"Since there's more than one demon involved in this business," Ashley said, "perhaps you two could start calling him by his name: Sargatanas."
"Sure, not a problem," Morris told her. "We meant no offense."
Ashley raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing more.
"Lets return to my point, Peters," Morris said. "You said you won't deliberately kill innocents, yet Stark sounds like one."
"He's the exception. It's the only way to stop him, to send him back to Hell."
"No, it's not," Libby said.
"What, then - exorcism?" Morris thought if there were some kind of prize awarded for contemptuous sarcasm, that Ashley had just clinched it.
"It works," Morris said. "Or at least, it can. I've seen it succeed."
Ashley looked at him closely. "And I bet you've seen it fail, too, haven't you?" Ashley shifted her gaze from Morris's face to a point a little lower. "I see you carry Hell's mark on you, Morris. That practically makes us cousins."
"No, it doesn't." Libby's voice wasn't loud, but the force behind it startled Morris a little. He thought Peters might have reacted the same way. Ashley, however, seemed unfazed.
"Exorcism can work, Peters," Morris said. "It can send the d - Sargatanas back to hell, just as well as a bullet in Stark's brain. And that's all your master cares about, right?"
"I suppose so," Peters said slowly. "My orders are that Sargatanas - or Stark, or whoever you want to call him - doesn't take the oath of office. And even if he loses the election, they still want him sent back. The thinking is, if he loses, he'll keep working for the White House. He might make it, eventually."
"We won't countenance murder," Morris said. "But if you're willing to work toward an exorcism, we'll stand with you."
Peters nodded slowly. "And if we're not willing?"
"Then we'll fight you."
Ashley made another one of those snorting sounds. "Doesn't that kind of depend on whether you leave this room alive?"
"No," Libby said, and her voice could have frozen nitrogen. "It depends on whether we leave anything alive behind us when we go."
"Let's everybody just relax," Morris said. "This ain't the OK Corral."
After a few tense seconds, Ashley said, "It didn't happen there, anyway. The Earps and the Clantons fought it out in a vacant lot fifty feet away."
"I'm aware of that, ma'am. I was just taking advantage of a cultural trope."
For the first time since opening the door, Ashley smiled, if briefly. "I think that's the first time I've ever been called ma'am."
Libby looked like she had a retort on the tip of her tongue. But if so, she bit it back.
"Okay, so let's see if maybe we can all live with this," Peters said, "and I mean that in every sense of the term. Say we agree to cooperate with you toward the goal of an exorcism. But if we can't make that happen - or if it happens, and doesn't succeed - then we kill him. Better one innocent dies than a whole fucking planet full of them."
"'It is fitting that one man should die for the people," Ashley said, "lest the whole nation perish.'"
"That sounds like a quote from someplace," Peters said.
"It is," Morris said. "John 11:50."
"It's more than that," Ashley said.
"What?" Morris asked her.
"It's also a damn good idea."
III
DELIVERANCE
Chapter 36
"Hello?"
"Hi, Paul."
"Quincey! How ya doin'?"
"I've been pretty busy, after a brief hiatus."
"That's good - or so I would assume."
"Yeah."
"Hmmm. This is the point in the conversation where you'd normally ask how I am, and since you don't seem to be doing that, I assume it's because you assume the answer might prove awkward for us both. Right?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"Quincey, you're really going to have to start getting over what happened."
"Why's that, Paul? You never will."
"The proper response to that line of bullshit, as any Jesuit will tell you, depends on how you define your terms, my friend."
"If you say so."
"I do, indeed. Now, if by 'get over it' we mean in a physical sense - you're right. I'm going to be blind for life. Unless some eye surgeon comes up with a miracle, like a way to do viable eye transplants. And although I believe in miracles, I'm not really holding out for that particular one."
"Paul, you don't know how sorry -"
"Stop! I'm tired of hearing the word 'sorry' from you Quincey. If you say it once more today, I'm hanging up. Understand?"
