Name of the Devil

by Andrew Mayne

  “If you don’t find a ruptured propane tank, as in this case, you look for incomplete combustion, things that didn’t burn all the way, and do spectral analysis to see if you can identify any suspect chemicals. That comes back incomplete. So the lab starts cutting into the wood fragments, hoping that they are porous enough to have trapped the propane from the compression wave of the explosion. There isn’t any propane gas to be found.

  “The next step, which would have been the first step if it hadn’t initially looked like a gas explosion, is to examine the residue. This is where it gets strange.

  “In a house fire you have several kinds of propellants, the things that keep the fire burning. There’s the wood. There’s the furniture, carpet and wall coverings. In some cases there’s another foreign propellant . . .

  “We think this was an aerosol explosion. A fuel air bomb, of sorts.”

  “What was the fuel? Why didn’t we see it right away?” asks Knoll as he tries to follow along.

  “Because it was an aerosol. That is what baffled the lab. At a hot enough temperature, our fat burns. If it gets even hotter, it can explode if it turns into a gaseous state.”

  At Quantico they’d given us a pretty good understanding of the kinds of explosives we might encounter on the job. Growing up in the family I did, I’d tried more than a few in the backyard, nearly singing the rose bushes. This was something new to me.

  “Fat? Like human tissue?” Knoll is as confused as me.

  “Yep,” says Ailes. I can tell he’s beside himself about this one too. “Vaporized into the air, aerosolized and ignited. The questions are severalfold. First, other than Jessup, we’re not missing anyone. Second, it’d take a lot of human fat to do this. One person isn’t just going to burn up and cause this. You’d need to isolate the fat, use a small explosion to disperse it, then ignite it. If the igniter is somehow removed from the scene of the crime or it self-destructs, all you’re left with is an explosion of fatty tissue. And this leads us to the perceptual problem. We may think of it as a ‘fat bomb,’ but people have another way to describe what happened.”

  I see where this is going. “The simplest explanation is that the explosion was caused by a person spontaneously exploding. Spontaneous human combustion. We’ve got a zombie sheriff, demons and now this? What’s next, ghosts?”

  “It’s an inaccurate conclusion, but it’s the one we’re afraid the press will run with when it gets out. Someone prone to believing such things are possible will probably assume the supernatural hypothesis. We have to get ahead of this and explain the fuel-air bomb mechanism before discussing the propellant. A reasonable mind will understand.”

  I wish I shared his optimism. Some people still think the Warlock murders were divine acts. “We’re sitting outside the building where someone, by all accounts in possession of a somewhat reasonable mind, blew his brains out on live television because he thought it was real. Who else is going to react this way?”

  “That’s what we need to know. The connection to Hawkton is more important than ever. Do you have anything yet I can pass on?”

  Knoll and I exchange glances. “You’re not going to like this if you’re worried about an optics problem. Remember the reports of odd sightings from Hawkton? And the thing I said Dr. Moya saw following us?”

  “The bat?” Ailes recalls.

  “We got a photo.”

  “Of a drone?”

  “Of a shadow of something that could be a drone . . .”

  “Or a demon,” adds Knoll. “I’m just playing devil’s advo—poor choice of words. I’m just saying that’s how some people are going to see it.”

  “Well, that is interesting. Can you send us the image? In the meantime, I have more mixed news,” Ailes continues. “They want Knoll back in West Virginia. There’s been a lead in the manhunt for the sheriff. They found a blood sample from him.”

  “Where?” I ask.

  “On a fulgurite near Black Nick’s cabin that had been carved into a blade like the one he gave you. Evidently, before the cabin burned down there may have been an altercation between the two.”

  “Between Black Nick and the sheriff?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Still no trace of Black Nick?” Please, let there be no more victims in this nightmare.

  “No. I take it as a good sign that he was able to avoid getting killed by the sheriff. Find out what you can about Groom, Blackwood. The bat is an interesting lead, but I think this whole case is going to get shut down when they find the sheriff. They don’t have a lot of patience upstairs for this kind of stuff.”

  I grab the phone off the dashboard. “What do you mean? What about the sixth man or Tixato?”

  “Bureaucracy favors simple explanations. Bring me something back from down there. Otherwise it’s going to be ruled a coincidence and you’ll be put on something else.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  “Yes. But they’re always going to choose the simplest line between two points.”

  “And ignore everything else?”

  “Some of them think that’s what they’re paid to do.”

  24

  WHEN I WAS little, Dad worked as a technical consultant on movie sets when magic was involved. Most of the jobs came about through Grandfather’s connections. Seeing my father as more of a technician than an artist, he had no qualms about lending his son and the family name to teach some Hollywood actor to palm a card or saw a woman in half convincingly enough. Because of this, I got to spend some time roaming studio back lots.

  While the Wild West towns and New York backdrops were fascinating in their way, it was the small-town-USA neighborhoods that held my interest. I’d sneak away to play on the suburban sidewalks in front of the perfectly manicured houses. Even though they were little more than empty shells, they were a strange source of comfort to me.

