The Devil Will Come (6 page)

Presumably, the program for this wicked little game was set up on the assumption that the player wouldn’t bother to sign. Making the computer appear sentient was a nice, macabre touch, Martin acknowledged.

He was on the point of logging off and going back to the TV when a new message came on the screen.

HAVING SECOND THOUGHTS ABOUT SIGNING? PLEASE STAND BY WHILE THE VISUALIZATION PROGRAM IS ACTIVATED.

Visualization program? What the fuck was that?

The screen suddenly came alive with motion, color, and sound. Martin was looking at what appeared to be some kind of movie that was playing on his computer. This fact presented something of a problem for him.

Martin’s elderly computer, with its black and white screen, possessed neither a sound card, speakers, nor the ability to play movies in any format whatsoever.

And there was another problem.

The star of this movie was him.

Jaw slack, Martin watched images of himself doing things he had only dreamed of.

FADE IN ON:

Martin walking into a sports car dealership and paying cash for a new Jaguar — the kind of car he had lusted to own since adolescence.

CUT TO

Martin having passionate sex with one of the actresses from “Friends,” a show he would never admit to any of his intellectual colleagues that he watched regularly in reruns.

CUT TO

Martin in an elegant apartment, unpacking a new 52-inch plasma screen TV.

CUT TO

Martin getting it on with the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders —
all
of them.

CUT TO

Martin moving into his new office — as the Chairman of the History Department at Harvard University.

CUT TO

Martin receiving an enthusiastic blowjob from the former White House intern, who looked to be as orally skilled as all the smutty rumors had said she was.

FADE OUT

The computer screen now read

YOU HAVE JUST BEEN SHOWN A MANIFESTATION OF WHAT THIS AGREEMENT WILL ADD TO YOUR LIFE. PLEASE SIGN THE CONTRACT IN THE PLACE INDICATED, AND ALL OF THIS — AND MORE — CAN BE YOURS.

Martin’s gaze went from the screen to the waiting contract, and back again. His pulse was pounding in his ears.
“What I just saw is fucking impossible, except that I just saw it. And if all these goodies are available for real, then the price must be real, too. That means I actually do have a soul — and these guys want it. They want it bad.”

Martin’s second-hand desk chair was on castors, and without consciously realizing what he was doing, he began to push the chair slowly back — away from the computer and the unholy bargain it was tending.

THIS OFFER EXPIRES IN 60 SECONDS,

the screen read now.

IT WILL NOT BE MADE AVAILABLE TO YOU EVER AGAIN. SIGN NOW, OR RESIGN YOURSELF TO A LIFE OF STRUGGLE AND MEDIOCRITY.

That was followed by

IF YOU FAIL TO SIGN, YOU WILL NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING, THUS PROVING THAT YOUR FATHER WAS RIGHT ABOUT YOU FROM THE VERY BEGINNING.

Martin just sat there, his fingers clutching the arms of the chair like claws. He was terrified that if he loosened his grip, even a little, his hand was going to reach over of its own volition, pick up a pen, and sign away his soul to the ravenous appetites of Hell.

After the passing of the longest minute in Martin’s life, the computer screen suddenly went black. An instant later, the printed contract disappeared in a micro-burst of flame and a tiny puff of smoke. It was as if the thing had been printed on flash paper, the readily combustible material that bookies used to write their bets on in the old days, before they all got computers of their own. But Martin had never owned any flash paper.

The room smelled faintly of sulfur.

After a while, Martin got up and walked on unsteady legs back into the living room. He plopped down on the couch and pretended to watch whatever was on TV, his body curled into a tight ball.

He was still lying there when dawn brought its first rays of blessed light to the windows of his living room.

* * *

“Christ, you look like something that would give ‘death warmed over’ a bad name,” Croft said. “What did you do this weekend, man — go on a bender?”

Martin sipped some coffee, then shook his head. “Didn’t drink at all, actually. I just haven’t been sleeping too well.”

Croft looked at his friend in silence for a couple of seconds. “Anything you want to talk about?” he asked quietly.

“Nah, there’s nothing going on. I’m going to try some warm milk just before bedtime tonight. My Mom always used to say that would work.”

“Didn’t your Mom also used to say that you should be a druggist?”