"Yeah, sure, Paul. I'll try to keep my contrition in check."
"I don't doubt the sincerity of your contrition, Quincey. If this were the Sacrament of Reconciliation, I'd give you absolution. I wish I could do that, anyway."
"Yeah, me, too."
"Of course, if I were a really good friend, I'd act seriously nasty toward you, Quincey. I'd pretend to be full of bitterness, and blaming, and self-pity. Then, when you hung up, you'd feel like shit, at one level of your consciousness. But another part of you would be glad to receive some of the punishment it thinks you deserve."
"Very insightful. I guess."
"Freud didn't invent all this stuff, you know. The Church had a handle on it centuries before. There's a reason why Reconciliation used to be called the Sacrament of Penance, you know? I'm sure the Lord was happy to receive all those rosaries and good works we used to assign, but a lot of that had to do with letting the sinner feel some sense of punishment, to partially assuage his guilt."
"Thus, self-flagellation came into practice."
"Exactly. And speaking of self-flagellation, you've been doing some of that anyway, haven't you?"
"Why do you say that?"
"I didn't like the way you said 'hiatus' at the start. You did some self-destructive shit, didn't you? Out of guilt."
"Yeah, I guess I did. I didn't know Sherlock Holmes was a Jesuit."
"One of the Order's better-kept secrets. You haven't done anything really stupid, have you? You calling from jail, or anything like that?"
"No, all my self-destructive shit was done in private. I don't say it was all legal, but nobody saw me do it. Give or take a few whores."
"Whores, plural? You have been busy."
"Then Libby came over, and spent a week with me. She helped me get past... some of it."
"Smart lady, that Libby. She's my favorite witch."
"Mine, too. Listen, Paul, there's a reason I called."
"Guilt aside, you mean?"
"Yes, besides that. Thing is, it's happened again, on a much bigger scale, and I need me an exorcist. Paul? Still there?"
"I really don't think I'd be much good to you, Quincey. The ritual's probably available in Braille someplace, but my skills haven't advanced that far, yet. I'm still at the 'See Spot, see Spot run' stage."
"That sounded almost bitter, Paul."
"Did it? Well fuck you, too, asshole."
"Thanks, Paul - I feel less guilty already."
"Sorry, that kind of... got away from me for a minute."
"I appreciate you showing me that you're human, after all. I thought for a while I had St. Francis of Assisi on the phone."
"That pansy? Not hardly."
"Anyway, when I said I need an exorcist, I didn't mean you, Paul. Even I don't have that much in the way of stones. But I do need an exorcist."
"What's the case like? You said 'on a bigger scale' earlier. What's that mean?"
"It's something big enough that I really don't want to discuss it on the phone, Paul. You never know who's invoking the PATRIOT act to listen in, these days."
"Wow. Must be big, indeed."
"When it's over, I'll come out there and tell you about it personally, okay? Assuming I'm able to."
"What's that mean?"
"Assuming I'm not in jail or... otherwise indisposed."
"I'll say it again - wow."
> "Thing is, I tried to reach your boss, Father Strubeck, but they tell me he's away indefinitely."
"I'm afraid 'indefinitely' is a shade optimistic. Strubeck's got liver cancer. Terminal. He's moved to a hospice, Quincey."
"Shit, I'm sorry, Paul. He seemed to be a good man."
"He still is. One of the best."
"The lady at the Jesuit Residence says that the guy in charge now is some Father Callahan - but he won't take my calls, or answer my messages."
"Really? That's odd. I don't know Callahan well, but he never struck me as rude. Tell you what, I'll talk to him, find out what's what, and get back to you. Sound good?"
"That's great, Paul. Sooner would be better than later, I'm afraid."
"I call him as soon as we hang up. So, let's hang up now."
"Good idea. You've got my number, right?"
"Sure do. I'll talk to you soon, I hope."
"Okay. Thanks, Paul."
"Ad majorem Dei gloriam."
