The driver leaned out his window and called back:
“You need a lift, son?”
The Devil got into the passenger side and closed the door, but the driver continued to look at him expectantly. The Devil raised his eyebrows at the driver.
“Son,” the driver said. “Don’t you want to bring your cat along with you?”
The Devil controlled his features and looked to his right. A mottled gray tomcat sat on the shoulder staring up at him. As he watched, the cat stood on its hind legs and batted at the door handle, all the while never losing eye contact with the Devil.
Sitri? The Devil thought and the cat sat down, still staring at him steadily.
The Devil opened the door and the cat jumped nimbly onto his lap. Its fur was tattered and dirty; it was obviously an animal that had spent its life outdoors. One ear was torn raggedly down the side, giving it a ruffled appearance. It stared at the Devil, unblinking yellow eyes glowing mildly in the dawn light.
It is you, Sitri, isn’t it? the Devil thought. The cat blinked slowly and then bounded from his lap to the back seat. The Devil turned to look at him and the cat blinked again. Then it winked.
Putting oneself in an animal was almost unheard of, especially for higher-ranking demons, and the Devil was surprised that Sitri had done it. Animals were uncomfortable and confining and their base instincts tended to stick with the possessor. It would not be an ideal situation to be made to lick one’s own balls, want to chase mice, or to be dependent on humans. To make himself so vulnerable, Sitri must have been desperate to stay on earth…but why?
They stopped shortly thereafter at a fast food restaurant, but got their food to go. Now the well at the Devil’s feet was strewn with garbage. He’d eaten prodigiously–as had Sitri–as the driver had looked on with easygoing alarm.
Sitri you should be pleased, the Devil thought as he stared out the window at the passing scenery. It’s not a black horse, but it is transport, at least. He smiled ruefully and glanced at the cat curled on the deck under the back window.
Me, my cat Sitri, and Bill Bixby, he thought, shaking his head, heading north.
“Bet you thought I was making it up about my name, didn’t you?” The man half-grinned at the Devil but didn’t take his eyes from the road. He looked to be in his mid-fifties. He was in a suit and tie, but the suit looked rumpled and a bit ill-used. “Everyone thinks I’m making it up,” he said and shook his head with self-satisfaction. “But I’m not!”
The Devil said nothing, merely continued staring as the scenery changed gradually from pine forests and farms to strip malls and gas stations. The gas stations and stores popped up slowly at first with long distances separating them but the further north they went, they appeared with accumulating frequency.
“My father was Bill Bixby, his father was Bill Bixby…shoot, we’ve been Bill Bixbys since before Bill Bixby was born! It’s fun, though. People ask me: ‘you gonna Hulk out, Bill?’ and sometimes I growl at them, you know, just as a little joke.”
There was a weight on the Devil’s eyelids, pulling them down. He crossed his arms at his chest and tilted his head back onto the headrest.
“Tired?” Bill asked him; somewhat stupidly, the Devil thought.
“Yes,” the Devil said.
“Probably all those sandwiches you ate. You’re going into a food coma. Your cat is already in one!” Bill Bixby laughed and it was startling: a hearty ‘haw! haw!’ followed by a wheeze. “Get your rest, we’ve got about another hour or so. Probably you’re wondering why I took these local highways instead of the turnpike, well I’ll tell ya, I think…”
The Devil felt his consciousness waning. Bill’s voice floated in and out.
“…driving too fast and…”
He slipped further down, on the very edge of sleep.
“…those semis taking up too much road…”
The Devil slept.
He dreamed first of the Patrons. Their sorrowing eyes loomed large before him and stared at him meaningfully as though they wanted him to see something he’d missed. In his dream, he waved them away, angry and annoyed and his body jerked reflexively.
Then he slipped into another dream where he sat beside a hospital bed. His attention was focused on a pill cup sitting on the bedside table. He had a deep desire for whatever was in there. The feeling was almost that of being thirsty, but so much stronger–it was the apex of thirst.
“Mark,” a voice said and it was muffled and weak. He recognized the voice but it was unimportant. The important thing was in that pill cup. It nearly sang with possibility, with promise. His arm floated up as though he had no control over it; as though it was not he who reached for the pill cup.
“Mark, I’m glad you came.”
