"Want me to find someone to fetch it for you?" Charteris asked.
"No, I've got to take the dose with a glass of water, and it wouldn't do for these folks to see me taking medicine, even over-the-counter stuff. I'm supposed to be indestructible, remember? I'll see you in a few."
Leffingwell appreciated the work of his Secret Service detail, even before learning that one of their colleagues had apparently saved Howard Stark's life recently. He tried to make it easy for them to do their job. He walked up to one of the agents, who was standing just inside the ballroom door. Frank Turnbull was a broad-shouldered man who looked like he might be of Polynesian descent.
"I've got to go up to my room for a couple of minutes, Frank."
"Yes, sir," the agent said. That meant he would accompany Leffingwell to his room and back.
As they left the noise of the ballroom behind and headed toward the elevators, the agent said, "If you need something from your room sir, I can just radio one of the guys upstairs, have him bring it down for you. Save you a trip."
"Thanks, Frank, but I've got an upset stomach. Too much buffet, I guess. There's medicine in my bathroom that'll fix me up."
As Frank pushed the button to summon the elevator, he said, "You take Gaviscon, don't you sir? I thought I read that someplace."
"Yes, I found that's what works best for me. Why - your stomach acting up too?"
"Not at the moment, sir. But it does sometimes, so I picked up some of these. Sort of on your recommendation."
Frank reached in a pocket and produced a small plastic container that looked like the Gaviscon bottle, but in miniature.
"Gaviscon tablets," Leffingwell said. "Huh. Didn't know they even made these. Do they work?"
"Work pretty well for me, sir. I just chew one, then drink a glass of water."
Leffingwell opened the bottle. "Mind?" he asked Frank.
"No, sir - you go right ahead."
Leffingwell shook on of the white pills into his palm and looked at it. Then the elevator bell pinged, announcing a car's imminent arrival.
"Did you still want to go up, sir?"
"No, Frank, the hell with it. Let's go back in. Maybe you can scare me up a glass of water somewhere?"
"No problem, sir. Happy to do it."
"And Frank? Thanks. You may have just done me a huge favor."
"Glad to be of help, Senator," the Secret Service man said.
Chapter 37
"Hello, Quincey?"
"Yeah, hi, Paul."
"I've got news for you, and I'm afraid it isn't real good."
"Uh-oh. What happened?"
"I made some calls, as I promised. It seems you're poison with the Jesuits right now, my friend."
"You mean, because of what happened to you?"
"Yeah, afraid so. You know that I don't hold you responsible for what happened. We've already had that conversation."
"Yes, and thank you."
"But apparently Strubeck does blame you. Before he went into the hospice, he apparently told anybody who'd listen that you'd conned me into performing an exorcism, then failed to exercise prudence during the ritual."
"In other words, I got you into it, then I let go of the girl's arm because I had to scratch my ass, and you lost your sight as a result."
"Yeah, something like that. You know that's total bullshit, and I know it's total bullshit. But Strubeck's not taking any calls. Apparently the cancer was further advanced than first thought, and he's in kind of bad shape right now."
"Sorry to hear that, even under the circumstances."
"I also wonder how much of this stems from Strubeck's desire, unconscious or not, to free himself from whatever responsibility he may bear in this mess."
"Think that's possible?"
"I do. He doesn't deserve the blame, any more than you do. But good people sometimes feel guilt, even when they don't have to."
"Yeah, I've heard that somewhere. And the Church doesn't exactly discourage it, either. A Rabbi I know once told me, "We may have invented guilt, but it took the Catholics to institutionalize it."
"Guilty as charged - so to speak. So, anyway, I talked to Callahan, the new Rector. Nada. He and Strubeck go way back, and apparently whatever Strubeck said is good enough for him."
"Sweet fucking Jesus. Uh, sorry."
"Don't be. I think the Lord would forgive a little blasphemy, right about now."
"So, Callahan believes a guy who wasn't even there, over the guy who was there? The guy who's the injured party?"
