"Nothing all that remarkable. He saw in the paper you were going to be speaking at the high school, and wanted to see you in person. He thinks you make a lot of sense, he said."
Stark gave a twitch of a smile. "I've lost his vote now, I suppose."
"I wouldn't know, sir. But we checked his ID, and it was legitimate. He willingly let us have his prints, and we ran them through NCIC. Both the name and the prints were negative."
Mary Margaret Doyle joined the conversation for the first time. "NCIC? Isn't that some awful television show?"
Masterson looked at her. "I believe you're thinking of NCIS, ma'am, which is the Naval Criminal Investigation Service. I was referring to the National Crime Information Center, which is a database run by the FBI. A lot of agencies use it."
"So, you found nothing when you sent them this man's name and fingerprints," Stark said. "What is his name, anyway?"
"Bowles, sir. Joseph Robert Bowles."
Stark looked a question at Mary Margaret Doyle, who thought briefly, then shook her head.
"And you believe," Stark said to Masterson, "that Mr. Bowles is innocent of whatever -" he held up his apparently uninjured hand "- inconvenience I experienced?"
Masterson nodded, and got to his feet. "Yes, sir. I've got someone in Washington doing a double-check, but I'm inclined to believe his story."
"Simply because you can't prove otherwise?" Stark was frowning like Masterson's high school principal used to.
"Yes, sir. That and the fact that Bowles is a Catholic priest."
Chapter 21
When he heard Ashley say 'Astaroth,' every muscle in Malachi Peters' body went rigid. He gazed into the beautiful face a few inches from his own and wondered if it were the last sight he were going to see before being returned to the fires of Hell.
His throat felt as constricted as if he were being choked, but he finally managed to force words out of it. "Have you come to... take me back?"
She kissed him again, gently, a mere peck on his lips. "No, sweetheart, I'm here to get you off. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
She withdrew her arms from around his neck and turned, presenting her back to him. "Would you unzip me?"
Questions flew through Peters' mind like a flock of frightened sparrows. He tried to speak again, to demand to know what was going on, but no words came out.
The tab of the black dress's zipper lay there in front of him. He reached out with a hand that was not quite steady, grasped the little rectangle with thumb and forefinger, and slowly pulled it down. The back of the dress parted, revealing flawless skin and the strap of a black bra.
In a moment, the garment was a shadow pooled around her feet. She bent and picked it up, folded it quickly, and placed it over the back of a nearby chair. She took her time; she knew he was looking at her.
She turned toward him and spread her arms wide, displaying herself. With the bra she wore matching panties that looked like they might be silk. Instead of pantyhose, she wore thigh-high stockings, the tops of which stopped just short of her groin. Those were popular now, according to the porn sites Peters had been visiting.
Ashley reached behind her back for a moment, then the bra was sliding down her arms. She caught it before it fell and placed it atop the dress. Her breasts were beautiful. Peters had never belonged to the 'more is better school' of ta-ta appreciation, and he thought that her moderately sized but perky endowment was perfect for her slim frame.
She let him look for a few more seconds, then reached down and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the black silk panties. With all the teasing deliberation of a stripper, she slowly pulled them down and off. Peters saw that she had followed the trend popular in porn these days and shaved herself bare, apart from a four inch long 'landing strip' just above the essential area.
She let him take in the view for a bit, then walked slowly back to him, stopping where she had stood before, inches away. He thought she might kiss him again, but instead she said softly, "You've unzipped me - the least I can do is return the favor" and dropped to her knees. Soon there was the sly sound of a zipper in descent. Then the room was quiet for a while, except for the hum of the heating unit, the wet sounds that Ashley was making, and the soft moans that escaped Peters' lips.
Then she stopped what she was doing, and stood, effortlessly. She took Peters' face in her hands and kissed him again, and this time it was the real deal. When she finally withdrew her tongue from his mouth, he said "Listen, I -"
She stopped him with a finger to his lips. "Do you remember a country song called 'Shut Up and Kiss Me'?"
Peters shook his head.
"Oh, that's right - it was popular for a while when you were away."
He blinked a couple of times. "You... know about that?"
"I know everything I need to know. And the lady who wrote that song had a pretty good idea. She just didn't take it far enough. No questions, Peters. Just shut up and fuck me. Okay?"
She took him gently by the hand and led him toward the suite's bedroom. She seemed to know the way.
"What was that you put on my hand before you bandaged it - that greasy substance?" Sargatanas asked.
"Just Vaseline petroleum jelly," Mary Margaret Doyle said. "It's often used to treat burns, although usually minor ones. You said you were going to heal yourself, but I thought it might add some verisimilitude, if we needed it."
"As we did," he said. "That was good thinking on your part. For a human, you are sometimes quite intelligent."
Mary Margaret Doyle actually blushed. She looked at the floor and said nothing.
"And now we have work to do. Important work."
"What do you have in mind?" she asked.
"This priest. Bowles. Why was he there tonight? Why did he wish to touch me?"
She considered. "It could be just what Masterson said. Priests vote, too. He may have gone to hear the Great Man's speech, and shake his hand."
