victim here, and hitting her in response to the demon's abuse would make as much sense as attacking a ventriloquist's dummy after it had 'said' something to piss you off.
Morris and the seminarians understood that as well as Hannigan did. None of them had responded violently to the demon's imprecations, although the seminarians had sometimes sent glares in the girl's direction, in response to some particularly foul reference or suggestion.
But now the bed sheet was stained red under where Susan Kowal's hands were bound, and it was easy to see why. The demon's struggles had caused the ropes to rub the girl's wrists raw and bloody. Her ankles were almost as bad. Morris wondered if she was able to feel the pain. If not, she would certainly experience it in full once the demon had departed.
Hannigan was troubled by the severe rope burns - not only from his natural compassion, but out of concern that they violated the Church's 'Thou shalt not harm the victim' injunction.
"Should we maybe bandage her wrists?" Dewey asked. The five of them stood in a rough circle in the corner that was farthest away from the bed.
Hannigan clicked his tongue in self-annoyance. "I meant to bring along a first aid kit - for our sakes, if not for hers. But I haven't done an exorcism in quite a while, and I forgot it. Shit."
"I remember seeing a Rexall at the edge of town as we drove in," Hughie said. "If you'd like to take a longer break, I can -"
"No!" Hannigan snapped, startling them. He closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath and let it out.
"Sorry. But we're getting close. The demon is weakening - I can feel it! We can't stop now - even for twenty minutes."
"Could... could we hold her down, instead of tying her?" Louie asked. "At least that would stop the damage from getting worse."
"But demons often show unnatural strength," Hughie said. "It might be able to throw us off, which would only make matters worse."
Hannigan chewed his lower lip for a few moments. "No, if this demon had the power to impart supernatural strength to the girl, it would have done so by now, by breaking the ropes and attacking us. I don't think that's an issue here." He looked at Morris. "What do you think, Quincey?"
"If we hold her, it'll be easier on Susan, and harder on us." He gave a tired smile. "But we signed on to be tough, right?"
They did it one limb at a time. Kneeling next to the bed, one of them would get a good grip on an ankle or wrist, then someone else would untie the knots. Morris was the last man in place, taking the girl's right wrist after Dewie had assumed a good grip on her left.
"Remember what I told you earlier," Hannigan had said before they broke their circle. "Don't look into her eyes. It may be an unnecessary precaution, but in this room we take every precaution, understand?"
They were almost done, thank God.
Chapter 8
Nestor Greene let himself into Room 833 at the Hyatt Regency using the card-key they'd sent him. He had no luggage, but since he hadn't registered at the desk downstairs, none of the hotel staff should care. Besides, he wasn't planning to stay the night. And if someone saw him and concluded that he was here for a nooner with some bored Congressional wife, that wouldn't do his reputation any harm.
You couldn't blacken Nestor Greene's reputation with anything less than a charge of serial murder. Even then, it might depend on how many victims you were talking about, and whether they were really, you know, bad.
He was greeted by an empty room. Greene went so far as to check the bathroom, but resisted the temptation to open the closet or peek under the bed. He had a strong streak of paranoia, but it was not completely without foundation. Nestor Greene's work had made him a lot of enemies.
Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not really out to get you. Who had said that? Somebody from the Seventies, he thought. Ancient history.
He strolled around the room, too restless to sit still. As he passed the big mirror, towering over the chest of drawers like Kubrick's monolith, he paused to check himself out. As usual, he was pleased by what he saw. His Hermes tie needed a little straightening, but the rest of it - the suit (Oxford), the shirt (Ascot Chang), the pocket handkerchief (Hermes, again) - was perfect. The black hair was a little long to be fashionable, but he liked the way a few strands kept drooping down into his eyes; he thought it made him look boyish - a trick that was getting harder to pull off, now that he had reached his 40th birthday.
He'd never even considered getting the kind of Marine Corps brush cut that so many guys his age thought was becoming. It was all the rage, he'd noticed, among the younger AAs on the Hill and the lower-level members of the White House Staff. Whatever else Nestor Greene was, he was no one's Administrative Assistant. And as for the White House, there was no one there these days who would even think about putting him on the payroll - officially, at any rate.
