The Devil You Know (12 page)

“I
don’t think so.”

Jasper
shrugged. “Then it’s happened. Is happening. The fact is you’ve got these
fellows who look too good to be true and they’re doing something that’s having
a pretty awful effect on their victims. I suppose we should hope it’s not
incubi, that there’s a better explanation. But for now, this is all I’ve got to
offer, and from where I sit, it actually seems plausible.” He put the book back
in its spot on the shelf and closed the glass door. With a broad smile and a
sparkle in his eyes, he said, “I’m starting to smell something coming from the
kitchen. Shall we go see what Tom’s been up to?”

Marie
had smelled it, too, and though she still felt a bit awkward accepting the
invitation, she did so regardless. When they got back to the dining room, she
saw that the table had three settings laid out, accompanied by three glasses of
red wine. Tom was at the stove tending to a large, steaming pot, a dishtowel
over his shoulder. At first, he did not notice Marie and Jasper emerging from
the library, and Marie stood looking at him for a moment. Any man who would
make spaghetti for his grandfather couldn’t be all bad, she thought, and when
Tom looked in their direction and smiled pleasantly, she found it hard to
believe that he still suffered from the things he had seen and done in the war.
She wondered if it really was Jasper who took care of him, or if it was the
other way around.

“Can
we help?” Jasper asked.

Tom
whipped the towel off his shoulder, wiped his hands on it, and then killed the
flame on the burner. “Nope,” he said, tossing the towel onto the counter behind
him and nodding toward the table. “Just sit,” he said good-naturedly.

Marie
ended up staying until well past nine o’clock, amazed at how comfortable she
felt talking and laughing with the old man and his grandson. After dinner and dessert,
cigarettes and another glass of wine, she finally pulled herself from the table
with the promise to meet Jasper the next day at the bookstore just before
closing time. When she left, she resisted the urge to drive up Ivar once more;
instead, as she went home, she kept replaying parts of their conversation in
her head. If someone could have heard her thoughts, it might have been pointed
out to her that what stood out the most were the times Tom had made her laugh
or when his eyes had caught the light from the simple lamp over the dinner
table. And if this had been pointed out to her, Marie would have shrugged it
off as just coincidence, protesting that she was thinking just as much about
Jasper’s part in the conversation. In actuality, though, while she could recall
much of what Jasper’s grandson had said over dinner and dessert, she would have
been hard pressed to remember a single thing the old man had said from the
minute they had sat down at the table.

Chapter Ten

Zarafeth felt invigorated. He crossed the lobby of the
Hollywood Hotel and headed for the door, filled with the energy he had just
drawn from his latest victim. She was still up in her room and would likely
remain there for another hour or so. One more time with her and she would be
spent, he knew. He would miss this one—the way she rode him, the animal
desire she had for him. Still, he had four other women in his stable, and he
visited at least one of them every day. He would need to find another soon, but
not right away.

But as he walked out of the lobby and back onto the
sidewalk, he stepped directly into the path of a woman as she rushed past the
hotel entrance. The two collided, and he grabbed her by the arms to keep both
of them from falling over. Caught off guard, sudden rage boiled up in him, and
he almost called her a clumsy bitch. He held his tongue, though, as she blurted
out, “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t watching wear I was going.” She was a slightly
pudgy woman in her late thirties with dowdy clothes and an ugly purse, but when
she saw his face, her smile made her look almost attractive. “Oh my God!” she
began, peering more closely at him. After a moment, she shook her head and
said, “I…I thought for a second you were Clark Gable.” She gave a nervous
laugh. “It’s…uncanny.” She could not stop staring at him.

Zarafeth forced a smile and said, “My fault entirely,
madam. I hope you’re not hurt?”

“Me? Oh, gosh no. I’m just…I’m fine. We just bumped a
little is all.”

“Good,” he said, “I’m so glad.”

He was ready to give her a good-natured bow and be on his
way. She would have gotten away from him had she not kept talking. “It’s funny
I should run into you. I just love Clark Gable so much. I felt so awful for him
when his wife’s plane crashed. Didn’t you?”

“I…yes,” Zarafeth said, dumbfounded.

“I don’t normally rush around like a chicken with my head
cut off,” she rambled, “but the movie I was at ran longer than I thought, and I
need to get home to start dinner. My husband gets so upset if dinner’s not on
when he gets home.”

Normally, Zarafeth would not have pursued so plain a
woman, nor would he have considered another conquest so soon after the last,
but the more this woman talked, the more naïve she revealed herself to be. She
seemed innocent and sheltered, if not a bit cowed. But under the surface, he
could sense a longing that made his blood begin to pump faster. He began
walking in the direction she had been heading, and she fell into step beside
him.

“What movie did you see?” he asked.

“
Gilda
,” she
answered. “Have you seen it yet?”

“No,” he said, “not yet. You enjoyed it?”

“Yes, very much.” As they walked, he noticed that she
kept glancing at his face, still struck by his resemblance to Gable.

“And how often do you hide your little trips to the
movies from your husband?”

She stopped walking and stared at him incredulously.
Zarafeth turned to face her. “You’re awfully forward, aren’t you?” she asked
with narrowed eyes.

He smiled. “I suppose. Harold Easton, by the way.” He
offered his hand by way of apology.

