The_Demons_Wife_ARC

by Rick Hautala

  Claire was about to say she was fine standing up, but the thought of sitting down was suddenly quite attractive, so she seated herself in the chair furthest from the mirror. After a few minutes waiting in silence, the lights went on in the other room, and the lights in the observation room dimmed. A chill slithered up Claire’s back as she waited for whatever would happen next. She took a moment to study the empty room.

  The walls were dull white, and the furthest one had several black lines running the length of it with increments of height marked with black tape or paint. There was also a thick black line painted on the concrete floor, obviously to mark where the lineup suspects were supposed to stand when they came in.

  She chuckled—out of nervousness—when the song “Toe the Line,” popped into her head.

  “Love isn’t always on time.”

  “Just be a few minutes, now,” Trudeau said, and Claire nodded. She shifted in her chair, hoping to get comfortable, but she found it impossible to relax.

  “Will they be able to see or hear me?” she asked.

  “Don’t worry.” Trudeau’s voice came from behind. A faint reflection of his face drifted across the glass like a pale, floating balloon. “It’s always a little intimidating, but they can’t see through the one-way mirror, and this room’s perfectly soundproofed. They can only hear us if we turn on the microphone.” He indicated the microphone near the mirror.

  Claire nodded and cleared her throat, which by now was desert dry. She wished now that she had accepted Trudeau’s offer of some water.

  This is fucking serious…I have to get this right, she reminded herself. It wasn’t a lark, and it wasn’t a TV show. This was real life, and a man’s future depended on what she said and did in the next few minutes.

  The door in the lineup room suddenly opened, and three policemen ushered in a line of five men. They were all dressed casually, and they all walked with the same shuffling gait with their heads bowed as though even the innocent ones were ashamed to be here.

  Claire reacted the instant she recognized the man who had attacked her, and almost shouted, “That’s him! Right there! He’s the one who—”

  But that was all she got out because her gaze shifted to the last man in the lineup when he raised his head.

  She was barely able to choke back a cry of surprise.

  “What the—?”

  It was Samael!

  His hair was scruffy, his face bristled with dark beard stubble, and his skin was sallow, not the healthy bronze glow she remembered so well. His clothes were rumpled, and hung loosely from his body. He looked thinner and much frailer, certainly not the well-dressed, well-chiseled man she knew and was sure she loved.

  It can’t be him! She thought, but she looked closely, and there was no mistake.

  Samael was definitely staring at the one-way mirror, and a faint smile crossed his face as he stared at the glass as if he could clearly see her through the reflective surface.

  Claire still couldn’t believe it was him. She looked at his baggy trousers, trying to see some indication of his tail. But even when she didn’t, she was positive it was him.

  Claire’s heart started pounding so hard her wrists started throbbing.

  What the hell is he doing there? She wondered, but before she could come up with any rational answers, she questioned if this really was Samael.

  It couldn’t be.

  Samael was a successful businessman who took pride—

  Which goeth before the fall.

  —in his appearance and his social standing. He would never allow himself to be paraded in front of a lineup like a homeless person.

  That has to be someone else…someone who looks like Samael.

  But the man standing at the end of the line kept gazing straight into the one-way mirror. Claire squirmed in her chair, knowing that—if anyone could—he could peer through the reflective glass and see her. As he stared directly at her, his lips slowly parted, and he smiled at her with the most mischievous grin imaginable.

  He’s having fun, doing this…He’s teasing me…

  For just an instant, his twin-tipped tongue flicked out of his mouth, licked his upper lip, and then disappeared.

  Claire couldn’t help herself. Her body relaxed, and she started chuckling softly to herself, but not so softly that Trudeau didn’t hear. He looked at her, a curious expression on his face.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked.

  Obviously, a witness had never had this kind of reaction to a lineup before.

  He must think I’m being hysterical, Claire thought.

  Claire was still smiling, and she wanted to burst out laughing, but she managed to get a grip on herself and nodded.

  “Yes…yes,” she said. “I’m fine, it’s just…I…This is so…so ....” She let the thought drift away, incomplete.

  “So what?” Trudeau asked, but Claire could only nod, thinking this was a unique way for Samael to leverage himself back into her life. Shaking off the initial shock of seeing Samael in the lineup, she focused her attention on another man in the room.

  “This is nerve-wracking.”

  “I understand.”

  After casting a questioning look at her, Trudeau pressed the button on the microphone’s base and said, “Everyone turn to your right.”

  The men in the room did as they were told. Claire saw that one of the policemen was talking to them, but she couldn’t hear a word he said, much less read his lips.

  “That’s him…That’s definitely him,” she said, her voice low and firm.

  Seeing Ron LaPierre again, the man who had attacked her Friday night, brought back every bit of the horror. Her neck and breasts where he had grabbed and mauled her began to ache, and the memory of the emotions that swept through her that night when she was convinced she was going to die all but overwhelmed her.

  But then she looked at Samael again, and a genuine sense of peace and warmth spread through her. His gaze grounded her in a most peculiar way.

  “Which one?” Detective Trudeau asked.

