by Jason Beymer
Senator Kamilla McPhee sat at the head of the table, and barely mustered a “thank you” when the waiter set the food down in front of her. She picked at the eggs and ran her fork along the fine china, tracing circles around the two strips of bacon and the hash-browned potatoes. She refused to look up, just continued to scrape the fork along the plate.
Nothing could stop Kamilla from reelection, Garrick’s ominous warning be damned. She had worked too hard for this.
“I drank too much,” she muttered to herself. “That’s all. Too much gin.”
The intern entered the dining room. He tucked in his shirt and hurried to Kamilla’s side.
“Where have you been?” she asked him.
“In your shower,” he whispered in her ear. “You used up all the hot water. I think it’s time to address the attendees.”
“No,” she mumbled, “I am not having stomach aches. I am not. My stomach feels fine. I am the most powerful woman in California.”
“Madame Senator?” the intern said.
Kamilla usually enjoyed these things. She relished crushing her competition beneath a mountain of words. Today Kamilla felt hampered. A layer of sweat covered the back of her neck, and her skin felt feverish and sensitive. She adjusted her suit, trying to circulate air.
“Not like this,” she said. “I can’t lose to the old Republican prick like this.”
“Madame Senator?” the intern repeated.
Kamilla eyed the press galley to her left with a forced smile. They would expect an impressive religion-packed speech, especially the whack jobs. She cleared her throat and raised a white linen napkin to her forehead.
Do it, Kamilla, she ordered herself. Do it before they get suspicious.
“Good morning,” she said. “You’re all here to watch me speak, right? You’re expecting a speech, a prayer.” Kamilla cleared her throat. “I had a speech prepared, but I seem to have forgotten it. Funny thing.”
Nobody ate. All guests fixed their attention on Kamilla.
“Yes, funny,” she said. She wiped a tear away, and another welled up. Twin lines of snot streamed from her nostrils.
“Oh, God,” she managed between sobs. “I can’t believe I’m crying. At a prayer breakfast.”
The priest patted his mouth with a napkin. He raised his palms and smiled warmly. “It seems the senator is possessed by the Holy Spirit this morning. I think we’re about to witness the power of God.”
Don’t overdo it, padre, she thought.
Kamilla had given him a blowjob in the confessional last week to ensure his religious support. Though God may have blessed the Father’s soul, He hadn’t blessed anything below his waist. Even so, a blowjob was a blowjob, and Kamilla expected him to remember his end of the deal.
“So, Madame Senator,” the priest said. “Grieving brings us closer to the Lord. I’m glad you’ve attended this breakfast despite your loss.”
“Loss?” she echoed.
The priest dropped his smile. “Perhaps you haven’t heard?”
Kamilla forced herself to keep a neutral face.
A man near the end of the table said, “Your son. Max. There was a car accident and he … died, Madame Senator. It was …” He kept talking, as did reporters and other guests, but Kamilla didn’t hear any of them. She couldn’t allow the news to bother her, but at the same time, she needed to show some level of emotion. Her constituency abhorred callous politicians. As they spoke, she tried to manage appropriate facial expressions.
She glared at the guests, grunted, and looked up at the intern.
“Yes?” the intern whispered, lowering his head.
“Did you know about my son’s death?” she asked.
“What was that, Madame Senator?”
Kamilla grabbed the intern’s hand like a steel vise. She took hold of his index finger and twisted it until a bone snapped. The intern dropped his hand with a whimper and fell backward, knocking a camera off its tripod. Jaws opened all over the room. Spoonfuls of grapefruit hung precariously between bowl and mouth.
Kamilla took a quick breath. “That’s better.”
The intern grasped his broken finger. His bottom lip vibrated. The campaign contributors, professionals, wealthy elite, and religious clergy stared as Kamilla rose to her feet.