"Exactly. I told him what happened, and explained that I went in there with my eyes open, so to speak."
"Please, Paul."
"Sorry. Bad joke. Anyway, Callahan seems to have convinced himself that I'm deluded - as a result of undue loyalty to an old friend, and a psychological need to justify what happened - to myself, if no one else."
"Forgive me for asking this, but can you go over his head?"
"Already tried, but the Father Provincial is apparently buds with Callahan, too. He wouldn't even talk to me. And I got my wrist slapped by the Socius, his Chief of Staff, for attempting to circumvent my Rector, who has apparently been placed in authority over me by the express wish of either the Lord God Almighty or St. Ignatius of Loyola, whoever comes first."
"Sorry you got your butt reamed, Paul."
"Not to worry - my career's not exactly in jeopardy. In my job, it's pretty hard to get fired. Even molesting altar boys doesn't do it, apparently - although it damn well should."
"The stakes are pretty high, Paul. I know I haven't told you why I'm looking for an exorcist, but take my word that if I fail, the consequences are likely to be real severe. Maybe if I explained that to your -"
"Forget it, Quincey. Jesuits are human beings, like anybody else, with all the attendant human failings. These guys have their minds made up. They might reconsider, eventually - but it's not gonna happen by tomorrow, or even the day after."
"Well, shit, what am I supposed -"
"What you ought to do is talk to the Dominicans."
"Oh. Them."
"I know you've got an irrational prejudice against those guys, over stuff that happened five hundred years ago, but they're the only game left in town - among religious orders, anyway. Individual parishes sometimes have an exorcist on staff, but unless you know the Bishop..."
"Yeah, I've already been down that road."
"Then I guess it's the Dominicans or nothing, my friend."
"Well, shit. The Dominicans it is, then - because nothing is just not an option."
Nestor Greene had spent almost $60 on a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch, a single malt that its distillers pretentiously labeled 'The McCallan.' As he sat at the desk in his study, the height of the liquid in the bottle already reduced by several inches, he thought, This stuff is so fucking good, maybe a certain amount of pretension may be excused. Here's to you, Mister McCallan, wherever you are.
Greene poured more of the amber liquid into his glass with hands that were still steady, but not likely to remain so for much longer. The glass itself was a beautiful piece of Swedish crystal. Nestor Greene liked nice things, and he had always been willing to do what was necessary for him to afford them.
The things he had done for money over the years had never troubled him very much. Until now.
Greene took another sip from his glass, and concluded that Scotch this good almost compensated the world for atrocities like bagpipes, haggis, and The Eurhythmics. If you could bottle Heaven, this is what it would taste like - just as well, since it may be the only taste of Heaven I ever get.
Greene was replacing the glass on its coaster when the nearby phone rang. His hand jerked, causing him to spill a few drops of liquid Heaven onto his desk. He reached for a handkerchief with one hand and picked up the phone with the other.
"Hello?"
"You know who this is," said the voice of the ever-cautious Mary Margaret Doyle.
"Why yes, I believe I do."
"Hav
e you carried out your most recent assignment?"
"I have - my part of it, anyway. I found the appropriate... specialist. Came highly recommended. He agreed to take the case. Since I haven't seen anything in the news, I assume he hasn't, um, completed treatment yet."
"He understands the time factor?"
"Yes - I made it very clear to him. As I said, he's supposed to be very reliable. Always delivers the groceries, to mix a metaphor."
"Good. You've done well. There may be other work for you down the road, if you're interested. But for now, I'll send you the balance due, and we can consider our association ended. Look for your payment in a few days."
"Thank you. I think -" Greene realized he was talking to a dead line. He slowly put the phone down, without uttering the obscene imprecations that usually followed any contact he had with Ms. Doyle.
So, another fifty grand was on its way to him, or would be soon. And unlike the money he owed The Grocer's Boy, this tidy little sum would be his, all his.