  “The second one from the left…The man wearing the red T-shirt and faded jeans.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Trudeau exchanged glances with the other cops in the room and then nodded. Leaning forward, he pressed the button on the base of the microphone again and, leaning forward, said, “Thank you. That’ll be all.”

  Claire watched in silence as the cops in the lineup room led the men away. There was a look of stark terror and total confusion on LaPierre’s face. He reminded her of a little child who had gotten lost and was confused by the adult world rushing by around him.

  Before the officers and men left the room, though, LaPierre turned and suddenly rushed toward the large one-way mirror. His mouth was open. He was yelling something, but Claire couldn’t hear what—just a muffled buzzing sound. He clenched both fists and, lunging forward, started pounding frantically on the glass. The thumping sound was distant, like a rapid, muffled heartbeat.

  The man was still shouting, and the panic of his face was riveting. Claire felt a flicker of genuine sympathy for him in spite of what he had done—and tried to do—to her.

  One of the cops who had been leading the men away came up behind him and, using a billy club, struck him on the backs of the knees. Before LaPierre fell, the cop grabbed him and tried to turn him around to lead him away.

  But LaPierre wasn’t finished yet.

  He shook the officer off and, still facing the mirror, kept shouting. Spittle flew from his lips and flecked the glass. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, filled with terror.

  Another cop approached LaPierre from behind. This one grabbed him by the left arm and bent it behind his back until his fingertips touched his shoulder blade. Claire could imagine the pain. In a flash, the cop snapped a pair of handcuffs around the frantic man’s wrist. Spinning him to one side, he grabbed LaPierre’s other arm and quickly cuffed his other wrist.

  Even then
, as they led him away, LaPierre turned to the mirror, all the while yelling.

  Claire didn’t need to hear. She knew what he was saying.

  “It wasn’t me!…I didn’t do it!…I swear to God!…I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t me!…You have to believe me!”

  As he was led away, out into the corridor and off to the secure holding area, Claire caught a glimpse of Samael as he exited the door into the corridor.

  It lasted only for a split second, but she was chilled by his expression. He was grinning like he had been watching a hilarious comedy routine in a nightclub.

  ~ * ~

  Claire moved furtively down the granite steps to the sidewalk. The cold March air bit her nose and throat. Her wounded foot was still aching, making her limp. Otherwise, she would have run away from the police station. The back of her neck was burning hot in spite of the cold March wind blowing off the ocean, and her skin prickled. She was convinced that Detective Trudeau was standing in the doorway, watching her go.

  And why wouldn’t he?...Who laughs while looking at a police lineup?

  And LaPierre’s reaction?…And the brutal way they subdued him? It was distressing.

  And Samael?…

  Smiled at her?

  “Hey, Claire!…Wait up!”

  Oh, Jesus!

  Claire recognized Samael’s voice instantly and cringed, drawing herself deeper into her coat collar. She kept walking purposefully down the sidewalk away from him as if she hadn’t heard him, wishing she had zero interest in seeing him.

  You have got yourself into one helluva mess, girl!

  She wished she’d never met Samael, and she wished she didn't want to stop and turn around. The last thing she wanted was to see him…especially after pulling a stunt like that in the police station, making her feel like such an idiot in front of everyone.

  “Hey! Come on!” he called out.

  The sound of his voice made her tingle as she remembered hearing him speak to her in the semidarkness of her bedroom. She didn’t want to think about what it was like to hold—and be held by—him.

  Knowing she couldn’t ignore or outrun him, she drew to a sudden stop a few blocks down the street from the police station and turned to face him. He was trotting easily down the street toward her, his body moved with such smooth, elegant grace that Claire wondered why everyone in the street didn’t stop to watch him. She cast a nervous glance up the street toward the police station, relieved to see that she was out of sight from the front door…in case Trudeau was watching.

  “So…how you doing?” Samael asked, not in the least breathless even though he had just run quite a distance at a fast pace. He was smiling, and his dark eyes gleamed in the daylight like chips of black marble. She noticed that he was wearing a three-piece business suit, not the shabby clothes he’d had on during the lineup. She wondered how he could have changed clothes so fast but decided not to ask. He had his ways. She was beginning to think there were a lot of things about him it would be better not to ask.

  “I—I’m okay,” Claire said, casting her eyes back and forth so she wouldn’t have to look directly at him. If she did that, she knew exactly what her reaction would be.

  Her first instinct was to yell at him and tell him to go away…to leave her alone, but just seeing his face again—

  God, it seems like ages ago.

  —was enough to melt the toughest resolve.

  He smiled as he gripped both of her arms above the elbows and drew her to him. She was expecting a chaste kiss on the cheek, but he enfolded her in a passionate embrace and kissed her full on the mouth. Claire tensed, waiting to feel his twin-tipped tongue wiggle like a snake into her mouth. She was filled equally with revulsion at the idea and a passionate wish that they were already back at her place in bed.

  When they finally broke off the kiss and eased away from each other, Samael was looking into her eyes and smiling a warm, full, genuine smile.

  “What the Hell do you think you’re doing?” she said.

  Samael smiled slyly and cocked his head to one side.

