"I haven't — haven't been home yet," Davey said finally.
"No kiddin'. Jeez." Snip-snip-snip.
"Thought I get cleaned up first. Get the stink off me."
"I'm honored, kid. You comin' in here. Always said you were a special kid."
"Thanks, Burdy."
Snip-snip. "You see some action over there?"
Davey stared at himself in the mirror. He watched the glimmer of the scissors, the little plump pink fingers flexing, the comb flicking and teasing at the bristles, and the strangest thing occurred to Davey: There's no hair being cut. Is he just pretending? Is the fat man just humoring a shell-shocked kid, just snipping at the air around Davey's ears?
"You don't gotta talk about it, you don't want to," the barber said.
"It's not that, it's just —"
"That's okay, kid."
"I just don't —"
"That's okay. Don't gotta say a word. Just gonna make you look real dapper, real suave. For the girls."
"The girls, right." Davey closed his eyes, and saw the crackle of mortar fire streak across his vision, those same awful shooting stars that had been ruining his sleep. When he opened his eyes they were wet.
Snip-snip-snip-snip.
Minutes passed with neither man saying a word.
Davey could barely see his reflection in the mirror, could barely see the bizarre optical illusion materializing before him, obscured by his tears like shapes behind a rain-dappled pane of glass. It looked as though the barber was painting his scalp instead of trimming it, each little flick of the scissors dabbing a brush stroke of ginger-colored hair back onto his head instead of shearing it off. It felt odd, too, like warm goose bumps spreading across his scalp. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant feeling either. Maybe the first pleasant sensation he had felt for months.
A tear tracked down Davey Marsh's face. "Girls," he murmured, his voice breaking. "Pilot I got shot down with was a girl. Can you believe that? Native American woman. Big fat gal, looked Hawaiian."
"Davey, look... uh." The barber paused. "You don't gotta —"
"Chief Warrant Officer Irma Goode. You believe that? Old Irma. I can't believe the fire we went through. I mean, you coulda walked on top of it, it was so goddamn thick, like we had gone and stirred up a hornet's nest or something. It was — it was right outside of Basra, and they just opened up on us, the whole goddamn Republican Guard. I mean, they just hit us with everything they had. I saw two other Apaches buy it, you know, right off the bat, and I was — I was — I was just like screaming and shaking and laying down suppression fire, and, aw Jesus, it was bad. I wasn't ready for it. You know? 57 millimeter flak chewing us all to hell, sparking and pinging off our belly, those goddamn S-60's, like dragons on our ass, and we're — we're — we're ducking left and right, and breaking our pattern, trying to throw 'em off. And I'm shaking, right? Like I'm having a seizure. Firing every which way, and I'm flash-blind now, and I can barely see the Longbow blasting the leaves off trees and the sand off the roof tops, and we're like Mayday now, I mean, we're like going in, we're going down. And we belly flopped in the sand, and it was like — it was like — an elephant landing on me but we didn't blow — thank Christ we didn't blow — cuz I got thrown — landed on my back in the sand but Irma — aw Jesus — Irma bought it — I saw her face in the tracer flash her face — the flak took her face away — took it right off — sweet gal — Irma from Bakersfield California... had two kids... one of 'em was a cheerleader. One of her kids was a cheerleader. You believe that shit?"
Davey laughed then. It sounded alien in his own ears, like the bark of a hyena.
He began to cry.
"Aw Jesus... what good is it... what good is it... you see a good person like that get... and you're just sitting there on your ass in the... and the rotor's still spinnin and kickin up sand in your teeth and your... and you're just sittin there shaking and staring at some lady with a cheerleader daughter and no face... face just gone... just —"
The barber laid a hand on Davey's shoulder, and Davey clammed up.
The silence crashed down on the barber shop. The fat man didn't say anything.
Another moment passed.
"It was a miracle these Special Forces guys got to me," Davey said at last. "I mean, I don't even remember gettin' e-vac'd outta there... but I guess I did... cuz look at me now. Sittin' here sitting in this... sitting in this barber chair."