  Our own house deep in the Hollywood hills was in a perpetual state of disrepair. It was filled with its own mysteries, which I liked to explore, but it never felt like how I thought a home should feel. Those back-lot houses, a glorified ideal of the perfect family life, did.

  Reverend Groom’s house resembles one of those empty shells. Located in a nice suburb, set back on a small rise behind a picket fence, it looks picture-perfect. There’s the feel of a facade beyond the flower gardens and landscaping. It’s meant to be looked at, not looked out from. It’s a mask.

  Mrs. Groom greets me with a polite smile as she lets me into the home. She’s clearly distraught about her husband, but appears to be holding it together. Attractive, and too well dressed for the dish gloves she’s wearing, her reserve hides her shock.

  “Thank you for letting me speak with you.” Going into this kind of job, they don’t tell you how much of your time will be spent talking to people who have lost someone, or the people who caused that loss. It gets easier, but you can never be callous about it.

  “Of course. Alec never spoke about his time in Hawkton. I met him after he moved to Atlanta.” She offers this right off the top, then shakes her head. “I didn’t know how deeply he felt.” There’s suddenly a distant look in her eyes.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, are you aware of what he said before he died?” I follow her into the kitchen.

  “I haven’t watched the video. But I know he was talking about sin. I know some people think he was under some kind of influence.” She’s obviously still trying to understand. Now she’s alone in this house, her quiet moments must be filled with thousands of questions.

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Do I believe my husband was possessed?” she snaps, not too shocked to be insulted.

  “My apologies.” I take a breath and speak more carefully. “I meant to ask if you thought there was some motivation behind that.”

  “Ms. Blackwood, I’m a religious woman, but I’m not as . .
. naive as some of the people Alec worked with. Neither was Alec, for that matter.”

  “Didn’t your husband sometimes speak as if God was talking through him and do faith healing?”

  She waves away the question with a dish-gloved hand. “He had a flair for drama. Some people like rock bands in their church. Others want the old-time preacher.”

  And some people want to live in million-dollar houses, not caring where the money came from.

  “May I have a look in his office?”

  She hesitates for a moment and then peels off the gloves. “Sure, I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

  She leads me to his study, opens the door and departs. Bookcases line two walls. One section is filled with religious texts while the remainder holds military thrillers and popular fiction.

  One wall is covered with photographs of Groom and his wife with smiling children from around the world—proof of his outreach ministry. I’ve heard of more than one preacher who raises funds to help the impoverished in far-flung places, only to spend the majority of the money on underage prostitutes and expensive hotel accommodations. Just a few hundred dollars donated to a local orphanage gets you your photo-op that proves to your donors what great work you’re doing.

  I’m sure most aren’t like that. I suspect that Groom’s intentions were to a degree sincere, although the photos and the other items in his office look like props for someone playing a part.

  In the top drawer of his desk I find a stack of letters, fawning testimonials from people thanking him for his prayers and telling him what a wonderful person he is. The top drawer is an interesting location. While the photos are for visitors, he kept these affirmations within his own arm’s reach.

  In the next drawer down I find a copy of a men’s magazine filled with women in swimsuits. It wouldn’t be a dark secret in any other man’s office, but in a minister’s study, it’s understandably out of sight.

  Below the magazine I see something familiar, and more career damning than the girlie magazine. This is the reading material he really doesn’t want people to know about.

  It’s a book of magician’s techniques for reading minds. We call these acts mentalism, a mixture of sleight-of-hand and psychological principles that makes it look like you have ESP, or must be getting information from a supernatural source.

  Groom was making sure he kept up on the latest methods. He’d bookmarked a section on getting people to fill out forms with personal information, under the guise of a contest, in order to use it later. I suddenly feel less sympathetic toward him.

  I set the book back and look elsewhere.

  His trashcan is empty, except for a discarded package that once held AA batteries. No crumpled suicide note. No threatening letter made from cut-up newspaper print.

  I walk up the stairs to find Mrs. Groom. Along the hallway a slightly open door leads to a boy’s bedroom, and I take a peek. A Spider-Man poster adorns the wall. An antique computer sits on a desk next to a television and a Nintendo game console. On a table by the bed, a Walkman sits on top of a stack of comics.

  “This was Cedric’s room,” says Mrs. Groom from behind me.

  The posters, the computer—It’s all almost a decade old.

  I don’t get it. Then it hits me.

  This is a shrine to a dead child.

  I notice the sheets are ruffled slightly. “Did your husband come in here?”

  “This is where he prayed. I haven’t cleaned it since he . . . he passed.”

  I pity her. Despite the fact her good fortune was based on defrauding the innocent, she’s been dealt so much tragedy. First her son, and now her husband. There’s never going to be a normal day for her.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell her, knowing she’s heard this a thousand times.

  “It’s His will,” she says, as if trying to convince herself this is all part of a greater plan. “I’ll be in the other room if you need anything else. I hope you can see that Alec was a good man now.” Her words trail off as she tries to hide her tears.

