Sympathy for the Devil

by Justin Gustainis

  "I expect you're right."

  "Of course I am. Now get out of here, so I can focus on my speech without being distracted by your stupid crying."

  She flinched as if he had slapped her, then got up without a word and walked swiftly toward her bedroom.

  "And don't bother to get dressed," Sargatanas said. "I'll be using your body, later."

  The Crowne Plaza bellman, whose name tag said his name was Bruce, let Peters and Ashley into Room 1408 and pulled the baggage cart in behind him. As he unloaded their bags, he carried on a well-practiced monologue about the number of channels available on the room's TV, the hours of the hotel bar, and the number to call if they needed extra towels.

  As Bruce picked up the long, steel case and looked for a place to put it, Peters said, "Go easy with that, okay? Bust my guitar, and I'm out of a job."

  "I'll be very careful, sir." Bruce finally settled for gently depositing the case on the floor in front of the chest of drawers.

  As Peters reached for his wallet to get Bruce's tip, Ashley said, "I need a shower. I hope you've got good water pressure here, Bruce."

  "I think you'll find it's nice and strong, ma'am. No guest has ever complained about it, far as I know."

  "Great," Ashley said, and pulled her sky-blue knit top over her head and tossed it aside. As usual, she neither wore nor needed a bra. She kicked off her shoes, then reached for the zipper of her gray woolen skirt. The garment fell away, revealing that Ashley wore a red thong underneath. A moment later, it joined the skirt on the carpet. There was nothing coquettish about Ashley's manner. She might have been alone in the room.

  Stepping free of the thong, Ashley walked to the bathroom and closed the door without a backward glance. Peters pulled a twenty from his wallet and gave it to Bruce, who was blinking rapidly with the struggle to keep his face impassive.

  "Uh, thank you, uh, sir. Hope you and uh, the lady have a real pleasant stay with us." Bruce grabbed the empty baggage cart and got out of there, doubtless in a hurry to tell his co-workers about the visual treat he'd just been given. Peters wondered if they'd believe him.

  The door closed behind Bruce, and a moment later, Peters heard the sound of the shower. The bathroom door opened to reveal Ashley, hands on hips, in all her nude glory. "Care to join me?"

  "Don't mind if I do," Peters said and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  As he approached the shower curtain, Ashley's voice said, "You might want to grab another cake of soap, sweetie. These little things are barely big enough for one person."

  Peters unwrapped a bar of soap and joined Ashley. As he tried to get enough water on him to lather up he said, "What was the strip tease about? Were you messing with Bruce, just for fun?"

  "What's wrong with fun?" she said, rubbing soap over her breasts. "But I did have an ulterior motive."

  "Which was?" Peters washed under his arms.

  "Your little story about the guitar wasn't bad, but it called attention to the case, which made it more likely he'd remember it, not less, if the FBI should ask him later."

  "Hmm. Hadn't thought of that."

  "So I, making the immense sacrifice of baring my fair body to a total stranger, have guaranteed that's the only thing he will remember." In a perfect imitation of Bruce's voice, she said, "'Yeah, there was this guy with her, I guess, and they had a bunch of luggage, but dude, you should have seen the ass on that blonde!'"

  "That was a good idea. And he's right, too - about your ass, I mean."

  "Why thank you, kind sir," she said, and turned to face him. A few moments later he said, "What are you doing?"

  She gave the low chuckle that never failed to give him goosebumps. "Assuming that's not a rhetorical question, I'm thanking you for the compliment by helping you wash up. Or would you rather wash this part yourself?"

  "Uh, no, you go ahead, you're doing fine."

  Later, when they were dried and dressed, Ashley noticed Peters studying the frame of one of the windows.

  "Checking for termites?" she said.

  "Looking to see if this window will open. It won't, of course, I was just being an optimist. They don't do this in Europe - at least, they didn't used to - but the windows in American hotels don't open. That was true thirty years ago, too. You're supposed to use the air conditioner if you want to cool off."

  She thought for a second. "Jumpers."

