"My very thought - Goddess, Quincey!"
"What's wrong?"
"The black magic odor - it's just as strong as it was last night. I would have expected some dissipation by now. This time I can 'see' the stuff, as well, and the hall's full of it. Guess in front of which room it's thickest."
"I only get one guess?"
"You shouldn't need more, cowboy."
They stopped outside 1408, and Libby began sifting through the magical devices in her shoulder bag. While she did, Morris said, "You never know," and knocked firmly on the door. "If a cop answers, we've got the wrong room."
"I'm such a scatterbrain, Officer," Libby said in a sing-song voice. "I'm always getting room numbers confused. I think we want 1208."
"That should take care -" Morris stopped talking, for in that instant the door opened, and he was looking at a tall blonde who was one of the most sexually appealing women he'd ever seen.
The woman looked from Morris to Libby, and back.
"Who the fuck are you?" She sounded more puzzled than aggressive.
"Oh, sorry," Morris said, and stepped back. "We must have the wrong room."
"No, we don't" Libby said tightly. She bent her right wrist oddly, and a wand dropped down the sleeve into her waiting hand. At once it started to glow. "Get back, Quincey - she's Hellspawn!"
Chapter 35
"As soon as I realized I might be in danger," Sargatanas said, "I threw up a quick shield spell I had prepared - although, as it happened, Masterson was my shield. He moves fast for a man his size."
"Were you hurt?" Mary Margaret Doyle asked. "When he threw you down, I mean."
"Some bruises. A rib was cracked, but I had healed it by the time they got me to the hospital. Nothing compared to what would have happened if I had been in the path of that bullet."
"He died, you know. Masterson. I saw it on TV."
Sargatanas shrugged. "He did what he was paid to do. They all know the risks when they agree to do the job." The demon produced a cruel smile. "I wonder if he would have been quick to throw himself into harm's way if he knew who he was really saving, and what it will ultimately mean for his kind."
"If he'd known the truth," she said, "he'd probably have shot you himself."
"Perhaps he and I will have the chance to discuss it in Hell, sometime. But one thing puzzles me."
"The identity of the shooter?"
"That, also, yes. But I was thinking about what happened on that stage. The agents were galvanized into action by someone yelling 'Gun.'"
"I'm not surprised they moved fast," she said. "They probably practice responding to the word, and maybe a few others."
"But none of them will acknowledge being the one who said it. And I didn't recognize the voice - I don't think it was one of the Secret Service detail."
"Someone from the crowd?"
He shook his head. "The voice came from the stage, I'm sure of it."
"There were other people on stage, weren't there? Local politicos, and some Bible-thumper to give the invocation? One of them must've done it."
"Then why not say so? It would make the man a hero, of a sort. And there's something else that bothers me about all of this."
"What?"
"The police say the weapon was almost certainly a rifle, fired from hundreds of yards away. So what was there for anyone on the stage to see?"
"Well whoever it was almost certainly saved your - Starks's - life. We can be thankful for that."
"Instead of being thankful, you might devote your limited intelligence to determining who wants Stark dead."
She left her chair and went to one of the suite's windows, where she stood in silence looking outside. Finally she said, "The rifle worries me."
"Not as much as it worried me, a few hours ago."
"What I meant was, it's outside the pattern. In this country, political assassins mostly use handguns."
"Lee Harvey Oswald, stupid. James Earl Ray. Joseph Paul Franklin."
"I don't recognize that last one."
"The man who shot Larry Flynt. Fortunately, Larry has continued to publish Hustler from his wheelchair. Fine magazine."
"You seem to know a lot about these killers."
"Political assassinations are something of a hobby of mine."
"Watching them, you mean?"
"No, causing them. Never mind. My Secret Service protection will be increased, effective immediately. That faggot Arkasian told me so himself, on the way here from the hospital."
"Who told you?"
He gave her a look loaded with contempt. "Remind me again why I continue to keep you around."
"Hmmm. Because I'm a good fuck?"
"No you're not. You're just handy. Arkasian was the Number Two man in the Secret Service detail, now temporarily promoted to Number One."