"You believe that was all?"
"I'm just saying it's not inconceivable."
"Well, perhaps that was the reason. But it could have been something else - a test."
"To see if you were..."
"One of demonkind, yes. And if it was a test, then now he knows something. He may not understand it yet, but he knows. And something else concerns me, as well."
"What's that?"
"The possibility that this priest did not come on his own initiative. Rather, that he may have been sent."
"Sent?" Deep worry lines appeared just above her nose. "By whom?"
Sargatanas made a fist and stared at it, as if he were squeezing some small creature to death in his palm. "There are any number of possibilities. Your world contains no shortage of dilettantes who know far too much about the netherworld than is good for them. Any of them might have put the priest up to it."
"Which means, whatever the priest knows, they now know."
"Yes, or they will soon." Sargatanas shook his head slowly. "Too many unknowns. Too much potential for something to go wrong, later. Such a situation cannot be tolerated. That is why you are going to pay a call on the priest."
"Me! Are you -" She stopped herself in time. "Yes, of course. Forgive me. I assume you have a... plan for me to follow. And perhaps some magic for me to use?"
"I have both. Come here."
She walked over to where he sat tentatively - unsure whether he was going to punish her for her verbal slip earlier, or use her sexually before sending her out to find the priest, or... something else.
When she stood before him he said, "Bend over."
She frowned in puzzlement. She had been given that command before, but always when her back was to him.
As she bent forward, he took her face in his hands in a grip that was not quite painful. "Be still," he said, and began to recite something in a language she didn't recognize. After a few moments, Mary Margaret Doyle closed her eyes. Staring into the demon's eyes at that distance was more than even she could bear. After perhaps twenty second
s, he released her.
"Now, then," he said, once she had straightened up, "This is for you."
He handed her a leather folder like the one the Secret Service agents used to hold their credentials. She flipped it open and saw that it contained the badge and ID card of Ronald J. Porter, one of the agents who had tried to rush them to the hospital earlier.
"This will gain you access to the priest," he said. "Tell him that additional questions have arisen about tonight's incident and that he must accompany you to the local FBI office - but in fact, you will take him elsewhere."
She stared at him for a few moments. When she finally spoke, it was clear that she was choosing her words carefully. "I'm sure that there is something here that I do not understand. Will you explain it to me, please?"
"I will do better than that," he said with a grin. "Go to the mirror."
She took a couple of steps sideways, until she stood in front of the room's full-length mirror. Then she gasped in shock.
Looking back at her was a blond man in his late twenties, his big shoulders encased in a dark suit of dubious quality.
It was Ronald J. Porter, Special Agent of the U.S. Secret Service.
Mary Margaret gaped, looking her 'self' up and down. She touched her head; Porter's mirror image touched his. She wrinkled her nose; the reflection did the same.
"I've placed a 'glamour' on you," Sargatanas said. "Anyone who looks at you will see Porter - until I take it off, that is - upon successful completion of your mission."
She turned reluctantly away from the mirror and faced him. "I'm still not completely certain what the mission is."
"I've already told you most of it, idiot! You take the priest into custody, using your new appearance and identification. Tell him you're bringing him to FBI headquarters in the Government Center to be questioned further."
"What am I doing with him, instead?"
"Look here," he said, and turned to an open laptop computer. He touched a couple of keys, and a topographic image appeared, like the kind produced by Google Earth.
Sargatanas picked up a pen and touched the screen with it. "You take him here."
She leaned forward and squinted. He was pointing at what looked like a long, rectangular structure a little distance outside town. No other buildings stood nearby.
"It's an old strip mall that closed last year. All the stores are empty, and nobody goes there anymore. It should be the perfect place for you and Father Bowles to have a little chat."
"All that glass, facing the road." She was frowning as she stared at the screen. "If I show any kind of light at all in there, it might be seen by a passing cop. A real one."
"That has been considered."
"And the temperature's already close to zero outside. That place will be an icebox." She held up a hasty hand. "Not that my own comfort matters, in the face of such an important task. But it will be difficult for me to concentrate on the work if I'm freezing half to death."
He nodded. "That, also, has been considered - and accounted for."
She shook her head. "I don't understand."
He tapped a few keys, and the abandoned strip mall came into closer view. "Each of those seven stores has a stockroom in the rear, along with a back door for deliveries. You can take him to one of them."
"Yes, all right, but --"
"And there is an important fact, of which you are unaware," he said. "The power is still on in that structure. The electric company never got around to turning it off, and since none is ever used, their meters never remind them."
"Oh." She blinked a couple of times. "I see"
"You will have all the light you would wish, and it will not be visible from the front of the place. And you can turn on the heat when you get there. Soon, you will be able to interrogate the good Father in comfort. Yours, if not his."
"If I may ask, how did you learn all that from here? I wouldn't even know where to begin looking online, to find that information."
"I have access to sources that you do not. That is all that you need to know."
He reached into a pocket and produced a pair of handcuffs. "Here," he said, and tossed them to her. "You may find these useful. Be sure to bring them back, though. Agent Porter will miss them eventually, although he won't be concerned with them tonight."