“This news is …” She felt bile rise. “It’s horrible, of course.” She strained her eyes to make more tears form. “Oh, God, my son …” Kamilla turned her head and whispered to the intern through clenched teeth, “Clear me a path from here to the ladies’ room. Now.”
The intern managed a slight nod. He pushed through the nest of hungry reporters, creating a narrow trail behind him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Kamilla said to the guests. “You’ll excuse me.”
A white frothy liquid dripped from her mouth. She spat it onto the china plate, splashing the priest. Considering the mess he had made on her favorite blouse in the confessional, she didn’t feel a tremendous amount of Catholic guilt.
“Apologies,” she said. “I—” Kamilla burped and launched a second round of projectile vomit.
She turned and bolted through the crowd.
Chapter 19
The Question
Garrick lowered the cell from his ear. “The senator hung up on me.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “And now she refuses to pick up. That woman is determined to resist her condition.”
Burklin and Garrick stood in the living room. Delores sat between them, still strapped to the gray chair. She screamed beneath the silver tape. Together, Burklin and Garrick had pulled her out of the pit and dragged her into the house.
“May I free your lips, darling?” the old man asked. “That is, if I can count on you not to shriek.”
Delores nodded, her eyes moving frantically.
He peeled off the duct tape, taking skin with it. Just as Delores released a monstrous scream, Garrick grabbed a cigarette off the coffee table and jammed it into her open mouth. “May the Lord smite you both,” she said as he lit it.
Burklin took a seat on the couch. “Do you have a plan or not?”
Garrick shrugged. “It’s developing. My brain works in mysterious ways. Switch the television to local news.”
“You want to watch TV?” Burklin said. “You can’t be serious. TV? While Pearl is in danger?”
“Fine, I’ll do it myself.” He picked up the remote, layered in thick ash, and navigated until he came to a news station. A man with perfect hair smiled through the screen. Garrick turned up the volume.
“… the final debate between the Democratic and Republican rivals this morning. It has been a fiery campaign due to the controversy over Senator Kamilla McPhee’s stance on gun control and the recent allegations of sexual impropriety from her challenger, Walter Potankin. Now rumors are swirling in the blogosphere of a fatal car crash involving Senator McPhee’s son. With the debate occurring just seventy miles away from the senator’s hometown, many wonder why she refuses to postpone. Stay tuned for coverage of the event, live from the Steadman Arms Resort Hotel in Napa, California.” The banner across the bottom of the screen indicated the senatorial debate would begin shortly.
Delores shifted her weight on the chair. Burklin noted the length of ash on the cigarette. “Mom, don’t burn your mouth with that.”
“Shut it,” Delores said. “Fuck off.”
“How wonderful it is to hear your enchanting voice, dear,” Garrick said. He tapped the ash from her cigarette, lit a new one, and stuffed both into the woman’s mouth.
Delores blinked. “Keep ‘em coming.”
Garrick folded his arms and looked at Burklin. “It’s important you trust me,” he said. “I need you to do something.”
Burklin shook his head.
“Have faith. We’re a trinity. You and Lorraine are under my protection. Why can’t either of you trust me?”
“Lorraine is dead!”
Garrick shrugged. “We’re a trinity,” he repeated.
“Bla
sphemy,” Delores said. Garrick and Burklin turned to look at her. “Don’t talk of the holy trinity, not in my house. My Lord is Jesus Christ. You’re the devil’s whores. Both of you.”
“Darling Delores,” Garrick said. “The trinity I refer to bears no resemblance to the one you’ve built your productive life around. Why do Christians always insist on keeping that word for themselves? What’s the big deal about a virgin giving birth to a demon anyway? It happens all the time. Incarnations are nothing new.”
“Jesus was not a demon.”
“He was the perfect example of the Nether giving a complicated job to an incompetent trinity. Granted, they protected him through his eighteenth birthday, but look at the harm he caused the world once his powers manifested. Pathetic. Three Wise Men, indeed.”
“Blasphemy,” Delores repeated around her cigarette.
