Текст книги "Known Devil"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

We’ve all got our priorities. Mine was to put this crazy scheme into action as soon as possible, before one of Wilson’s pet cops found out what we were up to and warned him. If that happened, Wilson would be in the wind faster than a trailer park in a tornado.

But Karl had just come back from another scout of the Callaway estate, and he reported that all the guards were still in place, vigilant as ever. If Wilson had split, they wouldn’t have bothered. Probably.

For a staging area, we used a construction site where some new apartments were going up, about a mile from the Callaway place. There were no houses close enough for anybody to be disturbed as the band did its sound check. I was glad to see that the gasoline generator I’d rented was putting out enough juice to power Banshee’s big amps.

I also used the occasion to check my own hearing protection – it wouldn’t do much good for me to get caught up in the Siren’s song once it started. Vampire Karl was immune to it and didn’t need special precautions, but I’d bought a set of those metal and plastic earmuffs that airport mechanics use. They look like old-fashioned stereo headphones but give you about four times as much protection from ambient noise. I watched from twenty feet away as Scar and the boys did a sound check, and I could barely hear a thing.

When they’d finished, I took off the earmuffs and walked back to the truck. In my pocket I had two TracFones I’d bought at Vlad-Mart the day before. I handed one up to Scar. “Here, take this.”

She looked at it and said, “I’ve got my own phone, man. It’s lots better than this cheap piece of shit.”

“I’m sure it is,” I said. “But the only one who’s got the number of that particular phone is me. Put it in your pocket, will you? When that thing goes off, you’ll know it’s time to start the party.”

I went over to where Daddy Longlegs was sitting behind the wheel. “Once it starts, keep your eyes on the mirror. This works, a bunch of guys are gonna come bursting through those trees and make a beeline for the truck. They get within fifty feet or so, that’s when you start moving.”

“Keep the speed down to twenty or twenty-five,” Karl told him. “The objective is to keep them following you, not lose them.”

“I gotcha,” Daddy Longlegs said. “Just like a bunch of dogs chasing after a bitch in heat.”

“I heard that,” Scar said from the truck bed. “Who’re you calling a bitch?”

“Not you, baby,” Daddy Longlegs said. “Purely a metaphor.”

“Good thing,” she said. Then she looked at me, and the evil grin reappeared. “Shit, I don’t even like doggy-style.”

That put an image in my mind that I tried to banish by focusing on the task at hand, and the risks it involved for all of us. That worked, more or less.

“OK, follow our car,” I told Daddy Longlegs. “When we stop, come up right behind us and park. Then Karl and I are gonna drive down the road a little farther. Wait for the phone call, then crank it up. OK?”

“Got it. And thanks, man.”

“For what?”

“This here’s the most fun we’ve had in a long time.”

“Glad to hear it. I hope you still think so an hour from now.”

There was no traffic moving on Lake Scranton Road at two in the morning . Good thing, too, since there were now two vehicles driving on it without showing any lights.

After a while, Karl said, “Tree’s coming up, ’bout a hundred feet.”

We’d figured out the night before just where we wanted the flatbed to be, then marked the place by tying a handkerchief around the branch of a nearby tree. Karl touched the brakes, and we rolled to a slow stop. In my side mirror, I could see the flatbed inch up behind us until our bumpers were nearly touching. Daddy Longlegs turned the truck’s engine off, and Karl and I continued on.

Between the big house and the road was about two hundred feet of woods. That was where we expected the guard detail to come bursting through. The house had a driveway leading to the road, but Scar had told me that the men would come to her using the most direct route possible, even if it meant fighting their way through heavy vegetation.

“They’re gonna be outta their fuckin’ minds,” she’d said. “Trust me on that.”

“I will.” Then something else had occurred to me. “Those guys are all armed to the teeth. Are they likely to bring their guns with them?”

She’d thought about that for a moment. “Naw, they always drop anything they’ve got in their hands. These dudes are gonna become what you might call ‘single-minded’ real fast.”

“What if some of them have a backup piece – a handgun in a holster?”

“If it’s something they’re wearing, I guess they’d still have it,” she’d said with a shrug. “So what?”

“So, when they can’t reach you, aren’t you afraid they might shoot, out of frustration?”

“Don’t you get it, man? They won’t be interested in hurting me – they’re just gonna want to fuck me. Like they’ve never wanted to fuck anybody in their lives.”