  "You got it. If you're going to practice defenestration, the management would rather you do it someplace else. Even if there aren't liability issues, it would probably upset the other guests to see some guy splattered all over the sidewalk."

  "And the hotels' caution makes it hard to shoot somebody from your room, too," Ashley said. "How inconsiderate of them."

  She went to the window and tapped the glass with a knuckle. "We could break it."

  He shook his head. "Too much noise, plus broken glass on the sidewalk."

  "Not if you use the burglar's technique. Get some masking tape -"

  "I know what you're talking about. I used it myself a few times, when I was with the Company. Tape the glass thoroughly, then break it and remove the shards by hand."

  "Exactly."

  "That solves most of the problems, except one. After we're gone, anybody who checks the room will know instantly that this is the one where the shot was fired that killed Stark."

  "Hmmm. You're thinking it might interfere with our getaway." A smile warmed the coldly beautiful face. "I love saying things like 'getaway.' Makes me feel like Bonnie Parker - who was a mean, ugly bitch, by the way. Nothing like Fay Dunaway."

  "I guess you'd know."

  "Indeed I would. Oh, and you're much better looking than Clyde Barrow was, and about three times as smart."

  He winked at her as he used one of her favorite words. "Flatterer."

  Her smile grew even brighter for a second, then she got serious again. "So, okay, we don't break the window. I trust you have something else in mind."

  "After lunch, we'll find a hardware store and get the right size of screwdriver, and maybe a couple of other tools. Once the maid's done cleaning the room tomorrow, well take the window out of its frame - and put it back again, when we're done."

  She frowned. "Putting it back's going to take us a while. Once Stark's down, I figured you'd want to waste no time in, as they say, getting out of Dodge."

  "Yeah, I've been thinking about that, too. Come on, sit down."

  Peters sat on the edge of one of the double beds. Ashley sat cross-legged on the other, opposite him.

  "Running is what they'll expect us to do," Peters said.

  "With good reason. Killing Stark is going to be like hitting a hornet's nest with a stick. Cops will be swarming everywhere. But you have something different in mind?"

  "We stay right here. Act innocent."

  "Peters, I haven't been innocent for a span of time longer than you can imagine."

  "Don't be so literal-minded. At this distance, there's no way they can trace back the bullet's trajectory. They'll have an idea of the general direction the shot came from, but that's all." He made a head gesture toward the window. "And you may have noticed that there's a hell of a lot of hotels and office buildings in this part of town. The bullet could have come from any of them."

  "Still - we'll be questioned."

  "Sure - us, and thousands of other people. But my ID's good. It's a product of Hell, Inc. - it ought to be. How about you? Can you create something credible for yourself?"

  "Sure," she said, nodding slowly. "That won't be a problem."

  "It's gonna be a nightmare for them, trying to get enough cops - federal, state, or local - in here to do the job. Unless we look or act suspicions, I figure we'll spend ten minutes, tops, with some detective who's already thinking ahead to his next interview. But I'll tell you who's gonna get a closer, harder look."

  "People on their way out of town right after the shooting, whether they knew about it or not."

  "Uh-huh. The cops'll set up roadblocks, and sear
ch every car. Be kinda embarrassing to have them find a silenced rifle in our trunk."

  "If we stay here, they'll find the gun, too."

  "Not if you help, they won't. You can create illusions, right?"

  "You know I can."

  "Can you... I'm not sure how to put this. Can you make it look like there's no rifle here, when there is one?"

  "Hmmm." She rested her chin on one hand for a bit, then said, "What you're describing isn't an illusion but just the opposite. Given time to prepare, I could create a variation of the Tarnhelm effect."

  "I won't pretend I know what that is."

  "It's magic that makes the eye avoid the object you don't want seen. The rifle could be in plain sight, but no one would consciously notice it - which is just as good as not having it there at all."

  "You said 'given time.' Is from now to tomorrow afternoon enough?"

  "More than enough. It should take me no more than a couple of hours."

  "Very nice. I knew there was a reason for having you around. Besides the mind-blowing sex, I mean."