“Our trinity is—was—strong. The Father, the son and the holy Lorraine. We almost made it, too. This is just a snag. A time-consuming one, yes, but we can still win the sweepstakes.”
“I am not,” Burklin said.
“Am not what?”
“I am not your son,” Burklin replied. “My father died before I was born.”
Delores coughed. “Jesus.” She puffed on the cigarette and winked at Garrick. “This little bastard believed in Santa Claus until he turned sixteen, even though Santa never left him a goddamned thing.”
Garrick turned to face Burklin. “I hand-picked you to be part of my trinity. You’re my son. I wanted you to share in the sweepstakes glory.”
“Enough about the sweepstakes.”
“Winning gives our trinity a seat at the table and dominion over some top-notch beachfront property. We’ll rebuild the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, brick by brick. Together. We’ll turn them into nightclubs. You and me, Burklin. Christ, where do you think your mother procured the other half of your DNA? Hmm? The mailman?”
“I guess a guy she worked with. Someone named Tom.”
“Thomas. Yes. That’s who I was before I died forty years ago. When the Bureau returned me to life, they allowed me to choose my minions. I looked up your mother’s address. When I showed up at her doorstep your mother nearly shit herself, didn’t you, Delores? Some people can see through the facade.”
“Is that true, Mom?”
Delores looked away and dragged hard on her cigarette.
Garrick continued: “I saw you sitting behind her, two inches away from the television. Perfect. So much anger. I’ve never seen anyone get so frustrated watching The Brady Bunch. I waited until you grew up and detached from your mother’s delicious tit to bring you into the fold.”
“But Mom told me you raped her during my wedding.”
Delores coughed. Garrick grinned.
“Yes,” Garrick said. “I forced her to throw me against the toilet, rip off my good trousers, and climb on top of me.”
“No,” Burklin said. “No, the altar boy told the priest you were …” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “He said you were behind her with your … um …”
“We tried several positions in that restroom. Didn’t we, darling?”
Delores cleared her throat. “The Bible says ‘Let there be multiple positions with thy copulations.’“
Burklin shook his head. “The Bible doesn’t say that.”
Delores coughed and spat something sizable. “There’s something about your father that gets me all sinful.”
“But—but you said he raped you, Mom.”
“Oh, he did! Sort of. He raped me with his evil heart. The Bible says, ‘His wickedness doth moisten thy pubic—’“
“Please stop.”
Garrick plopped down on the couch next to him. “I need something from you.” He patted Burklin’s knee. “Tell you what, I’ll let you ask the question.”
Burklin sighed. “What question?”
“The question.”
Burklin looked away. He knew what the old man referred to. The words started to come, but he stopped them. Instead, he sniffled. “This isn’t the right time.”
“Ask it,” Garrick said. “I’ve forbidden you from even broaching the subject for two years. Now that I’m desperate enough, I’ll allow it. My replacement will figure out the senator’s location soon, if she hasn’t already. I’m out of options, son. So take this opportunity and ask. After you’ve cried a few tears, I’ll need you to do something for me in return, a task you’ll no doubt find unorthodox.”
Burklin opened his mouth, then closed it. He shifted his butt on the couch. “That night I drove to your office …” He swallowed, his heart racing.
Garrick curled his lip. “There it is. Cough it up.”
“The night I barged in on you.”
Garrick threw a statuette of the Virgin Mary at the wall. “Ask!”
He couldn’t put it into words, no matter how many times he’d rehearsed it in his head. Two years ago, Lorraine had complained of stomach pains while they ate dinner on the beach with Pearl. Burklin had helped Lorraine into the car. He’d driven to the hospital as she clutched at her midsection and groaned.
The doctors had kept him in the dark for what felt like hours. Then three had come out to speak to him. The one in front removed his facemask. “Mr. Franks,” the doctor had said, “we recommend women get these things replaced periodically. She’s lucky it didn’t cause any major damage to her uterus. If left in too long, they can produce scarring.”
