“But what does 1950s music have to do with it?” Katti asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Except perhaps the Devil might personally like that music. In the fifties, the music wasn’t of protest, or social or political change—it was fun music. Who are we to say the devil doesn’t have a sense of humor? Albeit on the dark side.”
“WHOPBOPALUMMAALOPBAMBOOM!”
The ridiculous lyric from the fifties slammed through the house with such force it knocked over lamps and rattled the dishes in the kitchen cabinets.
“Told you,” Hank said.
Two
Katti looked across the breakfast table at Cole. “It’s been a week,” she said.
Cole carefully buttered his toast before replying. “I know.”
“Nothing has happened.”
“That we’re aware of.”
“Maybe . . .”
“Maybe nothing, Kat. That . . . thing, whatever it is, the devil, maybe, he, it, didn’t just pop in on us by accident. There had to be a reason for it.”
She stared at him for a moment, shook her head. “What reason? And, Cole, do you really believe that was the devil? I mean . . . really?”
Cole shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Hank isn’t even sure, but he won’t tell me what else it might be.”
“I know the devil exists, Cole. I certainly saw evidence of that up in Arkansas. But out of all the billions of people who inhabit the earth, to single us out?” Katti shook her head and sighed. She rose, refilled their coffee cups, then turned off the coffee maker, and sat down. “Maybe it isn’t the devil.”
“Have you talked with Hank?” Cole asked, sugaring and stirring his coffee; he did not use cream.
“Yesterday. He’s studying everything he can find on the devil . . . and something else. He told me that nine tenths of the material is pure garbage. He couldn’t understand how such learned men could be so stupid. He didn’t tell me what else he was studying.”
Cole stood up to answer the phone and Katti glanced over at the counter. The red light on the coffee maker was glowing in the ON position. “I turned that off,” she muttered, rising to click off the coffee maker. She made certain the switch was firmly in the OFF position, then sat back down at the breakfast nook.
“That was Bob Jordan. There was a rock concert in town last night,” Cole said. “Heavy metal; whatever the hell that is. It got out of hand. Four people dead, dozens injured; couple of them not expected to live.”
“What was the name of the group?”
“The Devil’s something-or-another. I’d never heard of it.”
She smiled and touched his hand. “You’re not exactly a devoted listener to heavy metal music, Cole.”
He grimaced. “Amen to that.”
She laughed at the expression on his face. “Anything else?”
“Someone got bored at the precinct house last evening and started doing some computer work, comparing crime stats of this week to those of the same week last year. We’re up fifteen percent. Slightly higher than that in the violent crime area. Bob’s got them networking with other cities to see if it’s nationwide. I offered to bet him fifty dollars it was. He wouldn’t take the bet.”
“It’s been a very hot summer, Cole. Almost unbearable. That’s got to account for some of it.”
“Maybe.”
Katti clicked on the small TV next to the wall in the nook. The network host was saying, “The strange phenomena appears to be nationwide. Fifties music will suddenly blare out of radios and then fade away. Some people have reported hearing the music while sitting in their homes, no radio or TV on. Government experts are convinced that it is due to sunspots.” The host smiled. “Oh, well. Nothing like a little Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewis to get you going in the morning, right, Ralph?”
“Absolutely,” her co-host with the million-dollar smile said. If he had any more teeth he’d bear a startling resemblance to a crocodile. “By the way, Cathy, I got some pussy last night. Did you get any cock?”
It was the fastest cut to commercial in television history.
Katti blurted, “Did he say what I think he said?”
“Yes. I think it’s begun.”
“It could have been an accident.”
“Do you believe that?”
Katti shook her head. “No,” she whispered. She looked over at the counter. The switch on the coffee maker had clicked to the ON position.
* * *
Hank Milam hurled the book he’d been reading against the wall of his study. “What a bunch of drivel!” he said. He looked up just as Beverly walked in.
“What’s the matter?” she asked with a smile. “Didn’t the book have a happy ending?”
Hank chuckled. “I didn’t get that far along. You working today?”
“Yes. That was Jim on the phone with a job. The money is too good to let it slide. You’re familiar with one Mrs. Ruth Pearson?”
“The richest woman in Memphis?”
“The richest woman in the state, dear. She’s been getting threatening phone calls. She wants a bodyguard. I’ll handle it during the day, Peggy will take it at night, Jean will work the weekends.”
“You be careful.”
“Always, love.” She kissed her husband—her senior by more than twenty years—and left the house.
Hank found another book and opened it; but he knew it wasn’t going to tell him anything he didn’t already suspect. And this reference book had nothing to do with the devil.
* * *
“What’s all that horn-honking about?” Jim Deaton asked Gary Markham.
Gary turned from the fifth-floor window in the office building. “Big pileup on the street. I count seven cars. Two guys just started duking it out. Looks like two women are getting ready to have a go at one another. Doesn’t appear as though anyone is seriously hurt. Just angry.”
Both Gary and Beverly were expert rifle and pistol shots, as well as highly skilled in the martial arts. Both in their mid-thirties, glowing with health.
“Seems like people are getting really short-tempered,” Jim remarked. “And very violent.”