I was giving silent thanks for the industrial-strength ear protection that I’d be wearing when she said, “I dunno – maybe after a while, we should stop the truck and let them have me. You said you wanted a diversion, right? What’s more diverting than a gangbang?”

“Scar–”

“How many guards did you say there were – six? That could make for quite a party, dontcha think?”

“Now, listen–” I’d said, but she’d stopped me with a peal of laughter.

“Don’t get your undies in a twist, man. I don’t do gangbangs – well, except for that time in St Louis, and I was drunk then. I just said it cause I wanted to see that expression on your face. Priceless!”

I’d decided then and there: if Christine ever wanted to go to college, she was not going to Mount Holyoke. Not if I had anything to say about it.

Karl stopped the car again. We’d chosen a spot that gave us a clear view of the estate’s driveway through the windshield and of the woods behind us through the mirrors. When the time came, we’d be taking the most direct route to the house – right up the driveway.

I turned in my seat, pulled a heavy canvas bag from the back seat, and put it between my feet. It contained a few things I’d persuaded Frank Dooley, the SWAT team commander, to let me have for the occasion. I know that Sacred Weapons and Tactics deals with supernaturals exclusively, but even they have to take down a door once in a while.

I put the earmuffs around my neck, ready to slip into place. Then I pulled out my TracFone and looked at Karl. “Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Do it.”

I had the number of the phone I’d given Scar on speed dial, and all I had to do was push a button. So I did – and nothing happened.

I peered at the phone in the gloom, and saw that the call had gone through. I didn’t expect Scar to answer, but I did expect to hear music. I cancelled the call and placed it again. Went through that time, too – but still no sound from the truck.

“Sweet fucking Jesus – what happened? Did Wilson’s guards get to them already? It just isn’t possible–”

Karl laid a hand on my arm and squeezed gently.

“The generator’s noisy, Stan. The kids didn’t want to get it going until you gave the word. And those amps of theirs take a minute or so to warm up.”

I felt my heart, which had felt like it was about to burst through my chest, settle back into place. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that?”

“I thought one of the kids already had. Sorry, I didn’t – OK, here we go.”

The sound of an electric guitar split the night, and I quickly put the plastic muffs over my ears.

After a few seconds I asked Karl, “What’s she singing – anything you recognize?”

Karl pulled out his notebook, wrote busily, then showed the page to me. “A punk version of Somebody to Love, that old Jefferson Airplane tune. Grace Slick should be rolling over in her grave right about now, except I don’t think she’s dead.”

“If she hears this, the shock might kill her,” I said. “Hope she doesn’t have a vacation home around here – I always liked that band.”

A little while later, Karl nudged me and pointed toward the rear window. I turned in my seat, and there was enough moonlight to see a man on the road, running hard in the direction of the truck and its singer.

As I watched, another guy burst through the trees and followed him. Then two more. Ten seconds or so later, another man stumbled out onto the asphalt and took off running. This one was limping, as if he had twisted his ankle or something. But he still ran, as fast as he was able. Then another man fought his way out of the brush and headed up the road after the others. It didn’t take him long to overtake his gimpy colleague, and he passed the limping runner without even a glance.

“OK, that’s six,” I said.

Karl held up his hand in a “Wait a minute” gesture. Good thing, too. A few seconds later, a seventh man burst out of the woods, with number eight right behind him. Like the others, they immediately took off in the direction the truck had taken.

“You said there were six,” I told Karl.

Karl pulled out his notebook and wrote, “Said I counted six. Last two stationed behind house, maybe?”

With his vampire sight, Karl could see the men much better than I could. I was sure if one of them had been Patton Wilson he’d have said so, but I wanted to be one hundred percent sure.

“Was any of those guys Wilson?”

Karl shook his head.

“Positive?”

A nod this time.

“Guess that means he’s still in there,” I said. “Let’s go get him.”

We drove up the narrow driveway to the huge house. The ground floor was dark, but I could see some lights burning upstairs. We’d gone slowly, so no screeching tires. No headlights, either. If anybody inside didn’t know we were here yet, I wanted to maintain their ignorance as long as possible.

I was reaching for the door handle when an idea struck me. “I know you’ve got extra-sharp hearing,” I said to Karl, “but do you think a human would still be able to hear Scar and the boys from here?”

He listened out the window for a moment, then nodded.