The voice again. Now the Devil fought to turn his head. To see who lay in the bed, even though he knew already who would be there…it was Kelly, in a hospital bed, and she was badly hurt. Why couldn’t he turn his head? And he realized it was because Mark hadn’t turned to look at Kelly. He’d only wanted the pill. This wasn’t a dream; this was Mark’s memory.
His hand reached out to the pill cup.
“Mark, what are you doing? You can’t take that. That’s for me…Mark, please.”
Her voice was dissolving into tears. He wanted desperately to stay his (Mark’s) hand and turn his head. He needed to see Kelly, needed to help her, find out what had happened…
He jerked himself awake, sitting up, arm reaching out.
“Whoa there, son,” Bill said. “Take it easy, okay? Anyway, like I was saying about the turnpike…they have this part where it splits–trucks go one way and cars the other–but cars can go on the truck side, and let me tell you, when I see a car picking the truck side I think to myself ‘now there goes a guy or gal with a death wish,’ because those trucks just…”
He tuned the driver out, realizing he’d barely been asleep. The dream was disturbing and at first, he wondered if it meant Kelly was hurt. But no, it was something he’d accessed in Mark’s subconscious, from his memories. Although, she had been hurt at some point, badly enough to be in the hospital. What had happened and when had it happened? A fierce protectiveness washed through him that until now he would have attributed to having possessed her brother’s body. Now he wasn’t sure. The protectiveness seemed purely his own, especially in light of Mark’s callous disregard for her.
He tightened his arms over his chest and closed his eyes again, chasing sleep.
* * *
Thomas Evigan stared in disbelief at the girl standing in his lobby. Carrie was wearing skintight jeans with black lace inlay that ran up the sides, exposing her skin to the waist on both sides of her body. She wore high heel boots that came to her knees and flared out ridiculously at the top, like pirate boots. A denim vest covered with a white, crocheted shrug that barely covered her bare shoulders completed her outfit. Her arm jangled with mis-matched bangle bracelets.
She looked like a hooker from 1985.
His mouth had dropped open and she tilted her head back and laughed.
“I look that good, huh?” she said, her voice throaty and confidential. “Yeah, I thought you would like this outfit. Plus, since we’re going somewhere fancy, I figured I better class it up.”
He recovered himself and came forward, his hand out.
“Carrie, so good to see you! You look great!” He reached to shake her hand but she bypassed it and stepped into him, her arms going around his neck. She reached to kiss his mouth and he turned his face at the last second and kissed her cheek as she kissed his. He stepped back and her arms fell. She stood awkwardly, staring at him with drawn-together brows.
He cleared his throat.
“You look gorgeous! You’ve certainly been taking care of yourself. That outfit is very…it’s so…” In his mind, he was scrapping the reservations he’d made at a very prominent restaurant and decided to take her to a local brewery instead. He’d have to get Kelly to make the change, but he couldn’t let this little mongoose hear–she’d know she was being slighted. She had an ear for it.
“It’s so what?” she said and her hands went to her hips. Her eyes narrowed. “It’s so what, Thomas? Do you like it or not? If you don’t, then you’re just a douche that don’t understand fashion.” She glanced at Kelly, but Kelly was bent over a file, minding her own business.
Thomas, who purchased hand-tailored suits and even had his French cuff shirts custom made, inwardly rolled his eyes. This was going to be a long night.
“I was going to say that it’s so fresh; so youthful. You really wear it well. Everyone at the restaurant is going to be green with jealousy that you’re with me.” He reached for her hand and smiled. “Come back to my office. It’s early yet and I wanted to talk with you a bit…get caught up.”
He settled her in his office and came back to where Kelly sat in reception.
He leaned over her and whispered his instructions, telling her to cancel Chateau Fleming and instead book a back table at the Alden Brother’s Brewery. Carrie watched from behind the half open door of his office, taking in their intimate postures. So it was like that, huh? He liked that revolting receptionist? Her eyes narrowed again. She wasn’t going to let that ugly ass bitch interfere with her plans. Not on her life.
Thomas straightened so she stepped back from the door and slid into the chair behind his desk. She sat back, bringing her legs up and crossing them at the ankles, her boots scattering pens and crumpling papers. She grabbed each boob and lifted them higher in her push-up bra and pressed them together in the v of her vest. Then she tossed her hair forward so it looked thicker (she’d seen that in a movie) and she waited for him to enter.