Nestor Greene took another sip from his glass. Fifty thousand dollars can buy you a lot - maybe even a decent night's sleep. Especially if it is accompanied by about half a bottle of liquid Heaven.
"He's been drinking," Mary Margaret Doyle said. "I can hear it in the way he pronounces certain combinations of consonants."
"Too far gone to understand what you just told him?" the demon Sargatanas asked her.
"No, he was still coherent. If I'd called a couple of hours from now, that might be a different story."
"Very well. Now we'll make the device that will provide the final solution to our Nestor Greene problem, to borrow a phrase from one of your race's late, lamented statesmen."
On the desk of the hotel suite's living room - this one was in Minneapolis, but seemed identical to all the others - she laid out the various items that Sargatanas had directed her to buy. Fortunately, Mary Margaret Doyle did not receive Secret Service protection when she went out alone, unless she asked for it. She had not wanted witnesses to this little shopping trip.
Her errands had taken her to a hardware store and a laboratory supply house. Her last stop had been an 'alternative' food co-op, there to purchase Belladonna and Mandrake Root - both common ingredients used in black magic. Fortunately, she had not been told to secure Eye of Newt, since she would have had no idea where to begin looking.
"I could create this little device myself," Sargatanas said from over her shoulder, "but I want you able to make it by yourself in the future, so that I won't have to waste my time with such trivial matters."
Mary Margaret Doyle stood bent over the table, wearing only undergarments under the robe she had wrapped around herself. She and Stark were attending a fund-raising event tonight, and she did not wish to wrinkle her outfit before it was time to leave.
"Place some of the magnesium powder on that square of cloth. More. Now cut off a piece of Mandrake Root about the size of your thumb, and place it on top of the powder to that its ends face East - West. Now repeat this invocation after me. I'll write it down for you later..."
Ten minutes later, the device, as diabolical as ancient magic and modern science could devise, was almost ready to be wrapped for mailing. Sargatanas was still standing behind her, where he had been throughout the process, murmuring instructions in her ear.
Now he said, "It's a pity that this is the way we must dispense with Mister Greene, but it's too dangerous to take a more hands-on approach, this time."
"It doesn't matter," she said. "This looks as if it will do the job just fine."
"But it's so impersonal," he purred in her ear. "You won't even get to see him burn. Certainly not as enjoyable as the treatment you were able to inflict on the late Father Bowles."
"I'd really rather not -"
"Just imagine poor Mr. Greene, naked and bound tightly to a chair, his eyes wide with terror as he looks at your tools and imagines, quite correctly, what you're going to do to him."
"Since it's not going to happen, there seems no point -"
"You'd have to put a big piece of heavy tape across his mouth, of course, to muffle the screams. Unless you were fortunate enough to find a venue far from people. Then you could leave the gag off, and breathe in the screams like rare perfume. That's what I'd prefer."
"Listen, I really wish you -"
"My favorite part of such recreation is the very beginning, oddly enough. After you first draw blood, or apply flame to flesh. Once he's finished squealing - for the time being - and looks at you, with the realization dawning that you are utterly serious in your intentions, that you are about to do unspeakable things to him, and that there is no chance of escape. The despair in their eyes is wonderful to behold. Don't you agree?"
"No, I don't! I'm not like you, despite all your efforts to make me that way."
"I thought we already had this discussion, and it ended with you acknowledging your true nature, at last."
"I didn't mean it! I just said that to make you leave me alone!"
"Oh, I was wrong, then. My humble apologies for misjudging you. I can see now that you're not the kind of woman who would take pleasure from another's torment."
"Of course I wouldn't!"
He stepped back from her. When she turned, he was wearing a smirk that she wished she had the courage to wipe off with a good, hard slap.
"Just keep telling yourself that, Mary Margaret. In time, you may even come to believe it."
He walked toward the door, then stopped and turned back. "Although I really do have my doubts."
To say he ignored the sobs behind him would be inaccurate. In fact, he was smiling as he walked away.