"More 'glamour'?" she asked.
"Precisely."
"It seems you've thought of everything." She did not sound overjoyed at this fact.
"Everything including the brief stop you're going to make before you fetch the priest. Try a hardware store, if you can find one open. Although a big drugstore will serve, I expect."
She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be dense, really I'm not. It's just that I've had a lot to absorb, in a very short time. What is it you want me to pick up?"
"Tools, of course. Materials to assure the cooperation of Father Bowles." The grin he gave her was something terrible to behold. "I would recommend a pair of pliers and a blowtorch. Perhaps a bottle of rubbing alcohol, too - you'll be amazed at the effect that has on freshly burned flesh. But use your own judgment."
"How long were you and Senator Martinez... intimate, Ms. Sorensen?" The big room was noisy from conversations in two languages, and the smell of Mexican cooking was overpowering - or it may have just been that Nestor Greene was unused to it.
The woman tossed blonde hair out of her eyes and gave Nestor Greene a crooked grin. "You mean, how many times did we fuck? It's hard to say, honey - I'd have to check my diary."
Greene leaned forward a little - whether out of sudden interest, or an increased desire to keep their conversation private wasn't immediately clear.
"You had a diary back then? And you've kept it?" Greene kept the eagerness out of his voice - there was no point in driving the price up. As it was, this bimbo was probably going to end up costing him a substantial chunk of Mary Margaret Doyle's money. But she might well be worth every cent. Especially if there was a diary.
"Sure I did," she said, as if asked whether the sun will rise tomorrow. "A girl has to look out for her future, ya know."
At this point in her life, the word 'girl' could accurately be applied to Ina Sorensen only in its broadest sense. She would see neither forty nor a size 6 again, and the years along the way had not always been kind - nor had her use of tobacco, alcohol, and, doubtless, other substances, softened the blows of Father Time. Judging by the old photos he'd seen of her, she had tried to compensate at some point by having her breast implants replaced by larger ones, but Greene found the total effect less erotic than pathetic.
"What I was asking," Greene said, "was over what period of time were you Senator Martinez's mistress?"
She gave a snort of laughter. "Mistress? People still say that?"
Greene shrugged. "Some do. The Washington Post, for one. So - how long were you fucking the Senator?"
"See? I knew you could speak English, if you put your mind to it," she said. "He wasn't Senator then, though. Just a State Rep."
"I'm aware of that. It doesn't matter."
Her brows furrowed in concentration. "Well, I worked for his office for just over three years, and I'd been bangin' him pretty regular for about six months before that. So, what's that, three-and-a-half years?"
"Just about. When you worked for him, what was your function?"
"My function?" She gave Nestor Greene a look that village idiots everywhere must get very tired of. "My 'function' was to fuck him, suck his cock, and let him do me up the ass when he was in the mood. Fortunately, he wasn't in the mood for anal too often." She leered at him for a moment. "He's a pretty big boy, Ramon is - know what I mean?"
Greene nodded. "I meant, what was your function in his office?" he asked. Greene worked in Washington, D.C., after all - he was used to dealing with whores of all kinds.
"I just told you that, honey. Well, we did it in his office once or twice a week, anyway. Ramon seemed to get a real charge out of screwing me on top of his desk. After everybo
dy went home, I mean."
"What was your job description?" Even Nestor Greene's storied patience could fray at the edges.
"No need to get snippy," she said. "My job title was 'Secretary II,' I think. They didn't have a name for what my real job was. Not in the civil service manual, anyway."
"Did you perform any... regular work there at all?"
"Nope. I can't type, and I don't know how to file. Only time I was there was after hours, when Ramon wanted to play 'Boss and Horny Secretary' in his private office."
"Where did you usually have sex, apart from his office?"
"My place. I had a nice little apartment, just off Tenth St."
"Martinez paid the rent?"
"You bet he did. Santa Fe ain't a cheap place to live."
"Did he just give you the money, or pay the landlord directly?"
"He used to write checks, payable to the company that owned the building. Couple of times, he wrote out a check and left it with me, and I'd drop it off at the realty office the next day."
"You don't happen to remember which bank the checks were drawn on, do you?"
She shook her head. "Nope, sorry. I can't remember stuff like that. Not back that far."
"No, I imagine not." I bet you remember the serial number of the first hundred-dollar bill a man ever gave you, you greedy cunt.
"But I made Xerox copies of them, before I paid the landlord." Ina Sorensen shrugged. "Like I said, a girl's gotta think about her future."
Chapter 22
"It may be a while before I actually get another job," Morris said, changing lanes to pass a tractor trailer. "Word's probably been getting around that I've 'retired.'"
"You've been turning down work?" Libby said. "What a great day for the Forces of Evil." She smiled as she said it, but only a little.
"I've tried to farm out as much as I could. Refer clients to some folks I trust."
"Really? I don't you recall sending any to me," she said, with a touch of mock indignation.
"Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. Nothing came along that I thought might be in your line, really. And, besides..." Morris made a face. "I guess I couldn't stand the idea of you working with anybody else but me."
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