But instead of Thomas, the ugly bitch receptionist stuck her head through the door.
“Miss Walsh, Thomas asked me to tell you that he’d be just a minute. Can I get you a water or coffee?” Kelly smiled and it was such an open, friendly smile that it soured Carrie’s stomach.
Carrie brought her feet down with a bang and tilted forward, hands on the desk. “Yeah, get me water, and not tap water either; bring me some of the fancy shit they must keep around here–that sparkling shit. And it better be cold. Or I’ll tell Thomas to fire your ass.” Carrie had to let this chick know that she, Carrie, held all the cards. No one put on the high and mighty act when Carrie was around. She was queen fucking bee and they better not forget it.
Kelly left and returned with a small bottle of Perrier and a glass filled with ice and set them down in front of Carrie. She smiled. Carrie read pity in her smile, almost a sad commiseration, and it infuriated her. Who was this bitch to pity her? Who was she kidding?
Kelly left without a word.
Carrie swigged directly from the bottle and gagged. This water tasted terrible! Hard and minerally. Thomas walked in as she choked and sputtered.
“Are you all right?” he asked, but did not come around to her. Even in her distress, she noted this.
“I think your secretary tried to poison me! This water tastes like chemicals!” Carrie jumped up, wobbling slightly on her pirate heels. “What the fuck? What kind of losers do you have fucking employed here?” She back-handed the glass of ice, sending it sprawling, shooting ice across the desk top.
Thomas watched the ice fly and saw the crumpled papers, expensive pens on the floor, and he felt hot rage course through him. He strode forward and grabbed the bottle from her hand.
“Kelly!” he called over his shoulder and swigged quickly from the bottle. “There’s nothing wrong with this,” he said to Carrie, hissing viciously, “it’s just mineral water, you dumb hick.”
Kelly walked in.
“Yes, Thomas?”
“Kelly,” he said, keeping his eyes on Carrie as she’d sunk back down into the chair, a slapped expression contorting her features. “Could you bring us some paper towels? Ms. Walsh has had a little accident.”
He felt he’d scored a victory, putting the little hellion in her place. Certainly she was quieter, more subdued. He was glad he’d taken her in hand and glad that he’d done it by insulting her. Her type; it’s what they understood. Rule by the fist.
* * *
They were at a back booth in the brewery and from where they sat they could see the bar and the enormous, stainless steel tanks of beer behind it. The shiny pipes running in a dizzying maze around the tanks made the entire operation look like a bright Geiger. The three bartenders handed out small paper cups of the microbrews for customers to taste as they ate their fish and chips or country-style potpies.
This was a busy place, but Carrie and Thomas were out of the way and it was quieter, more private.
Thomas was looking over the menu, feeling very self-satisfied. He’d found the key, he thought, to talking to Carrie. He’d merely had to show her who was the boss and now she’d acquiesced to him. He couldn’t understand why he’d been afraid of her before. She really was just a dumb hick.
The waitress came to the table and when Carrie opened her mouth to order, Thomas spoke over her.
“We’ll each have the house salad, with the house dressing on the side, and meatloaf with the steamed vegetables instead of the mashed potatoes.” He pulled Carrie’s menu from her unresisting hands, put it with his and handed them both to the waitress. “A Saratoga for me and tap water for the lady.” He smiled insultingly at Carrie.
Carrie closed her mouth with a snap and bowed her head.
Thomas felt another thrill of victory. This would make telling her to back off just that much easier. She was completely cowed. He was delighted. He failed to notice–or chose not to–the cold, speculative glance she gave him. Her eyes were as dead as a shark’s, flat and ominous.
He decided to start right in and get it over with so he could then enjoy his meal. The waitress poured the bottle of Saratoga into his glass and the bubbles clung nervously to the side. She poured tap from a metal pitcher into Carrie’s glass. Thomas raised his glass in a salute and when Carrie didn’t raise her drink, he wiggled his at her.
“Sip?” he said and then laughed. “Okay, seriously. Let me tell you why you’re here, Carrie.”
He sat back and took a breath, looking up. This was his ‘getting ready to tell someone the cold hard facts for their own good’ stance. Carrie recognized it from the times they’d consulted at the jail. Her lips twitched in the barest hint of a sneer. Thomas was too busy getting air for his pontification to notice.