"And thank God for that," Steagal said, returning to his work. The scissors continued snipping. Davey felt that humming sensation again.
"I'm sorry," Davey finally said.
"Don't be silly, kid."
"I don't know what —"
"Forget about it," the barber said, busily flicking the comb, pinching the scissors.
Davey glanced up at the mirror and his stomach seized up again. He was seeing things. And why not? They say you hallucinate when the strings finally come undone. God knew, he was due. He was due for a major breakdown. But who would have guessed it would come like that: watching scissors paint hair onto his head?! Like a spatula frosting a cake, the gleaming metallic tips of those things kept extruding swath after swath of wavy golden curls along each contour of Davey's scalp. There was already a good couple of inches feathering down over his ears, fringing along his neck line. And that warm, buzzing sensation of honey dripping over his scalp was intensifying.
"Must seem like another world over there," the barber was murmuring.
"What?"
"Iraq — the middle east. Must seem like a whole 'nother universe."
"Oh — yeah. I guess."
Snip-snip-snippety-snip.
"Funny thing is," the barber said, coaxing strands of blonde locks down the young man's back, "it ain't really like that."
"What do you mean?"
"The world, the planet. You know. It ain't made up of different kinds of places — it's all one. We're all floating on the same boat, if you follow my meaning."
"The same boat."
"I'm tellin ya, kid. I got the inside track on this thing."
"Um... ."
"What I'm saying is, I'll bet you a dollar to a donut they got a few of these dumps over there in Baghdad, Ramallah, whatever they call it."
"A few of these what?"
"Barber shops for Chrissake." The fat man was going like crazy at that point with the scissors and the comb, the razor tips spewing lovely cascades of flaxen waves down Davey Marsh's back. The hair shone in the mirror, lustrous locks of blonde parted down the middle, almost as long as it had been in his 1999 graduation picture. And that electric warmth. It poured across his scalp and down the chords of his neck like a sympathetic note strummed on his nerve endings.
"It's like when you were just a little squirt," Steagal droned on with that weird enthusiasm glinting in his eyes. "Used to come in here and read them comics while your dad got a shave. Used to sit for hours in the chair next to your old man, listening to the locals shoot the breeze, soaking everything up like a little sponge."
"Burdy, I don't —"
"Later, you know. You'd drop by. With all the hair, drove your dad crazy. Never wanted a cut in those days." The fat man chuckled so heartily his paunch shook under his tunic. "Never a haircut! Just dropped in to read some comics. Get away from it all, I guess. Take a little vacation from the world. You remember that?"
Davey glanced across the shop. That couch, that couch — that shopworn, imitation leather couch with those rusty metal arms — it had to be older than Steagal. And yet. It sat there with that same spray of junkie magazines across its ratty seat that had cluttered the thing when Davey was a kid. Wouldn't they have moldered and yellowed into powder by now? And that spinner rack with its chipped white lacquer compartments. It looked as though it had been pickled in time. And the comic books were mint originals. Giant Sized X-Men #1. The original Conan the Barbarian with that gorgeous Barry Windsor Smith artwork for God's sake!
Davey looked at his reflection again.
"Oh no
."
"Kid?"
"Oh no, no, oh no."
"Now they said this would happen," the barber muttered, gently folding the scissors closed. He was done. Davey's hair was completely restored to its original, heavy metal, shoulder-length AC-DC glory. "It's nothin' to worry about. Okay? Just the initial shock of the thing."
"Oh my God," Davey looked down at the black plastic protective gown draped over him, his new, lustrous hair falling across his face. There were no tiny hairs on the plastic. Only a long metal zipper bisecting down its middle. Davey had seen other soldiers — not many, thank God, but a few — cocooned in the same exact kind of plastic bag while being loaded onto C-130 Hercules transport planes.