"And he's gay?"
"Of course he is - it's obvious."
"I'll take your word for it. So the Secret Service is adding to your protection. The FBI, I assume, is busy tracking down the killer, who has now lost the advantage of surprise. I don't think we need to worry, overmuch."
"I wonder if you'd feel so blasé if you were the one he's after."
Roland English's Platinum Visa Card had a credit limit of $50,000, almost all of which was available for his use. He also had a Maryland driver's license to prove that the card was his.
Roland English was clearly a man of substance - or he would be, if he really existed. He'd encountered no problem securing a room for two nights in the elite Empyrean Club section at the Hilton Oceanfront in Virginia Beach.
He checked in just after 4:00PM on Friday and was shown to his elegant suite by an aging bellman, whom he tipped generously. The Empyrean Club occupied the Hilton's top three floors - 19, 20, and 21 - and Mr. English was on 19. Noting the absence of large men in suits accessorized by radio earpieces, he concluded that Senator Leffingwell's entourage was on one of the two floors above him. Time enough later to find out which one it was. For now, Mister English had some shopping to do at the nearest Home Depot.
Two hours later, he had purchased everything he needed and had dinner at a small but pleasant restaurant further down Atlantic Avenue. Returning to the Hilton, he left his purchases in the car for the time being and looked for a Men's Room in the hotel lobby. Finding one, he spent a few minutes primping.
Roland English had a full head of carefully styled blond hair. He wore a beautifully tailored tropical suit with an open-collared silk dress shirt underneath. Even though indoors, he still wore the big Wayfarer sunglasses he'd had on in the car. He took off the jacket, hooked the collar with one finger and held it draped over his shoulder. Then he was ready for the trip upstairs.
In the elevator reserved for Empyrean Club guests, he pushed the button for 20, even though that was not his floor. On 20, the elevator door slid open onto a foyer identical to the one on his own floor, and just as deserted. He spent a few minutes walking around, just to be sure, then summoned the elevator again. This time, he pushed 21.
The door opened to reveal two large men in quiet suits who stood facing the elevator from ten feet away, doubtless alerted by the 'ping' of the floor bell. One of the men said, pleasantly enough, "Can I help you, sir?"
Mr. English made a show of looking confused, then checking the cardboard holder for his card key that he'd received when checking in. Without leaving the elevator he said, "Oh, damn, wrong floor. Sorry!" He pressed the button for 19 and smiled sheepishly at the men until the elevator doors took them from his sight.
So Leffingwell and his party were on the top floor. Good to have it confirmed.
Back in his suite, Mr. English went into the well-appointed bathroom and stood over the toilet. He began to tear toilet paper off the roll, seven or eight sheets at a time, and drop it into the toilet bowl. After he had done this eight times, he flushed the toilet. Predictably, the mass of paper bunched together and jammed the outlet pipe.
"Concierge desk, how may I help you?"
&
nbsp; "Hi, this is Roland English in 1904."
"Good evening, Mister English. What can I do for you this evening?"
"My toilet bowl seems to be clogged. I can't flush it."
"Sorry to hear that, sir. I'll get a plumber up there right away."
"Great, thank you."
At 9:19 the next morning, a man stepped out of the service elevator onto the 21st floor. He had black hair and a thin mustache, wore the work clothes common to the hotel's maintenance staff, and carried a large tool box. A photo ID card clipped to his collar identified him as Ramon Gutierrez and said his function at the hotel was that of a plumber.
As soon as he left the elevator, Gutierrez was confronted by two large men in suits - one blue, one tan.
"Can I help you?" tan suit said.
"Yeah, hi, how ya doing? You guys are Secret Service, huh?"
"That's right," tan suit said. "How can we help you?"
"Got a work order. He pulled from his shirt pocket a folded sheet and opened it. "Clogged toilet, Mister Laffingwell, Room 21... something. He peered at the paper closely. Looks like 2103."
"Mind if I take a look?" blue suit said.
"Sure - here."
Blue suit examined the work order, then showed it to his partner, who shrugged.