Father Martin Finlay was in his faculty office, trying to explain to a graduate student why her proposed thesis debunking the Book of Genesis might not be the surest path to her Masters Degree.
"Two of every species of animal, all living peacefully on the Ark - for how long? Give me a break, Father!"
The graduate student, Lucille McBride, was small, bespectacled, and intense-looking. She had taken two theology classes from Finlay already. Privately, he gave her high marks for intelligence and dedication, but somewhat lower ones for common sense.
"There are more than ten million known species and subspecies of animals, Father. It must have been one heck of a big boat, don't you think? Not to mention why all the plants didn't die from being underwater that long."
"Of course, it's absurd - but if you want an argument, you're talking to the wrong guy. If Jerry Falwell were still alive, I'd send you to him, but I'm sure there are any number of fundamentalist preachers willing to fight with you on that subject - but not a humble servant of Holy Mother Church, like moi. The Church has never taken the position that the Bible - well, at least the Old Testament - had to be interpreted literally. A lot of it is probably metaphor, in order to give the ancient Hebrews something they could relate to. As long as you grant the essential truth behind it, you don't have to believe the literal account. If you write the thesis you've proposed, your committee will just laugh."
The young woman leaned forward in her chair. "But I still think it's important to demonstrate -"
Finlay's phone rang. He said "Excuse me just a second" to Lucille and answered it, intending to find out who it was and offer to return the call later.
But not this call.
"This is Father Finlay, can I help you?"
"Father, this is Brother Frank, in Father Voytek's office."
Finlay felt a fist clench in the pit of his stomach, but he tried to keep his voice matter-of-fact. "Hey, Brother Frank. I'm with a student right now, so -"
"Father Voytek would like to see you, Father. Right away, I'm afraid."
"Yes, of course, I'll be there in a few minutes."
He hung up the phone. "Lucille, I hate to do this, but that was Father Voytek's office. Father 'I'm-in-charge of-this-whole-place-and-don't-you-forget-it' Voytek. Remember him?"
She laughed a little. "Sure, I know who Father Voytek is, although
I think your characterization might not be quite fair. He seems like a nice man."
"He is, actually - but not to priests who don't respond to his summons. I'm afraid I have to go. Are you free this time Friday?"
She checked her appointment book. "Sure, I can do Friday, if you like."
"Great - just remember: apple, tree, talking snake - maybe not. First parents screwing up big time - beyond doubt."
Lucille stood. "I'll argue it with you Friday, Father." She smiled. "Good luck with the ogre." And was gone.
Finlay walked briskly, wondering if he was being sent for in Father Voytek's capacity as President of the Institute, or as Prior Provincial of the Order. He would know soon.
The fist of dread had not loosened its grip on Finlay's innards. In fact, another big, strong hand seemed to have joined in on the task of constricting his digestive organs. He tried hard not to think of the word exorcism.
He opened the heavy door to the outer office, to find Brother Frank looking up expectantly. "Hi, Father - you're to go on in."
"Okay, thanks. What do you think, Brother Frank? Am I in deep shit?"
"Not as far as I know. There's some guy, a layman, who's been in there with him for over two hours. Guess they want you to join the party."
"Let's hope there's cake," Finlay said, and rapped twice on his boss's door.
At "Come in," he pushed the door open to find Voytek and the aforementioned layman - a guy in his forties with slightly graying black hair and a thin, careworn face.
Voytek stood up from behind his desk. "Father Paul Finlay, I'd like you to meet Mr. Quincey Morris."
Transcript of Oral Message left on the Answering Machine
of Ms. Judith Mary Racine
An Unindicted Co-Conspirator
Case 1443-16
People of the United States
v.
Quincey P. Morris, et al.
Second Circuit Court,
Federal District of Eastern New York
Offered as Evidence Exhibit 1443-16-221
by
Edward T. Richie, Senior Prosecutor
Sympathy for the Devil Page 31