The Devil Will Come (20 page)

The Archbishop and the Monsignor look at each other for a long moment. Then Costello turns back to me and says, “A man with your unfortunate condition could be very useful to the Church in certain situations. Uniquely useful, I’d say.”

“What kind of situations?”

Apparently that tosses the ball back to Galvin, because he clears his throat and says, “Tell me, Tom, do you know anything about… exorcism?”

* * *

The demon struck with a physical impact that knocked me back a couple of steps, even though I’d been braced for it. For an instant, I sensed the evil thing inside me, knew its malice and fury, experienced its feeling of triumph.

But then I felt it pass through me like water through a sieve, felt it leave and keep on going, going, all the way back to Hell.

I heard its screams of frustration and rage inside my head for what seemed like a long time.

I’ve learned that there are rules for everything, even demonic possession. Over the centuries, holy men and women have figured out what some of them are.

Like the one that says a demon can’t possess someone without a soul. That’s not usually an issue, I guess, since almost everybody has a soul. But every once in a while, a special case comes along. Someone like me.

Another rule, they tell me, is that a person can only be possessed once. Once a demon leaves its victim, or is driven out, it can’t return to the same place. So after finding me an inhospitable host, the demon was unable to go back inside poor Art Dillard again. The damned thing had nowhere to go— except back to the Pit, where it came from.

Because I’m invulnerable to demonic possession, I’m a handy guy to have around when an exorcism’s taking place— just in case something goes wrong, like it had today.

In return for my services, the Church has all those priests and nuns praying for the salvation of my soul, which is currently believed to be residing in a cozy corner of Limbo. When I die, I guess I’ll find out how well they did.

I hope they’re all praying real hard.

* * * * *

Huff/Puff

A Fractured Fairy Tale

“B-b-both of my b-brothers have been killed,” Porgie Pig said. “Then they were dev-dev— eaten,” the pig said.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Quincey Morris told him. “But what leads you to believe that these tragic events call for someone in my field?”

“You mean the su-su-su—”

“Supernatural. Yes, exactly.”

Under most other circumstances, Morris would have lowered his voice when discussing this kind of thing in public. But traffic through Toledo Express Airport was sparse in the early afternoon. Morris and his porcine companion had easily found a table in the airport bar that was a comfortable distance from potential eavesdroppers.

“It’s b-because of the way it was d-done,” the pig told him. “In b-both cases, their houses were smashed flat by a windstorm that nobody else in the neighborhood even n-noticed.”

Morris’s eyebrows drew together. “You mean like a tornado that touched down, wrecked one house, then went back into the sky? I’ve heard that happens, occasionally.”

The pig gave him a look. “You ever hear of it happening t-twice in the s-s-same town? Within two months?”

“Yeah, that would be pretty damn unusual.”

“So unusual that the N-national Weather service has no r-r-record of it happening— anyplace.”

“Except for your town, Bowling Green.”

“N-not even then,” the pig said grimly. “There’s no record of any tornado activity, either time. Nothing showed up on their r-r-radar.”

“So you’ve got two localized tornadoes that flattened a couple of houses, and the NWS says it didn’t happen?”

“You got it.” The pig reached into an inside pocket and an iPhone. “But I’ve got the p-pictures to prove it.” He pushed some buttons then handed the phone to Morris. “This is the first one, my b-brother Timmy’s place.”

Morris studied the photo closely.

“There’s m-more,” the pig said. “Just use your finger to scroll down.”

Morris did, and saw other views of the wreckage. Then he peered closer. “What was your brother’s house made of? I can’t quite—”

“Straw,” the pig said, and had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“
Straw
? In
Northern Ohio
? Doesn’t it get a little cold around these parts in winter?”

The pig nodded slowly. “Yeah, it sure d-does.” He shrugged. “My b-brother Timmy wasn’t exactly the b-b-bright light of the family.”

“I reckon not,” Morris said, “meaning no offense to the dead. When did this happen?”

“Two months ago— May 12th. Two in the morning. Poor g-guy never had a chance.”

“You said he was killed and
eaten
?”

The pig nodded sadly. “Almost completely. The cops had to identify him b-b-by his hoof prints.”