“OK,” I said, “how about this? Once I get the door open, let’s leave it that way and wait outside. If Wilson can hear Scar, he should come running out, along with any other guys he’s got in there with him. Save us having to go in after them.”

Karl gave me a grin and a big thumbs-up. We left the car and walked rapidly to the house’s immense front door, which looked to be solid oak. In the bag that Dooley had given me were a ten-pound sledgehammer, a small amount of plastic explosive for blowing locks, and a few other goodies. Karl could’ve probably torn the door off its hinges, but since he hadn’t been invited in, he couldn’t mess with the entranceway. Vampire shit is weird sometimes. Karl had been able to overcome his aversion to crosses, but the entry-by-invitation-only thing appeared to be more than just a psychological barrier.

I wanted to know just how solid the lock was, so I reached over and twisted the knob. But there wasn’t any resistance – it turned in my hand, and the heavy door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

Karl and I looked at each other. When something like this happens in the movies, it usually means the hero’s about to get jumped. But maybe Wilson had so much faith in his small army that locking the door seemed unnecessary. At least, I hoped that was the reason.

Standing to one side, I pushed the door open all the way and revealed nothing but darkness. Then Karl and I waited to see who inside the house would respond to the Siren’s song.

Nobody came out. We stood next to the door for three or four minutes, then Karl started writing in his notebook again.

“Music playing someplace upstairs,” he’d written. “Loud. Wagner? They can’t hear Scar over it.”

That explained a few things. It was disappointing that Wilson wasn’t going to come running out into our arms, but on the other hand, loud music meant nobody up there would likely hear us until we were right on top of them.

I’d left my flashlight in the car, but didn’t think it was worth fetching. I’d just step inside, invite Karl in, and with his vampire night vision we could creep up on Patton Wilson and whatever minions he might have left.

I took a couple of steps into the vast foyer and glanced around. Seeing neither light or movement, I turned back toward the open door to invite Karl inside. “Come on–” was as far as I got when somebody kicked me in the balls.

I gave a loud grunt and fell to my knees, clutching my groin. I know that a blow to the testicles isn’t fatal – not even to your love life, usually – but for a few seconds the pain and nausea emanating from my crotch became the center of my world.

I was vaguely aware of the front door slamming shut in Karl’s face. Then something hard hit me on the side of the head, and I pitched forward into blackness.

I hadn’t had a lot to eat that day, since I’d been so busy planning my own little version of D-Day. Just as well – when I came to, the urge to vomit was strong. If I’d had food in my stomach, puking all over myself would have added messy insult to the injuries I’d already suffered.

My balls still hurt, though not as bad as before. My head throbbed where I’d been whacked – probably by a gun – for the second fucking time in eight days although not in the same place, fortunately. I tried to raise my hands to my aching head and found I couldn’t – they were secured behind my back by something that felt a lot like handcuffs, probably my own. My brilliant plan wasn’t working out too well, after all.

“I know you’re awake,” a woman’s voice said. “Get to your feet.”

A woman. That explained why someone was able to lurk in the dark foyer without being tempted to run outside after Scar. Women were immune to the Siren’s song. I couldn’t remember seeing any women around Wilson before, but then I’d only met him once.

I opened my eyes and saw that the lights were on now. Getting up from the floor with sore testicles, a pounding head, and no hands to help wasn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done, but I managed. Then I turned to face the lady who had just kicked my ass.

She was above average height, about 5’8”, with broad shoulders under a short-sleeved T-shirt, with a pair of tight jeans below. The biceps revealed by the short sleeves said the lady had some acquaintance with lifting weights. Her brown hair was in tight curls and she wore it in a style that in a black woman I’d have called an afro. Under the hair was a round face about midway between plain and pretty, and its angry expression didn’t exactly make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Neither did the big revolver in her right hand.

I drew breath to speak – I had in mind to say something along the lines of “Who the hell are you?” – but she waved me quiet with a slash of her free hand. “Don’t talk until I tell you,” she said. Seeing that I wasn’t going to disobey, she went on, “I bet your ballsac hurts pretty bad, huh? I want you to think about how much worse it’d hurt if a put a bullet into it – which is just what I’m gonna do if you try to call in your vamp buddy from outside. Understand? Just nod.”

I dipped my head a couple of times, because I had no trouble believing that she meant every word she’d said.

“Good,” she said. “We’re going upstairs now.” She gestured with the gun barrel. “You first.”

She walked me to a staircase that must have been twenty feet wide. It was made of highly polished wood, like everything else in my field of vision.