“Yeah, well, at least druggists don’t have to read History 102 term papers. I was grading one this morning that explained how the Russian Revolution had been brought about by that well-known Bolshevik, John Lenin.”

Croft gave a bark of laughter. “Probably the same kid who told me about that ‘damnation’ web site. Speaking of which, did you ever get in?”

“No, I quit trying about a week ago. Figured there must be more interesting ways to waste my time than looking at the same fucking ‘Site Unavailable’ page over and over.”

“Yeah, I hear you. Wouldn’t it be weird if there really was a site like that, though? Where you could log on and make a deal for your soul?”

“Sure would.” Martin took a big slug of coffee, then another. “Weird as hell.”

* * * * *

Meat Wagon

Trowbridge sat at his big oak desk, trying very hard to think about nothing. There was a catalog of police equipment in front of him, the kind of junk he received all the time, and he had been sitting there tearing it into confetti-sized pieces, one glossy page after another. He was about halfway through page 9 (“Special Prices on Riot Batons and Nightsticks, Limited Time Only”) when the intercom buzzed. Trowbridge stared at the thing as if he had never seen it before, but when it buzzed again he slowly reached over and pressed a button down.

“Yeah.”

“Chief? You wanted to know when Officer Slocum showed up. He just came in the door.”

“Okay.”

“Uh, you want me to send him to your office?”

“Yeah.”

“Will do.” The desk Sergeant’s voice, made tinny by the cheap intercom speaker, paused a moment. “Sir? Is everything okay back there?”

“No,” Trowbridge said, his voice dead as dry leaves.

He released the intercom switch and sat back in his chair, his eyes now focused on the closed door of his office. He looked nowhere else — not at the framed photos on the walls, the marksmanship trophies, the awards from civic groups, the manuals and periodicals that were as much a part of this job as the handcuffs and pistol he kept in a desk drawer. He just stared at the door until the knock came.

“Come.”

Corporal Earl Slocum lumbered in and closed the door behind him. A broad, heavy man with drinker’s veins on his nose and cheeks, Slocum had made Sergeant twice, each time getting busted in rank because of the booze. But he’d been on the wagon for over a year now, and the talk around the station was that Big Earl had a good chance to earn his Sergeant’s stripes, for an unprecedented third time.

Slocum plopped down into one of Trowbridge’s visitor’s chairs without waiting for an invitation. His heavy face was turned downward in a scowl, but the blue eyes showed a different emotion — something that looked a lot like fear.

“Where you been, all this time?” Trowbridge asked.

“The hospital— where else?”

Trowbridge nodded. “How’s Gislason doing?”

“Oh, pretty good. I mean, apart from being blind and totally fuckin’ insane. Other than that, I’d have to say he’s doing great.”

After a long moment, Trowbridge said, “What about his wife, uh—”

“Susan.”

“Susan, yeah. How’s she dealing with it?”

“How do you
think
?”

Normally, that kind of insubordination would have prompted Trowbridge to bore a bright, shiny new asshole in the cop responsible — even one he’d known as long as Slocum. But today….

Trowbridge tapped an unlabeled DVD that sat on his desk. “Gislason had his cruiser’s video cam going when he made the stop. You wanna see what it picked up?”

At first, Slocum stared at the shiny disc as if it were a grenade with the pin pulled. But after a couple of seconds, he took in a deliberate breath, let it out and said, “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

There was a DVD player and monitor on a shelf behind the chief’s desk. Trowbridge stood up stiffly and went over to the machine. He inserted the disc, turned on the monitor, and picked up the remote.

Back in his chair, he pointed the remote, pressed a couple of buttons, and then the disc started to play.

The images that came up on the screen were in black and white, but very clear and sharp. There was no audio track — police departments are usually more interested in who does what, rather than who says what. According to the digital date and time code running across the bottom of the picture, what they were looking at happened yesterday, starting at 10:18 p.m.

A country road at night
. Held in the glare of the police cruiser’s headlights is a boxy-looking truck, the kind often used for making light deliveries. But this vehicle doesn’t seem to be the property of Sears or Home Depot, or even UPS. The left side is clearly visible to the camera, and there is no company name or logo to be seen there. In fact, the whole vehicle appears to be painted a dark color, possibly black. Its rear license plate is covered with mud or some other substance, so that the number is unreadable. Even the plate’s state of origin is impossible to determine.