He was ambling over to the window to check the view when, from behind him, there came the sound of a door opening. Turning, he saw the connecting door swing wide, and a woman walked in from the next room. She wore a tailored business suit and a serious expression. The black briefcase she carried looked expensive.
The woman was tall, with red hair and rather severe good looks that reminded Greene of Sister Mary Boniface, a nun he'd had a crush on as a boy. He immediately felt attracted to her, and, because of the kind of man he was, instantly distrusted the attraction.
"Mr. Green," she said with a measured smile. "It's good of you to come." She did not offer to shake hands.
Greene's answering smile was equally controlled. "I'm afraid that goodness had nothing to do with it, but the thousand dollars, your pardon, I should say the non-refundable thousand dollars, did play a considerable role in my decision." His voice was slow and measured, rich with the honeyed accent of the American South. Continuing to look at her, Greene tilted his head a little to one side. "But I do believe you have the advantage of me, madam."
She put her briefcase down on the bed. "No, I don't," she said matter-of-factly, and let the smile turn cold. "You recognized me the moment I walked in; I could see it in your face. It's just as well, really - if you were so out of touch with things as to not recognize me, then I very much doubt that I would have any use for your services, and this little interview would already be over."
After a few seconds, he bowed his head forward an inch or two. "Well, now, it would appear that you've skewered me rather nicely. I must either admit to having been guilty of some slight prevarication, or disqualify myself from the enviable opportunity to become associated, even if only professionally, with a lovely and charmin' - and, may I say, clever - lady such as yourself."
"While you're solving your dilemma, which I'm afraid you'll have to do within the next thirty seconds, perhaps you can answer a question for me."
He gestured graciously. "I am at your disposal, madam."
"Is that genteel accent and manner of yours for real? Or do you have a DVD of Gone with the Wind at home that's about to wear out from overuse?"
He did not seem to take offense. "Oh, I believe that I can lay honest claim to my rather quaint way of speakin'. You see, although I was born in rural Louisiana, in what some folks around those parts uncharitably refer to as 'cracker country,' my mother, rest her soul, insisted that I spend most of my formative years in a Catholic boarding school in New Orleans." He paused to brush the hair out of his eyes. "The good Sisters, I'm afraid, had some rather old-fashioned notions about Southern gentlemen and how they ought to conduct themselves. And since their punishments for what they considered improper speech and behavior tended to be both pai
nful and humiliating, a Southern gentleman is what I became - in my speech and manners, at any rate."
"I see," she said, and glanced at her watch.
"However," he continued, "since those sheltered days of my youth, I have had occasion to experience rather more of the world and its ways, such that -" He paused, then went on, in a flat tone that contained no trace of accent whatever, unless East Coast Bitter can be considered an accent "- such that I can pretty much employ whatever lingo the situation calls for. And if this is the way you'd prefer to talk business, Ms. Doyle, you'll find that it's okay with me."
She nodded, as if to herself, then gestured toward the room's only armchair. "Why don't we sit down?"
Mary Margaret Doyle took a seat on the edge of the bed and opened her briefcase. As she rummaged inside, she asked, "Why did you say at first that you didn't recognize me?"
"I wanted to see what you were going to call yourself. If you used your own name, fine. If not, I'd know who you were anyway, and you wouldn't know that I knew."
"Even if it had worked, it's a pretty small advantage."
"Several small ones can add up to one big one. Sometimes, anyway."
She nodded again, and Greene thought he perceived a small measure of satisfaction in the movement. "So, where did you lose the Tennessee Williams accent?" she asked. "At Dartmouth?"
"That's right, although I didn't so much lose it as pick up a second one."
"You were involved in politics there, weren't you? Student politics, I mean."
"I never ran for anything myself, but I managed a couple of campaigns for friends of mine who wanted to be Student Body President, in different years."
"They won, didn't they? Both of them."
"They did, yes."
There were allegations, afterward, of certain... improprieties on your part."
"An allegation," he said primly, "is, by definition, a claim made without proof to back it up."
"Yes, to be sure." The set of her mouth had changed subtly, suggesting amusement. "After Dartmouth, it was Harvard Law School?"
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