  She grinned at him. "Flatterer."

  Peters got to his feet. "So, we go get some lunch, then look for a hardware store."

  Ashley was putting her shoes on. "Let's eat at a seafood place. I find that I just adore shrimp."

  Libby Chastain was alone in the elevator as it took her to the fourteenth floor. After dinner at a nice Italian place down the street, Quincey had offered to spring for the price of one of the hotel's many pay-per-view movies. After scrolling through the selections twice, they had finally agreed on the latest James Bond movie, Risico.

  They'd each lain on one of the double beds in Quincey's room, the lights out, watching Daniel Craig save the world again, and making occasional sarcastic comments about the movie. Just over two hours later, the elevator deposited Libby at her floor. As she walked to her room, she found herself wondering what would have happened down there if Quincey had invited her to join him on his bed. Would she have agreed, or stayed where she was? And if she'd gone over to lie on the bed next to him, then what?

  Libby shook her head, as if to drive stupid thoughts out of it. Sex with Quincey, and the resulting emotional entanglement, would spoil what she'd long regarded as the perfect relationship, plain proof that a man and a woman who liked each other could work closely together without hopping into bed. Getting romantically involved with Quincey was about the worst idea she could have.

  Wasn't it?

  Libby was about halfway down the corridor that led to her room when she realized what she had been psychically smelling for the last few seconds, while her mind was occupied with goopy thoughts of Quincey Morris.

  Black magic.

  Libby slowed her pace, a wary expression on her face. The psychic 'smell' was getting stronger as she walked. She reached into her shoulder bag for a strong defensive charm she had in there, just in case.

  Is it Stark? Is he staying here - in this hotel, on this floor?

  Libby quickly rejected the idea. She knew Stark had Secret Service protection. Surely there would be at least one agent outside his door, perhaps more. Libby could see that she was the only living soul in the hall right now.

  She focused her concentration, trying to notice changes in the strength of the psychic sensation as she walked. Like a real odor, it became stronger the closer you got to it.

  Unconsciously using the words from a childhood game, Libby thought, Getting warmer, warmer, warmer, warmer still, now colder, colder...

  By the time Libby had reached her room, the sense of black magic was barely perceptible. If it had been this faint the whole way along, she might not even have noticed it at all.

  She turned around, and slowly walked back the way she'd come. Gradually the stink of evil grew stronger in her mind. Warner, warmer, really warm now, colder, colder...

  Libby stopped and went back a couple of steps. Yes, this was it. The emanation of black magic was strongest right outside Room 1408.

  Goddess save us, who is in there? WHAT is in there?

  Then Libby remembered what Quincey had said about looking into the abyss, and the abyss looking back. She drew in a breath sharply. If she could sense whoever was in 1408, there was a good chance he or she (or It) could sense her, as well.

  She turned and walked briskly toward the elevator.

  Inside 1408, Malachi Peters lay on his back, grunting, as Ashley demonstrated to him the pleasures offered by the Reverse Cowgirl position.

  "I'll have better control over my hip movements," she'd said, "and I can put my hands on your knees for balance and leverage, if I need it. Plus, you can grab my ass, if you're so inclined. You'll love it."

  "I think I'll be so inclined," Peters had said.

  As he lay there, loving it indeed, eyes closed and breath coming in gasps, he suddenly noticed that Ashley had stopped moving. Peters opened his eyes and saw that she was looking toward the door. He could feel the increased tension in her body.

  "What?" he said, his voice husky. "Something wrong?"

  She stayed that way, like a hunting dog on point, for a second or two more. Then she sighed, faced front, and began moving her hips again.

  "It's nothing," she said. "For a second, I thought...It's nothing."

  Chapter 31

  "It's fucking black magic, Quincey," Libby said, all thoughts of romance driven from her head. "Nothing else smells like that. Nothing."

  Morris nodded slowly and scratched his chin. "I agree with you that it can't be Stark, since there's no Secret Service types around up there. I could contact Masterson and ask him, but he'd just be telling us what we already know."