Morris reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small leather-bound date book. He flipped through the pages for a few seconds, then stopped. He had apparently found the page he wanted, but what he found there didn’t seem to cheer him.

“What are you l-looking up?” the pig asked.

“Before I tell you, give me the date of the second tornado, or whatever you want to call it.”

“Just over three weeks ago. My b-b-b brother Petey died on the thirteenth.”

Morris flipped pages again, stopped. After a moment, he nodded to himself and put the book away.

“What were you looking up?” the pig asked again.

“My date book gives the phases of the moon for each day. May 12th and June 13th have an interesting thing in common. They both fell during the time of the full moon.”

“You think that’s sig-sig-sig— important?”

“Remains to be seen,” Morris told him. “Your other brother’s house— was that made of straw, too?”

“No, P-Petey built his from sticks.”

“
Sticks
?”

Porgie Pig made a face. “He wasn’t the g-genius of the litter, either.”

“You’ve got pictures of that wreckage, too?”

“Of c-course I do.”

“Show me.”

* * *

When the woman’s voice in his ear said “Hello?” Morris said, “Mrs. Peel, we’re needed.”

“I remember that show— one of the cable channels was showing the reruns last year. Diana Rigg sure was hot in those days, wasn’t she?”

“I think it was all the black leather,” Morris said. “But I do have a job for you, if you’re free.”

“For you, I’ll rearrange my appointments,” Libby Chastain said. “Where’s the gig?”

“A little place called Bowling Green, Ohio.”

“I thought that was in Kentucky,” Libby said.

“They have one there, too. But the Bowling Green that’s in Ohio has been experiencing some very strange weather, lately.” Morris told her what he’d learned from his new client.

When he was done, Libby said, “A black magician could conjure up wind strong enough to blow a house down, especially one made or straw of sticks. But the butchery afterward is puzzling.”

“Remember the dates,” Morris said. “May 12th, and June 13th.”

Libby was silent for a moment, then said, “Full moon, both times.” Witches, both white and black, keep track of the moon’s phases as an occupational necessity.

“Exactly. I thought that might have something to do with the fact that both pigs were devoured, almost completely.”

“You’re thinking… werewolf? Seriously?”

“Could be,” Morris said.

“Then where does the black magic come in? Lycanthropy and sorcery have nothing to do with each other, far as I know.”

“I’ve got an idea about that,” Morris said. “But I’ll tell you when you get here. You
are
coming out, aren’t you?”

“Cowboy, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

* * *

Porgie Pig’s red brick house was at the end of a cul-de-sac. Inside, three nights later, he and Libby Chastain awaited the rise of the full moon.

Libby had asked permission to use the dining room table, and had carefully laid out there the equipment she’d brought. This included bowls, small bottles, a brazier, and a foot-long metal rod that Libby had said was her wand.

“I never knew that black magic was so comp-comp-comp, er, hard,” the pig said.

“I explained this to you before, Mister Pig,” Libby said with a touch of impatience. “This is
white
magic, not black. As Quincey told you when he introduced us, I am a practitioner of
white
magic.”

“What’s the d-difference?” the pig asked.

“There are lots of differences. But one of the most important distinctions is that black magic is used to hurt people— some would say that’s its primary purpose. White magic can’t be used to inflict harm on others, and as a practitioner I’m not even allowed to try.”

“Sounds like the g-guys in b-b-black have all the advantages.”

“Not at all. White magic can be a very effective defense against black— and sometimes even turn it back on the practitioner, as I hope to demonstrate tonight.”

“I sure hope so,” the pig said. He pointed to a small rectangle of gray plastic that lay to the side of the other implements. “What’s t-that thing do?”

“This?” Libby picked it up. “Magic of a more mundane sort.” She smiled at the pig. “It’s my cell phone. And it may prove to be the most useful implement I brought with me. We’ll see soon enough.” Libby looked at her watch. “Moonrise in about fifteen minutes.”

* * *

Quincey Morris was two blocks away, standing in the doorway of a drugstore that had closed for the night. He held a pair of binoculars to his eyes, the lenses focused on the area in front of the pig’s house. It was a fairly affluent neighborhood, and there were plenty of street lights. He had been scanning the area for twenty minutes when he suddenly stopped moving the lenses and held them steady. Then he reached for his cell phone, and pressed a single button.