“Yeah. You think . . . ?”
“Yeah,” Jim cut him off. “Maybe.”
* * *
Special Agent in Charge Scott Frey called George Steckler into his office. He held up a sheet of paper. “Did you hear about this, George?”
“It’s all over the office, Scott.”
Special Agent Glenn Armstrong had turned violent and punched out his wife during the night. Punched her out so severely she had to be hospitalized. She had refused to press charges, but Glenn was on immediate suspension.
“Domestic violence is up all over the nation. Skyrocketed. Same in Canada. Half the office staff called in sick. Some of my agents are behaving . . . oddly. Some others either called in sick or just didn’t show up for work at all. Two quit. No reasons given. They just quit. I told both of them to come in and turn in their sidearms and equipment, and both of them told me to get fucked.”
“Is that local, Scott?”
“No. It’s nationwide. Many of the smaller offices are shut down cold. No one showed up and can’t be reached. Washington is jumping up everybody’s ass.”
“Did you hear what happened on the morning news show?”
“My wife and I were listening to it. Damnest thing I ever heard. You should have seen the expression on Cathy’s face.”
“Scott? About what Hank said: it might not be the devil . . .”
“Yeah, George. But if not, what is it?”
* * *
Since the incident in North Arkansas, Cole had taught Katti to use firearms, both pistol and rifle, and Beverly had instructed her in the basics of unarmed combat. Gary, ex-Marine Force Recon, had taught her some good moves with a knife. Katti was no expert in any of the fields, but she was proficient and confident and comfortable with her skills.
Katti finally took Cole’s suggestion and unplugged the coffee maker. Still the ON li
ght glowed red.
“Get the camcorder,” Cole told Katti. “I want this on film, in living color.”
Camera loaded and ready to roll, Cole took the coffee maker outside and threw it in a tub filled a quarter of the way full of water. Sparks flew and smoke rose from the water. Katti filmed it all.
“Weird,” Cole said, as the coffee maker finally exploded, the tall metal sides of the tub preventing most of the tiny pieces from flying out and injuring either of them.
“Are you going into town today?” Katti asked.
“No. I won’t leave you alone out here.”
“Thanks. But I can ride into town with you. I finished the book yesterday. I need to mail it.”
“Then let’s do it. I want to see if I can sense the mood of the people.”
* * *
Ugly. Police cars were screaming all over the place, the cops staying busy breaking up fist fights on street corners and separating angry drivers, the vehicles left unattended, snarling the intersections.
Cole took back streets and made it to a post office without incident. They had to wait almost half an hour before they could get to a window. Most of the clerks had called in sick that day. When they returned to the Bronco, several of Memphis’s less than desirable types were hanging around it.
“I don’t like this, Cole,” Katti whispered. “Those boys look mean.”
“They’re not boys,” Cole automatically corrected, the term boys touching a raw nerve with a lot of cops, active or retired. “They’re young men.” As far as Cole was concerned, boys became men and girls became women when they got a driver’s license. These punks looked to be about eighteen or nineteen. And all in good physical shape.
“Sexy mama,” one of the three “boys” mouthed at Katti. “Nice ass on that baby. And a superfine set of tits.”
Cole hit him. Cole was six feet tall, with a heavy musculature, big flat-knuckled fighter’s hands, and thick wrists. The punch caught the mouthy one on the side of the jaw and dropped him like a rock. He hit the sidewalk and did not move. Blood began leaking out of his mouth.
The second boy moved in closer, both hands balled into fists. Katti gave him a shot of pepper gas to the eyes and he started squalling in pain, both hands to his face.
Cole turned to face the third boy, but he had put his fancy tennis shoes to work, heading away from that scene just as fast as he could pick ‘em up and put ’em down.
Two cops were sitting in a patrol car near the curb. The one on the passenger side had seen and heard it all. He smiled at Cole and Katti and gave them a thumbs-up gesture, then told his partner to drive on.
Cops just don’t like smart-mouthed punks.
“You want to try to make it to Jim’s office?” Cole asked.
“We’ve come this far. Let’s go for it.”
After pulling away from the curb and finding a street that wasn’t jammed up with traffic, Cole glanced over at Katti and smiled. “You handled yourself very well back there, Kat.”
“I didn’t even think. It happened so fast I just reacted.”
“That’s usually the way violence happens. Cops have to put up with so much crap from people, the edges get a little ragged after a time. And not just from punks. Good, decent, ordinary, everyday people can suddenly lose it and get all up in your face over the most minor traffic tickets.” He chuckled. “I was working with a Trooper one time, just riding with him. It was a slow day. We stopped this Cadillac with California plates. The woman was driving about fifteen miles an hour over the limit, but it took us about five miles to shut her down. She jumped out, nicely dressed lady about sixty or so, diamonds on her fingers. She marched up to my buddy and said, ‘Why did you stop me, you skinny little son of a bitch.’ ”
“She didn’t!”
“Yeah, she did. Russ just froze in his tracks for a few seconds. Then she lost it completely. She slugged Russ. We had to call for a female deputy to sit on her. If she hadn’t gotten out of the car with an attitude, Russ probably wouldn’t have issued her a hard copy. As it turned out, that little deal cost her about five hundred dollars in fines, she spent the night in jail, her insurance probably went up a hundred or so dollars a year, and she’s got a record.”