The truck has apparently just been pulled over. Its brake lights are still glowing, as if the driver is hoping that the police officer will change his mind about the whole thing and just drive away. Then the rear lights suddenly fade to nothing, signaling that the driver has accepted the inevitable and decided to stay awhile.

Into view walks Officer Thomas Gislason. He is a lean man with dark hair. In the stark illumination provided by the headlights he appears handsome, in an intense-looking sort of way. And he is young, that much is obvious. Gislason can’t be a day over thirty.

Gislason follows proper procedure for a traffic stop. He approaches the truck slowly, his right hand on the Glock 10 mm holstered on his hip, left hand holding the big police flashlight.

The camera does not show the interior of the truck cab, but Gislason directs his flashlight beam inside, angled so as to shine right in the driver’s eyes. This, too, is standard procedure — it blinds the driver briefly, reducing any chance of aggressive behavior while giving the officer a chance to look around the inside of the stopped vehicle while the driver recovers his eyesight.

Gislason says something to the driver. Most likely he is asking to see the license and registration, since that’s the next thing the book says you should do at a traffic stop, and Gislason appears to be going strictly by the book.

Neither license nor registration is forthcoming. Gislason speaks again and holds his hand out. But nothing is produced by the driver.

Suddenly, Gislason wrenches the door open. Then he takes a step back and motions the driver out of the cab. Nothing happens. He motions again, impatiently, but the result is the same: the driver doesn’t budge.

Finally, Gislason draws his weapon, pointing it inside the truck cab. He is speaking again, and it is not hard to guess the gist of what he’s saying.

Slowly, the driver climbs out. He is a little man — judging from where he comes up to Gislason’s six feet one, it is a fair guess that the driver barely tops five feet five. He has a potato nose set amid a seamed face that has seen at least fifty years, and hard ones at that. His head, which seems too large for the rest of him, is completely bald — whether from nature or a razor is impossible to tell. His ears are tapered, making them look almost pointy. He wears a beat-up leather bomber jacket that seems, curiously, a perfect fit for his small frame.

Gislason’s next step should be to pat the little man down for weapons or drugs, but here for the first time he breaks procedure. It is not known if he heard something suspicious from inside the back of the truck, or whether he intended to look in there from the moment he turned on his red flashers. But instead of frisking the driver, Gislason motions him toward the back of the vehicle.

Once they reach the rear of the truck, Gislason gestures toward the door with his pistol and says something. The driver looks directly at Gislason, and in the harsh light from the police cruiser’s headlights a strange expression briefly crosses the little man’s remarkably ugly face: for a moment, he actually looks amused.

Then the driver assumes an air of resignation. Moving slowly, he reaches into a pocket and produces a set of keys. He inserts one in the lock built into the base of the rear door. It turns easily, as if the lock has been kept well-oiled. He withdraws the key and takes hold of the bracket-like handle placed a few inches above it.

The little man must be stronger than he looks, because one good heave brings the door up all the way until it disappears into its recess in the truck’s ceiling.

Inside is darkness which even the light from the police cruiser’s headlights cannot penetrate. The little man takes a step back, allowing Gislason complete access to the doorway.

Gislason approaches cautiously, the flashlight in one hand and his pistol in the other. Standing a few feet from the rear bumper, he checks the inside of the truck systematically, moving the flashlight beam slowly from left to right. In the uncertain light, the walls and floor of the truck seem to be smeared with a dark substance, its color impossible to guess from the black and white video image. It might be more mud, or it might be something else.

Then the beam of light stops moving.

Gislason leans forward a little, the flashlight held still now. He appears to be calling out to whoever — or whatever — he sees in the back of the truck.

The video camera does not show what Gislason has discovered. The distance is too great, the light too dim, and Gislason himself is blocking most of the view. But there is
something
back there, something man-sized or maybe bigger. There is a hint of movement, and just for an instant, the flash of light on what might have been teeth — teeth that move rhythmically, as if they are chewing.

For a long, aching moment Gislason is frozen. Then he drops the flashlight as if it has suddenly become white hot. He takes a step back, then another. The pistol falls from his other hand, as if he has forgotten what it is for.