"Okay, Ramon," blue suit said. "You want Room 2106. The man's name is 'Leffingwell,' not 'Laffingwell,' just FYI. One of us will take you down, but first, can you open up your toolbox there for me?"
"Yeah, sure."
As blue suit rummaged through the plumber's tools and supplies in the box, he said, "My partner's just gonna pat you down, okay? Nothing personal, just procedure."
"Whatever," Gutierrez said. "Do what ya gotta do."
The pat-down revealed nothing interesting, nor did the quick search of the tool box.
"Okay Ramon, thanks," tan suit said. "You wanna come with me?"
The agent walked with Gutierrez along the hall and stopped in front of 2106. He knocked on the door, saying, "The Senator and his party left an hour ago, but we're supposed to knock, anyway."
"Just in case, huh?"
"Right - just in case."
When no one inside responded, the agent produced a card key and buzzed the door open. As he and Gutierrez entered the suite, tan suit said, "I guess you know where the bathroom is. I have to remain with you while you're in here. Just procedure. I'll stay out of your way."
"Fine with me, mister."
Gutierrez pushed open the bathroom door, flicked on the light, and knelt in front of the toilet. His body blocking tan suit's view, he muttered, just loud enough to be heard, "Yep, no wonder it's clogged. Somebody took a hell of a big dump this morning."
He removed a plunger from the toolbox and pumped the toilet bowl with it a couple of times. Then he put the plunger down and removed a coiled flexible metal rod, which he slowly unspooled. "Gotta snake it," he said over his shoulder to the agent. "They call these things snakes, ya know, cause they're long and skinny, and kinda bendy. Ain't never heard of nobody getting bit by one, though."
Gutierrez chuckled at his own humor, although the agent did not join in. A moment later he left the bathroom doorway. A few seconds later, Gutierrez could hear a morning news show playing on the TV.
Gutierrez slid the snake into the toilet bowl, and pushed it a foot or so down the drainage pipe. He moved it in and out with one hand. With the other, he popped the lid on large, greasy old can hand-labeled 'Pipe Dope.' Letting go of the snake for a minute, he used both hands and a screwdriver to lever open the can itself. Instead of lubricant, it contained a full but already opened bottle of Gaviscon. After giving the snake another couple of stabs down the pipe, he reached over for the identical bottle of the antacid that he could see on the counter next to a man's shaving kit. Judging the bottle to be about 2/3 full, he quickly unscrewed the cap on the bottle he'd brought with him, and poured some of the thick, white liquid into the toilet bowl. Then he picked a damp towel off the floor and wiped the bottle clean of any oil or fingerprints and placed it on the counter exactly where the other bottle had stood. The original bottle went into the can labeled 'Pipe Dope' which was quickly resealed and replaced in the tool box.
Gutierrez removed the snake and flushed the toilet, sending the tainted Gaviscon down the drain. When the bowl had refilled, he flushed again. He quickly rolled up the snake and replaced it in the toolbox along with the plunger.
Gutierrez got to his feet and went to the bathroom door. "All done," he told tan suit. "Oughta work fine now. I flushed it a couple times, just to make sure."
Fifteen minutes later, Ramon Gutierrez had ceased to exist. In his luxurious suite on the 19th floor, the man who was calling himself Ronald English changed clothes and considered the best way to spend his free day in Virginia Beach. He wondered idly when Senator Robert Leffingwell was going to have his next attack of acid reflux.
The two women, one blonde, the other brunette, stood tensed, looking at each other like something out of a Spaghetti Western showdown. It's hard to know where that would have led if the tall, muscular man had not come up behind the blonde and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. "Ashley," he said quietly, "easy. Go easy." He looked at Libby, then at Morris. "You folks aren't FBI, are you?"
Morris just shook his head. Libby didn't respond. She was still looking at the blonde the way a mongoose regards a cobra.
"I guess we should talk," the tall man said. "Why don't you both come on in?" He murmured in the blonde's ear, voice barely more than a whisper. "Come on, Ashley. It's cool." He looked at Libby, and what she held in her hand. "Ma'am, if you wouldn't mind putting that away, it would probably lower the tension some."