  “Now, don’t you start bad-mouthing my home,” he said, his smile widening enough to show his teeth.

  Claire didn’t know if she should laugh or scream. Taken one way, he looked positively the embodiment of Evil. Taken another way, he was the most attractive man she had ever seen. She wanted to push him away and scream at him that she never wanted to see or hear from him again while, at the same time, she felt compelled to embrace him and beg him to take her home now so she could be with him forever.

  Claire finally got a grip and sniffed with laughter as she shook her head.

  “You are a piece of work,” she said.

  “You thought it was funny, too, huh?” Samael said.

  “What you did in the police station? It was insane!”

  Samael nodded, still smiling, and taking her by the hand, steered her around so they were walking down the sidewalk side by side. Their bodies were so close she could feel his body radiating heat like a burning coal. And as they walked, Claire kept shaking her head, torn between feeling like the luckiest and the unluckiest woman in the world.

  Their footsteps clicked in unison on the cold sidewalk. Their breath—hers, anyway—came out as a white plume of mist that wrapped around her shoulder like a scarf. No mist appeared when he exhaled, and she wondered if he breathed at all.

  “So tell me—how’d you pull it off?” she asked.

  “You don’t think I have friends in the police department?”

  Samael laughed derisively, and for an instant, his expression looked truly sinister. His smile hardened into a thin, cruel line, and his eyes held a hint—just a hint, mind you—of dancing red flames.

  “I’ve got connections,” he said in a tone of voice that let Claire know there was so much more, but that he didn’t want her to ask him…

  At least not right now, anyway.

  “So why’d you do it?” she asked, still walking. She didn’t like walking and talking at the same time. She wished they could stop somewhere…maybe sit down, have a coffee, and talk face-to-face. Then, she could gaze into his eyes all she wanted and not have to worry about tripping.

  “I wanted to see you again,” Samael said, “and I figured doing it this way would be fun, too. I like seeing you laugh.”

  “Laugh?” she echoed, narrowing her eyes and shaking her head.

  “Yeah. You know. Make a memorable, if not dramatic entrance.”

  Claire chuckled and said, “I’m surprised you didn’t opt for a blinding flash of lightning and a puff of sulfurous smoke.”

  “Oh, I save that for special occasions,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made her think he truly meant it.

  “Like when you come to claim someone’s soul or something?”

  “Yeah. That’d be one of the times.”

  Claire drew to a sudden halt and looked directly at him.

  “You mean it, don’t you?” she asked as gnawing worry filled her gut.

  Samael appeared to be taken aback by her vehemence. He regarded her as if he was sizing her up as he shook his head up and down.

  “No,” he finally said. “I was kidding.”

  Claire stared at him for a long, tense moment, studying him carefully. Seeing him in blinding bright daylight, she found it impossible to believe he was a genuine demon, and not a person. At the same time, though, she couldn’t stop thinking that there were so many things about him that made it impossible to think he wasn’t a demon.

  “So how’d you change your clothes so fast?” she finally asked. “I was barely out of there, and you show up in a three-piece suit, now.”

  A sudden blast of cold wind off the ocean grabbed her by the neck and blew her red hair forward so she was looking at him down a long, flickering red tunnel of flames. The view made her shiver. Before he could answer her, though, she noticed the Starbucks across the street and said, “Come on. You want a coffee or something?”

 
Samael nodded and, still holding her hand, waited for the traffic to pass and then guided her across the street.

  When he opened the coffee shop’s door for her, a tiny bell jingled. Claire noticed that Samael winced when the bell rang, and she was about to say, “What, did another angel get his wings?” but she didn’t as they walked up to the counter to order.

  She did file that little fact away, though…that tinkling bells seemed to bother him. She might be able to use that if he ever got out of hand. The first chance she had, she would get a small bell and place it on the table next to her bed…just in case.

  ~ * ~

  “So,” Claire said, “as Ricky Ricardo used to say to Lucy, ‘You got some ‘”splainin’” to do.’”

  Samael looked at her from across the table and shrugged.

  “I Love Lucy. I loved that show,” he said. “But that was a bit before your time, wasn’t it?”

  “Whenever I was home sick from school, I’d watch reruns of it on cable,” Claire said. “But you’re avoiding the subject.” She leaned close, her hands folded in front of her.

  “What?” He looked around the café as he shrugged. “There’s nothing to ‘splain.’ I wanted to see you again, to make up for—you know, for what happened, and I thought it’d be an interesting and memorable way to go about it.”

  Claire lowered her gaze and, sighing, shook her head. She sipped her coffee. It was good.

  “Why?” she finally asked, and when he looked at her blankly, she went on, “I mean—how did you even know I was going to be there? And how in the name of—” She caught herself before she said either God or Christ. “How did you get into the lineup?”

  “You want the truth?” Samael asked.

  Claire nodded even as she wondered if he was ever capable of telling the truth.

  “I went down to the police station to finish giving my statement. I was talking to Detective Trudeau. He’s an old friend of mine. Anyway, we were talking before your appointment, and when he said you were coming in for the lineup, I told him that I’d been trying to get in touch with you, but you didn’t want to have anything to do with me after Sunday night.”