She stayed several steps behind me as we climbed the stairs – a good, professional distance. I wondered if she’d been a professional bodyguard, either private or government, at some time. I didn’t try any TV hero shit on the steps, mainly because I had no desire to sing soprano for the rest of my life, however long that might be.

I hadn’t been paying attention before, but now I could hear the music coming from someplace upstairs. I recognized Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries,” but only because I’ve seen Zombie Apocalypse Now three times.

We went up two flights of stairs and turned right, then right again. That brought us to a long hall with a door at the end that seemed to be the source of the music, which seemed really loud now. No wonder Wilson, or whoever was up here, hadn’t been tempted by Scar’s Siren song.

When we reached the door, the woman knocked loudly. She had to do it three times, but then the Valkyries’ singing was suddenly cut off mid-note. From inside a male voice called, “What?”

“It’s me, sir,” she called. “We have a guest.”

“Come.”

She opened the door and motioned me inside ahead of her. I stepped into the kind of room you’d expect a rich fuck like Patton Wilson to hang around in – rich carpet, oil paintings, a big, overflowing bookshelf, and more polished wood. In the middle of it all was a desk that was probably some kind of antique, and behind the desk was the man himself.

If Patton Wilson was surprised to see me, he didn’t let it show. “You’re early, Markowski – by about a month. After the election, I was going to have you fired, preferably in disgrace, then kill you – right after you watched me stake that vamp bitch you call your daughter.”

He looked at me as if waiting for a response, but I didn’t want to get shot, especially now. So I turned to the woman, who was standing in the open doorway and raised my eyebrows.

She understood what I meant and said, “Yeah, you can talk now.” She looked at Wilson and said, “I told him downstairs that I’d shoot him in the balls if he opened his mouth without permission.”

He laughed with delight. “Sound idea. And you may get to do it yet.”

He looked at me and said, “What do you think of her, Markowski? Quite formidable, no? Meet Sheila Barnard, formerly of the US Secret Service.”

Turning to her, he said, “Sheila, this is Detective Sergeant Stanley Markowski, of the police department’s Occult Crimes Unit.”

“She beat me up downstairs,” I said. “I figured that was as good as an introduction.”

Karl was outside, somewhere. With his acute vampire senses, he might well hear me if I yelled for him to come in. Problem was, he’d get here just in time to see me dying on the floor with a bullet in my crotch.

“Would you care to tell me what happened to my guards?” Wilson asked me. “Not that it matters much – I’ll be leaving here tomorrow, since the police apparently know about this place. But I am curious how you did it, Markowski – been polishing up your commando skills, have you?”

As long as we were talking, he wouldn’t tell Sheila to kill me, so I’d talk all night and into the morning, given a chance.

“No, I’m not the commando type. I found a Siren.”

He frowned at me. “A police siren? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, a real Siren – like in The Odyssey.”

The frown got deeper. “Such creatures really exist?”

“They sure do. I found one singing in a rock band, and put her on the back of a flatbed truck, with the rest of the band and some amplifiers. Your guards were last seen chasing the truck down Scranton Road, and the singing won’t stop until the last one drops from exhaustion.”

“Thus giving me another reason why these so-called supernaturals need to be put down, like the dangerous dogs they are. And they will be, one day. Every last one of them.”

“Helter-skelter,” I said. “The great ‘race war’ between humans and supes.”

“Exactly.”

“You seem awful confident that humans are going to come out on top in that one.”

“Of course we will. It’s all part of God’s plan.”

Psychos. They all claim to know God’s plan. Trouble is, none of them can agree on what it is.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “And God told you to use the Delatassos – the same kind of creatures you say you despise so much?”

“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” Wilson quoted. “But that doesn’t restrict Him as to the tools he might use, does it?”

“And Slattery – he’s one of your tools?” I said. “And that vampire, Dimitri Kaspar?”

“Don’t be tiresome, Markowski. Of course they are. And very useful tools, too – for the time being.”

Wilson pushed his chair back and stood. “Now, then. The last time you were my unwilling guest, I kept you alive because I thought you might be useful to me. I won’t make that mistake again.”

He turned to the woman. “Sheila, take him downstairs, if you would. When you’re done, come back up here – I have another job for you.” He looked at me then, and the hatred in his eyes was like a living force. “It involves Sergeant Markowski’s daughter.”