  Libby hugged herself, as if from a sudden chill. "Who could it be, then? And what are they doing here?"

  "Good questions, both of them. What you sensed - it doesn't mean that they were in there casting spells, does it? Their very presence would announce itself to you, even if they were just watching Wheel of Fortune, right?"

  "I think so. But based on the strength of the manifestation, this was no dabbler, Quincey. This person, whoever it is, knows the fire."

  Morris took a turn around the room, which didn't take him long. "I suppose it's possible this could have something to do with Stark, if our suspicions about him are correct. Or, it could be something innocuous - as innocuous as black magic ever gets, I mean. Even black magicians have jobs, most of them. Evil doesn't pay all that well, so most of them do it as a sideline..."

  "Yes, I know that much is true."

  "Maybe the guy - or woman - sells industrial casting materials, and he's got appointments with people at three or four of Richmond's biggest factories tomorrow. Then he'll go back home and start sacrificing small animals again. It could be something like that."

  "I suppose it could. I hope that's all it is." She hesitated, "Quincey, I don't want you to misinterpret this, but... can I stay here tonight? It's not that I'm afraid, exactly. But if I bed down in my room, knowing what's down the hall from me, I won't sleep a wink, I know it. And I need to be sharp for our little experiment tomorrow."

  "Sure, Libby, it's no problem at all. Mi casa, su casa, as it were. You've already used the bed near the window. Take that one, if you want."

  She gave him an embarrassed smile. "Thank you for humoring me. Now I have to ask you to indulge me a little further."

  He looked at her curiously. "Sure, whatever you want."

  She held out the card key for her room. "Would you mind going up to my room and bringing down my stuff? I don't want to have to sleep in my clothes, or use your toothbrush."

  "I'll be happy to, Libby," he said, taking the little plastic card from her.

  "Don't worry about picking and choosing. Just throw it all in the suitcase, and I'll sort it out later."

  "Sure, no problem." Morris started toward the door.

  "I'd go myself," Libby said, "but I was remembering what you said earlier about the abyss staring back, and all that. If I can sense them, it's possible they can sense me.
I've already walked past that door twice tonight, and nothing's happened. But if I do it one more time..."

  "'Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, the third time is enemy action'," Morris said, the way you do when quoting somebody.

  "Who said that?" Libby asked.

  "A fella named Auric Goldfinger once said it to James Bond."

  The morning of Senator Howard Stark's speech dawned cloudy and cool, but the cloud cover was expected to dissipate by afternoon, allowing the sun to bring temperatures up to around 60 degrees.

  The article in the morning's Richmond Times-Dispatch said the gates to Kanawha Plaza would open at noon, and the campaign rally would start at 3:00, to include music from the Smoky Mountain Seven, a local country band hired for the occasion, along with an invocation by the minister of the town's biggest Southern Baptist church, a mass reciting of the Pledge of Allegiance by all those present, speeches by a couple of local dignitaries and, just before Stark's appearance, a group singing of the Star Spangled Banner.

  Stark was scheduled to speak at 4:00, a fact noted with considerable interest in at least two of the Crowne-Plaza's guest rooms.

  "Did you get any sleep at all?" Quincey Morris asked, over the room service breakfast he was sharing with Libby Chastain.

  "I managed a few hours," Libby said. "Despite the fact that my roommate snores."

  "Sorry about that. Hope it didn't keep you awake."

  "No, I found it rather soothing, actually. Kind of like sleeping with a fan on, which I used to do when I was a kid. But I had preparations to make for today."

  "I know," Morris said. Several times during the night, he had awakened to find Libby, in the soft light cast from a table lamp with a towel draped over it, sitting or kneeling on the floor. Sometimes, Morris recalled, she was chanting softly. On other occasions, she was drawing elaborate designs on the carpet with different colors of chalk. At least once, she had a candle burning.

  "I was worried that the maid would have a fit when she came in and saw what I'd done to the carpet," Libby said, "but I was able to get most of the chalk up with a wet towel. You can barely see my artwork now."