Libby took her eyes off Ashley for the first time and looked at the man. She appeared to study him for a few seconds before nodding. "All right." With her left hand, she slowly slid the wand back up her sleeve and into whatever sheath had been holding it.
The big man put one arm around the blonde's waist and gently pulled her back into the room with him. Morris followed, with Libby bringing up the rear.
Once they were all through the short hall and in the main part of the room, the man waved his hands toward the beds, one of which was still made. "Why don't we all sit down?"
Libby sat on the side of the unused bed, Morris on its corner. The tall man led the blonde to the room's only armchair, then pulled the desk chair over for himself. "Maybe introductions are in order," he said. "My name's Mal Peters. This lady is Ashley - we won't go into her last name right now, if that's okay."
"I'm Quincey Morris." Figuring that Libby could speak for herself, he turned toward her slightly.
"Hannah Widmark," Libby said, without expression. Morris didn't show any reaction to the lie. In magic, he knew, names were power. He guessed Libby wasn't interested in giving anybody an advantage over her just now.
"Names are nice to know," Morris said. "But right now, a better question than who you are is what you are. I don't mind going first this time. I guess you could call me an occult investigator, based in Austin, Texas." Looking at Peters closely, he continued, "I'm also a good friend of the man you shot dead this afternoon."
Peters gave a slight nod, but said nothing. When the silence continued, Libby broke it by saying, "I'm a witch of the Right-Hand Path. In theory, that makes me the sworn enemy of those who follow the Left."
"In... theory?" Peters asked.
"I like to keep an open mind - when I can."
"Let's hope this turns out to be one of those times," Peters said. "Our answer to your question is a little more complicated than yours. But you folks being who - and what - you are, maybe you'll understand better than most."
Peters wiped his palms on the thighs of his slacks. "I used to work for the U.S. government, mostly in Europe. No sense trying to glamorize it - I was an assassin. The fact that I did my killing for Uncle Sam was supposed to make it all right. But I guess it didn't - because in 1983 I got myself killed, and for my sins got sent to Hell. I've
been there ever since - except last week, I got sprung. There's some weird shit going on over here right now, and they let me out to deal with it."
"Deal with it by killing," Libby said flatly.
"By killing one man. And if you knew who - what - he is, you might want to kill him, too."
Peters turned to the blonde. "Tell them whatever you want to, Ashley. I won't presume to speak for you."
Ashley looked at Peters for a moment, then back at Morris and Libby - especially Libby.
"My name isn't really Ashley - any more than this woman's is Hannah. I am one of the Fallen - or, to use a word I heard recently, Hellspawn. Fourth rank, if that matters. I was given flesh and sent here to ensure that Peters is successful in carrying out his mission."
"And the mission is to kill Senator Stark," Morris said. "We know he can use black magic - is he one of the Fallen, too?"
"No, but he's owned and operated by one," Peters said. "About six months ago, he was possessed, against his will, by a big-league demon named Sargatanas."
"That sounds like part of the story," Morris said. "You going to tell us the rest of it?"
"Why should we?" Ashley asked him.
"It'll help L - Hannah and I decide what side we're on. Whether we should maybe work with you - or fight you."
At that last, Ashley gave an unladylike snort, but nobody responded to it. Peters turned to her and said, "I'm gonna tell 'em."
"Of course you are," she said. "Go ahead. I just hope you don't end up regretting it later on."
Peters laid it out for them with admirable succinctness - Sargatanas's terrible purpose, Astaroth's intent in sending them to Earth, the factions in the Netherworld, and the possibility of a civil war there if Peters succeeded - or even if he failed.
When he was done Libby said, "And this demon has been systematically wiping out the competition, using both black magic and old fashioned political dirt."
Peters nodded. "You got it."
"So you say that y'all are determined not to murder innocents" - Morris gave Peters a very direct look, before continuing - "except by accident. But from what you've told us, Stark's an innocent, too. He didn't ask for this, and his real self is still in there, someplace. Even if the demon is in control."
Sympathy for the Devil Page 29