"Take it easy, kid —"
Davey jerked forward with a start. He grasped the edges of the black plastic shroud and yanked it apart with a single spasm. The plastic tore in half, the zipper tumbling to the floor like a fillip of skin shed from a snake. Davey gazed down at his chest where the chambray shirt had buckled enough to expose skin.
"Oh God."
"Now don't be gettin' all riled up, kid." The barber placed a tender hand on Davey's shoulder, steadying him, keeping him in the chair. "Like I said, it's just the initial shock of the thing. Happens to the best of us sooner or later. Just take a deep breath."
Davey stared at his chest. The entry wound was small. A tiny starburst between his nipples, crusty and black around the edges but fairly clean. Probably fired from one of those 5-56 millimeter carbines used by the Republican Guard in their fox holes on the outskirts of villages. "I never — I never — I never made it outta there," he panted, looking up at the chubby barber through tears. "Did I?"
Burdette Steagal just smiled then — that same crooked grin with which he always graced his customers at the end of a long, dirty joke. "Like I said, kid. Just a place to get away. Relax. Shoot the bull for a while before movin' on."
Davey felt himself fall back into the spongy confines of the barber chair.
He started to say something else when Steagal suddenly called out, "Next!"
There was movement in the corner, and Davey swiveled in time to see Big Irma Goode rising from an armchair, setting down her magazine. She was smiling, her face restored to its olive-skinned, earnest beauty. Her hair was spikey-short, but looked as though it would be a wondrous black mane if allowed to grow out a little bit.
Davey smiled through his tears.
"C'mon sweetheart," Steagal urged, grabbing another comb from its sapphire bath, and turning toward an open seat. "We got two chairs. No waiting."
II. THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT
"An apology for the devil: it must be remembered that we have heard one side of the case. God has written all the books."
— Samuel Butler
THE PANIC SWITCH
I should have known I was in trouble the moment I saw the look on the priest's face.
"You're the fugitive agent?" the old man said, his ruined eyes peering out at me from behind the gigantic oaken doorway. Dressed in his black coat and collar, tendrils of wispy grey hair in his face, he looked to be somewhere in the vicinity of a hundred and twenty years old.
I shook my umbrella, straining my voice to be heard above the rain. "Jimmy Quint — at your service, Father."
"Good, come in, please." Father Mortimer Parrick made no effort to shake my hand or even smile. He simply gestured toward the dimly lit vestibule of St. Vincent de Paul.
I gladly stepped inside the candle lit foyer. The night had turned bitchy a few hours ago, and now the storm was having its way with the city. I shrugged off my leather jacket, wiped my water-beaded goatee, and followed the old cocker through a series of musty hallways and antechambers.
"Mr. Quint," the old priest murmured finally as he opened the door to the rectory office, "I'd like to introduce you to a dear old friend of mine."
On the other side of the door was a hushed, clubby kind of office with tall velvet curtains over the windows, and fancy walnut bookshelves teeming with antique, leather-bound volumes. There were two middle-aged men seated in arm chairs near the desk, one in a suit and nervous expression, the other in sweat pants and windbreaker. I immediately made the man in the sweat pants as the reason I was here: His lantern jawed face was a war zone, eyes rimmed in red, chin unshaven, hair mussed. He levered himself out of his chair with great effort as I approached.
"This is Evan Mirrish," the priest said, indicating the man in the sweat pants.
"Hello, Mr. Quint," the man said, his voice like a broken music box.
"Call me Jimmy," I said, and shook his hand. It was like grasping something that had recently died. Of course, I recognized the name. Sole heir to the Mirrish pharmaceutical fortune, Evan Mirrish was a regular fixture in Chicago's gossip columns. He was always breaking ground somewhere, writing checks for charities, or throwing out baseballs at White Sox games.
The priest introduced me to the other man — Tom Andrews — who was Mirrish's attorney.
"Mr. Quint comes highly recommended, gentlemen," the old man added after we all took our seats. "He's one of the most highly respected fugitive agents in the Midwest — and a good Catholic to boot."