Katti laughed. “She really hit him?”
“She sure did. Busted his lip. I hate scenes like that. There we were, on the side of the Interstate, two big cops struggling with this one little woman, trying to keep from hurting her, cars and trucks driving by, people yelling at us, cussing us, honking their horns. She kicked us both on the shins, bit us, slapped us, cussed us.” Cole shook his head. “It was embarrassing.”
Katti chuckled all the way to Jim’s office.
“Jails are full,” Jim told the couple, after pouring them coffee and seating them in his office. “I mean full up. The police aren’t arresting anyone for minor infractions, such as fighting.”
Cole told him about the coffee maker. Jim sighed and said, “I’ll go you a couple better. My toaster started hopping up and down this morning. Gary’s electric razor led him on a chase through his house. Can you just picture that? A grown man chasing a razor through the house? Gary said he felt like a fool!”
“Did he catch the razor?” Katti asked with a smile.
“No! Damn thing ran, well, scooted, moved, whatever, out the back door.”
“And your toaster?” Cole asked.
Jim looked embarrassed.
Katti’s smile widened. “What did you do with it, Jim?”
“I smashed the damn thing with a softball bat!”
Cole and Katti burst out laughing.
“Well, hell! I didn’t know what else to do.”
Cole and Jim had known each other since the Vietnam war, having served together there; a couple of scared eighteen-year-olds who had to grow up fast. Jim was a former Tennessee State Trooper. He was licensed to work in half a dozen different states, and had offices in cities in all those states.
Jim’s phone rang and he answered it. “Yeah, Scott. Pretty good. Need I ask how things are at your office? That’s what I figured. No, all of my people showed up. Ahh ... did anything, well, odd happen at your house this morning? Really? Anybody get hurt? Good. Same here and with Cole and Katti. George did what?” He laughed. “Now, I’d like to have seen that. Yeah, they’re here in the office now. Sure. Come on over. See you in a few.”
He hung up and looked at Cole and Katti. “Scott and his wife had a lamp go berserk on them this morning. Vivian finally hit it with a poker from the fireplace.”
“What about George?” Cole asked.
Jim grinned. “He was using his electric fry pan to cook breakfast this morning. It suddenly stood up on one end and started dancing . . . sort of, if you can picture that. Dumped bacon and half-cooked eggs all over the floor. George picked up an iron skillet and beat it until it stopped moving around.”
Neither Cole and Katti could hide their grins. Then their grins faded as the seriousness of the situation took precedent.
“I think I’m laughing to keep from crying,” Katti said.
“I guess I’ll be punished for thinking this,” Jim said, “but I just can’t believe all that Hank has told us over the past week. My mind refuses to except that this is a buildup to the end of ... well, everything. I can’t comprehend that. I just don’t believe it.” He stared first at Katti, then at Cole. “But if it isn’t the devil, what is it?”
Cole answered for the both of them. “I don’t know and Hank isn’t talking. Not yet. He’s unsure, I suppose. But whatever it is might explain this sudden upswing in violence that seems to be nationwide.”
Jim frowned. “I think that’s being caused by the heat wave that’s gripping the country. It’s the worst heat wave in history, according to the National Weather Service.”
“And Mother Nature might not be causing it,” Katti said. “Have you thought about that?”
“I’ve thought about it,” Jim admitted grudgingly. “Hell and heat. Sure. But I don’t believe th
ere’s any connection between the two.” He paused. “Well, that’s not entirely true. There might be. I guess. But how do you accept part and not the whole?”
“But even should we discover that it is, well, him,” Katti said, “what could we do? How do you fight . . . well, the devil?”
“Interesting question,” Jim muttered. He looked out his office window to a branch bank located across the street. The outside time/temperature monitor flashed: 10:45 95. It flashed several times, paused, and then this message was spelled out:
FUCK YOU
Three
“Have you looked out your window lately?” Scott Frey asked, walking into Jim’s office.
“At the bank sign?” Jim asked. “Yes. Why don’t they turn the damn thing off?”
“They’re trying. They’ve cut the power. It just won’t go off.”
“How are things at your office?” Cole asked him.
“We’re functioning. At least my ASAC showed up for work this morning.”
“What’s an ASAC?” Katti asked.
“Assistant Special Agent in Charge,” Scott told her. He walked to the window and looked out at the bank office. The sign was still flashing its obscene message. He said as much.
“Actually, it isn’t obscene,” Katti said. “It’s an acronym. A couple of centuries ago, in England, when prisoners were booked for certain crimes, the jailers shortened the charge down to FUCK. It means For Use of Carnal Knowledge.”
Cole smiled at the expression on Scott’s face. “Writers do a lot of research, Scott.” He changed the subject. “How’s George?”
Scott chuckled. “Still a little bit upset about having his electric fry pan stand up and do the hoochie coochie.” He frowned. “Interesting that all of your people showed up and many of mine didn’t. And we’ve got a Blue Flu epidemic with the Memphis PD and the sheriffs office.”
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