That was the worst mistake he could have made, because it pushed me into “nothing left to lose” territory. If I was going to die anyway, it might as well be here. Karl could settle up the score for me, and at least Christine would be safe. I quietly drew in a big breath, to be sure that my last words – Come in, Karl! – would be loud enough for my partner to hear through the wall.

“Goodbye, Markowski,” Wilson said. “I wish I could say I’ve enjoyed our little talks, but frankly–”

That was as far as he got before the bam of a gunshot sounded from the hall – a shot that went into the back of Sheila Barnard’s head and exited through the front in a spray of blood and bone.

The former Secret Service agent toppled forward onto her face – what was left of it, that is. A good amount of the tissue was now decorating the wall opposite where she’d been standing. Some of the gore had even splattered Wilson himself, ruining what I’d figured to be a five-thousand-dollar suit.

A blonde guy in his mid-twenties came in then, stepping over Sheila’s corpse like it was an inconvenient mud puddle. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him, at first. I was more concerned about the big automatic he was carrying.

It looked like Wilson knew the guy, too, judging by his stare – a mix of rage and disbelief. “Jernegan! What the fuck are you doing here?”

Then it came back to me. I hadn’t known the guy’s name then, but this Jernegan had been one of Wilson’s fair-haired commando boys last year, when Wilson made his first attempt at starting a race war.

But then he had been possessed by the demon Acheron.

The possessed Jernegan had killed five people that night. I would have been number six, except Karl and Christine saved my ass at the last minute. Then the commando guy, and his demon host, had just walked away.

Was Jernegan still possessed, or had the demon moved on to somebody else?

“Me?” he said to Wilson. “I came in through the garage. One door was up – quite careless, really.” He waved the barrel of the automatic in Wilson’s direction. “Now shut up, you crazy old cunt.”

Well, there was the answer to that question. The real Jernegan would never in his life have talked to Wilson like that.

He looked at me then. “Markowski! We do seem to keep running into each other at these crime scenes, don’t we?”

I nodded. “Hello, Jernegen – or do you prefer Acheron?”

“Either will do, although the former name won’t be appropriate much longer. I’m tired of this host and moving on shortly.”

Did that mean me? Was he going to possess me?

“Keeping you alive all this time has been quite the chore, Markowski. I hope you appreciate my efforts on your behalf.”

Some things were starting to make sense now.

“That was you who took out the Delatasso soldier – the one who was about to kill me that night in the warehouse district.”

He gave a slight bow. “None other.”

“And those three guys behind Jerry’s Diner. That was you, too.”

“They were going to kill you and make it look like a mugging gone wrong. Ronnie Delatasso sent them – but without consulting with Mister Bigbucks here, who apparently wanted you kept alive almost as much as I did. But for different reasons, of course.”

“What are your reasons?” I asked him. “I mean, I’m grateful and all, but – why? Last time we met, you were going to cut my throat.”

“Yes, that was short-sighted of me. I should have realized then that I needed you alive. Just as well your two blood-sucking friends intervened.”

“But what did you need me alive for?”

“Isn’t it obvious? To locate Mister Bigbucks here for me. He and I have some unfinished business, and I was sure the two of you would cross paths again soon.”

“What unfinished business?” Wilson asked. Despite his tan, he looked white. Dead white.

Acheron went over to Wilson and slapped him hard across the face. “Did I not tell you to shut the fuck up? We’ll get to you.”

He turned back to me. “My, but I enjoyed that.”

“That makes two of us,” I said. “But if it won’t get me slapped, I’ve got the same question – what business have you got with Wilson?”

“Isn’t it obvious? It was on the orders of this septic excrescence that I was summoned from Hell.”

“I know Scranton’s got its problems, especially lately,” I said. “But I still would’ve thought it’s better than Hell.”

“Oh, it is! Of course. Immeasurably better.”

“Then why are you mad at Wilson?”

“Because he never intended to set me free – he planned to summon me, use me for his own purposes, and then send me back, just as he had so many of my brothers.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know who suffers the most exquisite tortures in Hell, Markowski?”

“There are degrees of pain down there?”

“Indeed, yes. And the very worst suffering is reserved for wizards, those who had the effrontery to impose their own will on the denizens of Hell. They all die in time, of course – and when they do, we are very eager to make them welcome.”

The way he said that made me decide right then to start attending church more often. Assuming I got the chance.

“And that’s what Wilson’s got in store?” I asked him.