To the surprise of Quincey Morris, Hugh 'Bat' Masterson was buried at Arlington National Cemetery, following a funeral service at First Baptist Church in Fairfax, Virginia.
The day was appropriately overcast, but at least it didn't rain. At the conclusion of the ceremony, the carefully folded American flag was presented to Masterson's sister, who, Morris knew, he saw once a year at Christmas. But she was his only living relative, barring some cousins scattered across the country.
The ceremony was attended by a number of clean-shaven, middle-aged men with short haircuts, whom Morris assumed were cops from one or another of the federal agencies. He didn't see any of the FBI people he knew, although he recognized several Secret Service agents from Stark's Richmond rally. Stark himself did not attend, nor did Mary Margaret Doyle. The Senator did, however, send an elaborate arrangement of flowers.
Morris and Libby Chastain were walking slowly toward the parking lot when a male voice behind them said, "Excuse me."
They turned to find one of the Secret Service agents who'd been on the speaker's platform with Stark the day of the shooting. In fact, Morris thought this was the one who organized the other agents' responses after Masterson went down. The man had mahogany-colored hair and very dark eyes. At 5'9" or so, he'd probably just made the Service's minimum height requirement. His thin face was somber.
The man said, "I'm Marty Arkasian. I was second-in-command of the detail the day Bat... died." Saying the last word gave him some trouble. "I was also his very close friend." He put out his hand, and Morris and Libby shook it, in turn.
"I'm Quincey Morris, from Texas. This is Libby Chastain. She lives in New York."
Arkasian looked Libby full in the face for the first time. "You're the witch, right?"
Libby nodded slowly, her face wary. "Yes, that's right."
"I wonder if you folks would care to go someplace and have coffee with me. I'd like to talk with you - and I don't mean sentimental reminiscences about Bat. That would be nice, but we've got more important things to discuss - like the reason Bat went to see you, Mister Morris."
"So you know about that," Morris said. "Obviously."
"I know quite a bit. That's why I think we need to talk."
Arkasian said if they turned left out of the cemetery, they'd find a Dunkin' Donuts down the road about a quarter mile. He suggested that they get their coffee to go, and park behind the restaurant.
"What're you driving?" he asked.
Morris said they had a Black Ford Fusion from Avis.
"Two-door or four-door?"
"Four," Morris said.
"Good. Once we're parked, I'll get in your back seat, and we'll have some conversation. No reason why we need to be seen in public together, beyond this little chat here. Sound okay to you?"
It did.
Twenty minutes later, Arkasian was pulling the Fusion's rear door shut behind him.
"Nice service today, huh?" he said, tearing the little plastic tab away from the lid of his coffee. "Good turnout, too."
"I was a little surprised - pleasantly so - that he was buried in Arlington," Morris said. "I understand that's not easy to get, if you aren't active-duty military."
"You're right. But one of the exceptions is for veterans who've earned one of five decorations, like the Congressional Medal of Honor, Distinguished Service Cross, awards like that. The Silver Star's on that list, and so is the Purple Heart. Bat had one of each."
"I didn't know," Morris said. "He never even told me he'd been in the service."
"Operation Desert Storm, 1990 to '91. Our first little tussle with Saddam Hussein. Bat was doing some kind of Special Ops stuff. He never talked about it very much with me, either."
"Did his sister do all the paperwork to get him in? I didn't think they were close."
"They're not. I did it." Arkasian hesitated. "Bat and I were lovers, Mister Morris. For just over three years. If you've got some kind of problem with that -"
"I don't," Morris said.
"Neither of us does," Libby told him.
"Okay, then. Well, that's why I'm familiar with what Bat knew about the Senator and his pet shark, Mary Margaret Doyle. He also gave me a rundown on the conversation the two of you had last week. And that means I need to ask you something, before we go any further."
"Go ahead."
"I know that the bullet that killed Bat was intended for Stark. The only reason Bat caught it instead was because... because he was so damn good at his job."
There was a sob lurking in Arkasian's voice as he finished the sentence.