  “I’m sure he had a good heart.”

  Cedric had to have been ten or so when he passed away. After Mrs. Groom vanishes down the hallway, I take a step into the room, morbid curiosity getting the better of me. It feels like I’ve just traveled back in time—like the clock froze on the day he died.

  It reminds me of my old bedroom, down to the Walkman. Mine was a hand-me-down from my father, complete with his cassette collection of music soundtracks.

  Wait a second . . .

  I’m older than Cedric would be now.

  The Walkman seems out of place here. It was already on its way out when I was a teenager, replaced by compact discs and soon after that, MP3 players.

  I’m about to dismiss it—after all, I had kept mine long after it was out of fashion—when I remember the empty battery package in the trash downstairs . . .

  Making sure Mrs. Groom isn’t around, I violate the sacrosanct atmosphere by taking the Walkman from the nightstand. I place the headphones over my ears and press play.

  25

  LOW AND GUTTURAL yells are followed by swearing. Male and female voices repeatedly cry “hold him.” Things are knocked over. There are footsteps and the sounds of exertion. Someone reacts in pain, and the screams start again, high-pitched this time and then lower. Unintelligible shouting.

  Abruptly, the screaming comes to a stop. Then, chilling and deep, “I am the one who walks in the dark path. I am the one who lives in the shadows. I am Azazel. I am the devourer.”

  I have to pause the playback for a moment. This doesn’t sound like a Hollywood movie. This sounds real.

  Barely audible whispering. A man begins to recite the Lord’s Prayer. The screaming and thrashing starts again.

  “I said hold him!” a man shouts.

  The hysterical screams are muffled, there is scuffling, and then they come to an end. There’s a long silence in the room. The last voice to speak says, “Oh God.” Then the tape ends.

  Lost in what I just heard, I sit on the bed staring into space, trying to make sense of it. Mrs. Groom finally knocks on the door to get my attention. “Everything okay?” She gives me an odd look, but says nothing about me sitting on her dead son’s bed.

  “I’d like to take this.” I hold up the Walkman. “I’ll make sure you get it back.”

  “Okay . . .” She seems more confused by the expression on my face than the presence of the tape player.

  Ailes looks up from the cassette player resting on the conference room table. “Did his wife know where the tape came from?”

  “No. She said she’d never heard it before. One of the voices I think is Groom’s.”

  “Yes, I recognized that too.”

  “I counted at least five other people, maybe more.”

  He knows where I’m going with this. “You want to match them to our victims?” he asks.

  “Yes. I’d also like to go to Hawkton.”

  “You don’t need to go there to do that.”

  “Maybe not. But the other voice, the screamer, I think it’s a child, a boy. I’d like to know who that was.”

  “Groom’s son?”

  “No connection that I’ve found. The tape is at least twenty years old. Groom’s son died of leukemia ten years ago, when he was ten. I don’t think there’s a connection there. This is separate.” My eyes widen. “I think this even may be what binds everyone together.”

  “And the boy on the tape is the subject of this . . . exorcism?”

  There it is. I wanted him to say it first. Exorcism.

  It’s a loaded word, conjuring up images of horror movies and scary novels. For believers, it’s proof that supernatural evil is real. For nonbelievers it’s a stark reminder that in some ways we still live in the Middle Ages, a time in which someone with psychological problems can be ill-treated and
abused instead of getting the care they need.

  “Whoever this boy is, he may be the key. If this tape was made in Hawkton, then he has a connection to everything. He could be at the center of it all.”

  “How?”

  “It’s the first time we hear ‘Azazel’ in connection with them.”

  “Is the boy on the tape our sixth man? Do you think this disturbed child turned into a killer?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe this goes deeper. But everything ties in here, I think. If the other voices are those of our church victims.”

  Ailes taps the table. “You know what this would look like if we were religiously inclined . . .”

  I’ve thought this through over and over. “Yes. A demon returning to kill the people that exorcised him.”

  He contemplates this for a moment, staring at the ceiling. “Why do you and I see that as absurd, when others would accept it?”

  “We’re rational.”

  “Are we? What does rational mean to you?”

  “Never closing the door on questions.”

  “We all shut the door at some time. We just choose to pursue some things and not others.” His talk of doors reminds me of Dr. Moya.

  “I know. There’s something else that bothers me. It’s the way the tape ended.”

  He nods. “I’ve got some signal processing people I know in Silicon Valley I can have take a look. There’s a lot of information in there. We’ll also have audio forensics see what they can pull from it. From an audiotape we can tell approximately how far away someone is from the microphone. We can probably identify what was used to record the audio. Which can give us some idea of where everyone was in relation to the recorder. Echo will give us an idea about the size of the room and even furniture. Not in great detail, but it will tell us if there’s a mattress in there, a hard floor. The more audio to work with, the better. A lot of it is trial and error. The program will anticipate models and then reconfigure until it creates a virtual match, but we should be able to get a 3-D reconstruction of the room and an idea of how many people are in there.”