I smiled to myself. "Fugitive agent" was the politically correct term for what I did, and the phrase had always amused me. I was a bounty hunter. In fact, at five foot nine, with my scraggly beard, long hair and skinny frame, I looked more like a drug dealer than some legendary manhunter. But that was part of the secret to my success: Nobody ever saw me coming. "I'm sorry to be blunt, Guys," I said at last, breaking the somber silence. "But I'm used to working with bail bondsmen. I just can't imagine how I'd be able to help with church business."
After a long pause and a lot of furtive glances, the old priest said, "You're familiar with Mr. Mirrish's youngest boy Christopher?"
I told him I was. The subject of much public hand wringing, the twenty year old Mirrish scion was a severe schizophrenic who had spent most of his sad life in mental institutions. But what the hell did this have to do with me?
Across the room, Evan Mirrish's face remained a mask of agony as the old priest went on: "Recently, Mr. Mirrish's son underwent a series of rites from the Roman Rituals, which I am sorry to say were not exactly successful."
Lightning flickered behind the drapes. I looked at the priest. "Rites? What do you mean?"
"The Rites of Exorcism," Father Parrick explained.
I looked around the room. Nothing but sullen, tormented faces.
"The... um... procedure," the attorney said at last, "resulted in the boy having a massive seizure, then lapsing into a coma."
After another awkward pause, I said, "I'm sorry, but I was under the impression the young man had been diagnosed with schizophrenia."
The priest said that was true, up until last year, when the signs of demonic possession became apparent. "After a long, arduous process of certification," the old man added, "the archdiocese authorized the ritual."
I told them I was sorry about the boy, then asked them again what the hell this had to do with me.
The priest reached into the top desk drawer and pulled out a fat, dog-eared manila folder. He carefully slid the folder across the blotter in my general direction. I looked at it for a moment, half expecting it to levitate and catch fire. What the hell was going on?
"The ritual is an ancient process that sometimes goes on for weeks, months — years even," the priest said, his droopy eyes on the folder as though gazing upon a wounded animal. "The boy was put through horrible agonies. Records were kept of every exchange. Different voices. Languages that the boy spoke fluently but could have never known. Violent outbursts. Photographs, journal entries. It's all there."
I looked at the folder and started to say, "I still don't understand —"
"FIND IT!"
The voice boomed beside me, coming out of Evan Mirrish like a clap of thunder, and I practically jumped out of my boots. I turned and saw the man standing on trembly legs, his fists clenched so t
ightly his knuckles were transparent. "It made my son eat his own tongue," he uttered, his gaze burning into me.
I looked at the grieving man. "I'm sorry, Sir, really, I am, but I don't —"
"Find it," he said again with that grim finality, as though he were telling me to just shut up and do my job.
After another pause, I told him I didn't understand what he was asking me to do.
"Mr. Quint," the priest broke in. "I want you to know the church is acting as an unofficial counsel in this matter, but we cannot bear the brunt of any legal —"
"Money is no object," Mirrish blurted.
"Mr. Mirrish, I don't —"
"Whatever this thing is, I want you to find it," he said, his voice tightly coiled like a spring. "Wherever it lives. Find it so we can exterminate it."
I swallowed hard, then glanced at Parrick, hoping for a voice of reason in this musty room. "Father, I just don't think I'm —"
"Historically there are precedents," the old priest murmured, looking away.
"Precedents for what?"
He fixed his ancient eyes on me. "For tracing the activities of demons — following their tracks, as it were, from one soul to another."
If I wasn't so flummoxed at that point I probably would have laughed out loud. "All due respect," I said. "But you gotta be kidding me."
The priest cleared his throat uncomfortably. "According to combined eye-witness reports, as well as testimony from attending exorcists, the entity calls itself Baal. —"
"Wait a minute, time out—"
"That's spelled B-A-A-L," the priest continued, ignoring my reticence. "On several occasions the name appeared in stigmata-like sores on the boy's body. It's all in the files, including historical background compiled by —"
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