"Yeah, I think that's a pretty fair assumption," Morris said. "Sad to say."
Arkasian cleared his throat a couple of times. "Okay, then - I don't know if you'd tell me the truth, but I need to ask. Were you or Libby on the other end of the gun that killed Bat?"
Morris saw that Arkasian was watching his eyes intently in the rear-view mirror.
"No, Agent Arkasian, that wasn't either of us. I don't think assassination is a solution that I'd ever arrive at, but in any case I had just started to look into Stark. I wouldn't think of killing somebody over as little information as I had."
"I don't do murder, either," Libby said. "It's against my religion."
After a few seconds, Arkasian nodded. "Okay, thanks. Call me Jerry, by the way."
"Sure," Morris said. "I'm Quincey, she's Libby."
Morris sipped some coffee. "So, what is it you wanted to talk about, exactly?"
"Bat never came right out and said what he thought was going on with Stark. But the evidence he had, mostly from his own observation, all points in one direction. I'm not sure I believe in all this demon stuff. I mean, today's the first I was inside a church since a wedding I went to last Fall. Not really my thing. But I guess I'm more open-minded about it all than I was a few weeks ago. And even more so since... what happened at the rally."
"What do you want from us?" Morris asked.
"I want to know if you've got any more intel than Bat did. I want to know what to believe. Once I've got that straight, I need to figure out what the fuck I'm gonna do about it - pardon my language, Libby."
"We did come across some new information recently," Morris said. "Quite a bit of it, actually."
"I know you said you're developing an open mind, Jerry," Libby said. "But what we're going to tell you is going to push that to the limit. We're going to ask you to believe some things that would be, for most people, simply unbelievable."
Arkasian nodded grimly. "Okay, then. Try me."
Senator Bob Leffingwell was not in a good mood. After all the speech-making he'd done in the past few days, and even with all the money his campaign had poured into this state, the good citizens of Virginia had given him no better than a second-place finish behind Howard Stark.
The ballroom of the Hilton Oceanview was starting to fill up, although Leffingwell wasn't scheduled to address his supporters for another forty-five minutes, when he would do his standard "We almost made it this time, and next time, by God,
we will!" speech. As usual, the campaign had paid for a good buffet spread, as well as an open bar, to show appreciation to the many local volunteers.
Leffingwell knew better than to drink in public, but he had been hitting the buffet pretty hard. He tended to eat too much when he was unhappy. Good thing he was blessed with a fast metabolism. Otherwise, given the amount of unhappiness that is often endemic to politics, he'd probably weigh three hundred pounds by now.
"I thought this was going to be an easy first place finish for us," he said to his campaign manager, Simon Charteris. "You said the numbers looked good."
"They did, Senator." From long practice, Charteris stood close to his client and spoke in a voice that was loud enough for Leffingwell to hear without straining, but which would not be fodder for eavesdroppers.
"But our polling was done before somebody took a shot at Stark in Richmond," Charteris said. "My guess is he's getting some sympathy votes out of that - enough to make the difference between first and second, maybe."
Leffingwell shook his head in disbelief. "I know that a lot about politics defies rationality," he said. "But a chain of reasoning goes, 'I wasn't going to vote for Stark, because I don't think he'd be as good a President as Leffingwell. Oh, wait - somebody just tried to kill Stark. Guess that makes him more qualified for the job of President now, and I'll vote for him, instead.' Jeez!"
"Well, I suppose you could argue that what happened to Stark adds to his qualifications for the White House, in a way."
"Oh? And what way is that?"
"It's taught him how to duck."
Leffingwell laughed harder than the dumb joke was worth. He and Charteris stood there awhile, discussing plans for the next week's round of campaigning. They were interrupted periodically by half-drunk supporters who came up to shake the candidate's hand.
Then Leffingwell checked his watch and said, "I'm on in fifteen minutes, but my gut is killing me, Simon. Ate too much of the wrong thing again, as usual. I've got to run upstairs and get a hit of Gaviscon before the speech. There's still time."
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