Even though there is no sound, it is abundantly clear that Gislason is screaming, even as he continues to back away from the truck and its contents. A few more steps bring him up against his cruiser’s front bumper and then Gislason falls backward, onto the hood. He is whipping his head back and forth now, like a man in mortal agony. The camera captures all of this, and continues to roll dispassionately as Gislason throws his hands up to his face and starts clawing his eyes out.

The camera also shows the truck driver in the background as he stands watching Gislason tear himself up. The little man makes no effort to help, or to summon assistance. His facial expression does not appear horrified, or even distressed. In fact, he barely looks interested.

Finally, after Gislason, bleeding from both eyes now, rolls off the hood of his cruiser and out of the camera’s view, the little man turns back to the truck. He looks into the darkness beyond the open door and seems to speak briefly. Then he reaches up, pulls the door back down, and locks it. His movements are unhurried and methodical.

Then, without another glance toward Gislason or the police cruiser, the little man climbs back into the cab of the truck, starts up, and slowly drives away.

Trowbridge pointed the remote at the DVD player and turned it off. “There’s not much else to see,” he told Slocum. “A motorist came along after a while, saw Gislason, and called 911 on his cell phone. The ambulance got there about ten minutes later. They put Gislason on a gurney, and they had to use restraints to stop the poor bastard from doing any more damage to himself. End of story.”

Slocum nodded gloomily. “Yeah. End of story.”

There was silence in the room for a bit. Then Trowbridge slowly moved a glass paperweight from one side of his desk to the other. “Gislason’s been on the force a little over six years,” he said.

“Yeah, seems about right.”

“You’ve been his partner the whole time.”

“Yeah.” Slocum was staring at his hands. They were big hands, to go with the rest of him, and they bore numerous small scars — souvenirs of the fights and scrapes and scrambles that the job had led him into, along with a few extracurricular bar brawls thrown in for good measure.

“I hate to ask this,” Trowbridge said, and sounded like he meant it. “But did you ever tell the kid about the Black Maria?” He pronounced it “Mariah,” like the singer’s name.

“‘Course I did. Jesus, you think I’d forget something like that?”

“Did you tell him
everything
?”

* * *

Six years earlier:

Slocum and his new partner Gislason are parked in a side street on the north end of town, watching for speeders and drunk drivers. They are on call via radio in case something bad happens elsewhere in town. It is a little past 1:00 in the morning, and traffic is sparse. The two men are passing the time in desultory conversation.

“The Jets sucked last season, and they’re gonna suck this year, too,” Slocum says, with utter certainty.

“Not with those two first-round picks they got,” Gislason replies. “I mean, their biggest problem was the offensive line, and this kid from Wisconsin they drafted—”

Then a truck comes barreling along the street they’re facing, running a stop sign and most likely speeding, as well. It is a small, delivery-style vehicle, painted a flat black, with no identifying commercial markings anywhere on it.

Gislason, who is behind the wheel, says “Got us a customer,” as he reaches for the ignition. He has been on the job exactly five weeks.

Slocum grabs his partner’s wrist before Gislason can turn the key. His grip is not painful, but it’s not particularly gentle, either. “Hold up a second, kid,” he says.

“What for? You saw the asshole run the stop sign, same as I did. I didn’t have my radar gun on him, but I’ll bet ten bucks he’s speeding, too. Which means he’s a good bet for DWI, besides. Let’s go get him.”

“Not this time. Not that truck.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I
say
so, that’s why!” Slocum’s grip on Gislason’s wrist tightens painfully for a second before he lets go.

Gislason takes his hand off the ignition and sits back, staring at the other man. “Christ Almighty, Earl, what is
with
you?”

Slocum is silent for several seconds. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm again. “Did you get a good look at that vehicle?”

“Bet your ass I did.”

“Think you’d recognize it, if you saw it again?”

“Yeah, most likely. Trucks like that, they usually have some company name plastered all over the sides and back. Haven’t seen too many that are just plain like that, and I never seen a black one before.”

“Okay, good. So listen up: if you ever see that particular vehicle again, you ignore it. You take no action whatever, I don’t care if it drives up on the sidewalk and mows down a whole class full of third graders. You understand me? You leave that truck strictly alone.”