Libby answered almost at once. “Hi. What’s happening?”

“Mister Pig has a visitor,” Morris said. “A man, alone, dressed all in black. He’s carrying a good-sized book. I can’t get a good look at it in this light, but I’m betting it’s not the new Stephen King.”

“Pity,” Libby said. “I’ve been wanting to read that.”

“You all set up?”

“Yup. Ready for any contingency, more or less.”

“How’s Mister Pig doing?”

“To mix a metaphor, he looks ready to have a cow.”

“Maybe he’ll feel better soon,” Morris said. “Okay, the fella in black is standing in the street, facing the house. He’s got the book open, and it looks like he’s reading aloud from it. He’s starting to wave one arm around now. Yeah, there’s some conjuring going on, Libby.”

“I’d better get busy, then. I’ll put the phone on speaker, so I can still hear you.”

It was almost a full minute before Morris spoke again. “Something’s happening. The darkness between the guy and the house is starting to get a whole lot thicker, and it looks like the wind’s picked up.”

There was no response from Libby Chastain, but Morris wasn’t expecting one. A little later he said, “Some kind of funnel cloud is forming. Nothing like full size— this thing looks to be maybe twenty feet tall. The breeze is really strong now— I can feel it way back here.”

A few seconds later Morris said, “He’s pointing at the house, and the funnel cloud is obeying him. You’ve got a mini-twister headed right at you, Libby.”

The miniature tornado moved in a slow, straight line. It would be on top of the pig’s house in a minute or less, Morris estimated.

“Okay, Libby, he’s transforming— taking on wolf shape. We were right: the wizard is also a werewolf. The man uses black magic to destroy the house, then the wolf eats the occupants. But you’re not gonna let that happen this time, right?”

The words were barely out of Morris’s mouth when the tornado’s forward progress stopped, as if it had come against an invisible barrier of immense strength— which was exactly what was happening.

The tornado spun in place impotently for a few seconds— then it began to reverse course. It was heading, at the same deliberate pace, right back where it had started, which meant it was aimed right at the werewolf standing in the middle of the street.

Quincey Morris dropped the binoculars, left the protection of his doorway, and started running down the middle of the street toward the pig’s house.

Morris was in good shape and he covered ground quickly. The werewolf was running now, too, and the geography of the neighborhood meant that it had only one direction to go— straight toward Morris.

Morris stopped running about fifty yards from the pig’s house. Chest heaving, he stood in the middle of the street, feet apart, and waited. His left hand held the phone near his mouth. The right arm dangled by his side, the fingers twitching slightly.

The werewolf had seen Morris now. The half-animal brain realized that Morris was the only obstacle between the werewolf and safety. It ran right at Morris, growling, carnivore’s teeth bared.

Morris waited. The creature was about forty yards away, and closing.

Thirty yards.

Twenty.

Morris said into the phone, “Hit it, Libby! Now!”

At once, the black tornadic spiral began to dissipate. The werewolf, who either didn’t know the danger was gone or just didn’t care, kept coming.

Ten yards. Morris could hear the animal sounds the thing was making.

The werewolf was seven yards away when Quincey Morris drew the Colt .38 Special from the holster on his right hip and put a silver bullet right between its red, crazed eyes. Momentum kept the corpse traveling forward a little longer, until the dead thing came to a stop barely an arm’s length from where Morris stood.

Inside the brick house, Porgie Pig started at the sound of the shot.

“W-w-what the hell was
that
?”

Libby Chastain looked at him, a wide grin splitting her face as she said “Th-th-th-th-that’s all, folks!”

* * *

This fractured fairy tale is set, more or less, in the universe of my “Morris and Chastain Investigations” series, which is much darker, both in plot and tone, than what you’ve just read. It includes the novels
Black Magic Woman
,
Evil Ways
and
Sympathy for the Devil
, the novellas
Play with Fire, Midnight at the Oasis
, and
Strange Magic
, and the short story “Deal Breaker,” which is found elsewhere in this volume.

* * * * *