A slow nod. “Most assuredly.”

“So that’s what you’re here for – to send him on his way.”

“No, not just yet. I thought a taste of Hell on Earth would be a worthy prelude to his eternal damnation.”

I hoped he wasn’t going to possess Wilson and force the man to commit various atrocities on himself. I’d seen something like that once before, and it still gave me screaming nightmares.

The only thing worse than that would be making me do it. And, then, once Wilson was reduced to hamburger, forcing me to do the same thing to myself.

Getting shot in the balls was starting to look like a more attractive option than some of the other things that could happen. But I had to know.

“What have you got in mind?” I asked him.

“First, let’s get you squared away.”

He went over to the body of Sheila Barnard. There was a pistol tucked into the back of her jeans. It looked familiar.

Acheron pulled the gun loose and held it up. “Yours, I believe?”

All I could do was nod.

Then he walked over to me and touched one of my wrists. “Your own handcuffs?”

“Yeah.”

“How embarrassing for you. Where do you keep the key?”

“Left side pocket.”

A few seconds later, my hands were free and Acheron was handing the cuffs to me, followed by my Beretta.

“There,” he said. “You’ll need those to make your arrest.”

“Arrest? Arrest who?”

“The killer, of course.”

He pulled out the gun he’d shot Sheila Barnard with and tossed it underhand to Wilson. “Here you go, Moneybags.”

Wilson’s catch was clumsy, but at least he didn’t drop the thing. I gaped – I couldn’t help it. Why would Acheron give Wilson his gun?

Something changed in the room then. Jernegan groaned and put his hands to his head as if he’d been struck. A moment later Wilson screamed, “No, don’t–”

That was as far as he got. Something in Wilson’s face changed, a transformation I’d seen before. In Wilson’s voice, Acheron said, “There, that’s better.”

He’d possessed Wilson now. Was a horror show still on the program? I hoped I wasn’t about to watch Wilson cut himself to pieces.

Jernegan was staggering around, saying things like “Where am…?” And “How did…?”

The thing that used to be Patton Wilson said, “Oh, shut up,” then raised the gun and shot Jernegan three times in the chest.

The gun going off in a contained space like the study had left my ears ringing. When I was sure I could hear again, I said to Acheron, “Not that you ever needed a reason to kill somebody, but I have to ask why you did that.”

“Well, I had no more use for him, now that I’ve found these new accommodations, and he was starting to get on my nerves.”

“Great. Just great.”

“But more to the point, Detective Sergeant, you’ve just observed Patton Wilson commit cold-blooded murder, to which you can testify at his trial. Not to mention all the forensic evidence that can be introduced – gunshot residue on my hands, and so forth.”

“Wilson didn’t do it,” I said. “You did.”

“You and I know that – but no one else needs to, do they? And adding homicide to all the other crimes that Wilson is charged with should almost certainly result in a life sentence, since your state abolished the death penalty. Life without parole, of course.”

Looking at Jernegan’s corpse, I said, “Wilson’s got enough money to hire half the lawyers in the world for his trial.”

“Yes – but he won’t.”

I turned to stare at him. “Why the fuck not?”

“Because I’m going to stay around for a while. I think I can guarantee that Mister Wilson is going to put on a very inept defense.”

“Jesus, how long are you planning to possess him for?”

Acheron winced. “I really wish you wouldn’t use that name around me. But to answer your question, I think I’ll stay with Mister Wilson past his sentencing – right up to the point where he’s about to be gangbanged in the prison shower for the first time. Then I’ll move on and let them have at him.”

“He won’t last long in that environment,” I said. “He’ll kill himself – I’d bet on it.”

“Will he? Knowing what’s waiting for him on the other side?” The smile that Acheron gave me was something I hope never to see again. “I’m quite certain that Mister Bigbucks here will prolong his life of misery as long as he possibly can – to postpone the eternal lessons in real misery that he will experience at the hands of my brethren in Hades.”

I just looked at him, unable to speak. Finally, I said, “That’s just… fucking diabolical.”

“Thank you,” the demon said. “I try.”

It was just past 2.30am, and we were taking our break in Jerry’s Diner, as usual. Tonight’s shift hadn’t been very busy so far, but Karl and I were both tired. Yeah, vampires get tired, too.

Karl drank some warmed-up blood and put his cup down. “Election’s tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I’ll have to get up early, make sure I vote before going in to work. You gonna send an absentee ballot?”