“What things?” he’d said.
“The IUD, Mr. Franks.”
“The what?”
“Intrauterine Device. It’s a contraceptive.”
Burklin had shoved them aside and run down the hospital corridor. He remembered people yelling for him to stop, but he’d been beyond reason. He’d looked into each room, trying to find Lorraine. Burklin found her in the last one, sitting on the edge of a bed, waiting for him.
She must have seen the look in his eyes and known what he planned to do. She always did. “Before you say anything, you need to listen,” Lorraine had said right away.
“Why did you do it?” he’d growled. “We’ve been trying so hard to have a baby. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her eyes watered. “I didn’t know. Listen. You need to calm down. I’m afraid of what you’ll do if I say anything. But I have to tell you. The doctor said IUDs only last about five years, then they fuck up. He said someone surgically implanted mine. Burklin, I swear to you, I never agreed to any procedure. I don’t even remember having it done. But when he said five years … well, something clicked. Five years ago, when Garrick gave me the power to shapeshift in Hoppy’s basement, he had a doctor with him who …”
Lorraine had told him about the strange doctor in the basement, and the surgical supplies. She told him about falling unconscious on the cold table and waking up with the ability to shapeshift.
Apparently, she’d woken up with more than that.
“I’ll kill him,” Burklin had said.
“No.” She’d fallen back on the sheets. “The doctor said the damage isn’t bad. He removed the IUD. Let Garrick think I still have it inside me. Let him think I’m still infertile. We’ll keep trying to have a child.”
“I’ll kill him.”
“No! You have to calm down and think. You’re too unfocused right now. Garrick will take advantage of that. And he won’t like that the IUD is gone. He’ll have a backup plan ready. You know how he is.”
Burklin opened his eyes. He looked to his mother, strapped to the chair. Then he looked at Garrick, sitting on the couch, waiting for him to ask the question.
The question.
“Why?” Burklin said.
“Is that it?” Garrick replied. “That’s the best you can come up with? ‘Why?’ We never did get to that, did we? You must have hauled ass from the hospital to my office. Your ex-wife called me from there, you know. She warned me you were coming, and she begged me not to hurt you.” He shrugged. “But what could I do? You would have … how did you put it? ‘Tor
n my face off.’“
“Why?” he said again. Then, louder, “Why?”
“We’re called a trinity for a reason. Bringing in a fourth would have distracted Lorraine from her duties. You know how women get when they’re pregnant. Distracted, moody, unfocused. I’ll admit implanting an IUD into Lorraine’s uterus was a melodramatic solution. I considered asking her to simply abstain from getting pregnant, but this worked better. Until the IUD failed, of course. Look, the gynecologist I bribed into doing the procedure didn’t say anything about risks.” Garrick reconsidered. “Though I might have been a trifle quick with the blade. He did look like something was on the tip of his tongue when I killed him. Guess I should have listened.”
“You still haven’t answered me.”
“I thought asking would give you closure.”
“But you’re not even sorry!”
Garrick shrugged. “As I’ve said before, I’m terrible at this.” He clapped his hands. “So now that I’ve allowed you to ask, are you ready to go?”
“Go where?”
“Into the Nether.”
“What are you talking about?” Burklin asked. “How would I even get there?”
“Oh … that’s the funny part.”
Part Three
Political Exorcisms
And the beast which I saw was like unto a leopard …
— Revelations Chapter 13: 2
Cougar: (n.) A large, tawny cat. Felis concolar.
Chapter 20
The Great Debate
Kamilla made her way toward the hotel’s grand auditorium, entourage in tow. The banner over the entrance read Final Debate Between Democratic Senator Kamilla McPhee and Republican Walter Potankin. She halted the security detail and grabbed a glass of ice water from a folding table. It dribbled down her chin as she drank. She wiped it away, threw the glass on the floor, and picked up another.