She hesitated a moment, but then shook his hand.
“Camille. Camille Lovejoy.”

“Lovejoy?” he asked with a wide Gable grin.

“Yes,” she said. “What’s so funny?”

With a shake of his head, he said, “I don’t know. This is
going to sound forward again, but you don’t sound particularly joyful. And as
for love…”

She looked angry, and he could see that she was about to
storm off.

“He’s jealous, isn’t he? Your husband, I mean. That’s why
he doesn’t want you going to the movies without him.” He watched as her jaw
unclenched and the hard stare softened. “I don’t suppose
Gilda
would be his cup of tea anyway even if he did go with you.”

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, as she began falling
under his spell.

“And the worst part is,” he continued, “he’s really got
nothing to worry about. Isn’t that right? You’ve never given him cause for
jealousy, have you?” She nodded again at his questions, her eyes glazing over
as she stared into his. “Just the good wife, taking care of the house. The days
get long sometimes, don’t they? A movie’s not such a bad thing to fill the time
with. Nothing improper about it. But you have to hide your little bit of fun
from him, don’t you?”

Again she nodded.

“You know, Camille,” he said as he stepped closer to her
and reached up to brush at her hair, “there’d be nothing wrong with pretending
I’m him if you wanted to.”

A look of confusion spread across her face. Her voice
just above a whisper, she said, “Charlie?”

“No.” He smiled and shook his head. Then he pointed to
his own face and said, “Him. The one you thought I was.”

She shook her head quickly, as though trying to wake
herself up. Sounding more lucid, she said, “I couldn’t.”

“But you could,” he continued, his voice steady,
soothing, and persuasive. “You could. It would be easy. Do you really think
you’ll ever get the chance to bump into the real Clark Gable on the street?”

“I suppose not.”

“And if you did, wouldn’t you want him to take you into
his arms? Wouldn’t you want to know what it felt like to be Vivien Leigh or
Claudette Colbert? Just for once?”

“I would,” she said quietly. “I think I would.”

“The memory would sustain you for a long time to come.
Make it easy to get through his tirades. You’d have a little secret that would
make you smile at the worst of times.”

“I would,” she repeated.

“Good, then,” he said quietly. “It’s settled. You were
headed for your car? It’s in one of the lots down the way, I suppose.”

He linked his arm in hers, and the two walked together
along Hollywood Boulevard. Every now and then, he leaned close to whisper in
her ear, just enough to keep her focused on him and him alone.

Fifteen
minutes later, they were pulling up to a little one-bedroom house with a quaint
porch and a chain-link fence. It was still early afternoon; later the street
would be busy with children tearing up and down the sidewalk on skates and
bicycles with ragged dogs chasing after them. But now it was quiet. The
children were still in school and the husbands at work—Zarafeth’s
favorite time of day. He grinned to himself as he imagined all the bored
housewives up and down the block, and the little thrills they’d get if only
they could see what was about to go on inside this house. If he could have them
all, he would, and he knew they’d line up for an hour alone with him—even
if it meant bite marks left in their shoulders, or the sting of a lash, or an
eternity in hell.

As
soon as Camille got him past the front door, she turned to kiss him hungrily
and began undressing him right there. In seconds, his tie was undone and half
his buttons, and she was running her hands across his bare chest while her
tongue went round and round his own. “I love you,” she whispered huskily as she
started pulling at his belt. “Oh God, I love you so much.”

They
ended up in the bedroom, the shabby little bed squeaking as he took her from
behind. He held her hips, but did not need to pull her to him as he thrust.

“I
love you. I love you. I love you,” she kept gasping as she gripped the faded
metal bars on the headboard that had probably once looked like brass. Her hair
flew wildly around her head as she tossed it back and forth, making animal
grunts between professions of love. Her blouse and brassiere were still half
on, and she still wore stockings and a single shoe.

They
had left the bedroom door halfway open, and a noise from the front room behind
him drew Zarafeth’s attention. He turned just in time to see the front door
opening and a man stepping inside. He wore a laborer’s uniform and carried a
grey metal lunchbox. As he pulled his key out of the lock, he called out, “Fire
at the plant, Camille. They shut us dow—” He stood stock still as he
looked straight ahead, his gaze going across the front room, through the open
bedroom door, and directly into Zarafeth’s eyes.

Zarafeth
watched, amused, as the cuckold staggered back against the door. The husband
obviously wanted to speak, but no words came out. On the bed with her lover,
Camille was oblivious, still grunting and swinging her hair around. Zarafeth
could not resist giving the husband a smug, Clark Gable grin before turning
back to Camille and bucking his hips against her with renewed zeal.

“Camille!”
the husband finally shouted as he lurched into the room.

“Charlie!”
Camille shouted back, suddenly realizing what had happened. Her fists were
gripping the sheets now, pulling them loose, and she started trying to wriggle
away from Zarafeth, who held on tightly to her hips and scooted himself across
the bed with her. When she half turned, he locked his arm around her thigh and
flung her calf over his shoulder. The husband was bellowing incoherently like
some wounded animal, and the wife had stopped trying to get away. Zarafeth
could feel his climax approaching and would not be stopped for anything now.

And
then a deafening report filled the room. Zarafeth flew off the bed and hit the
wall beside it, turning in mid-air. On the other side of the bed, Charlie stood
holding a small revolver that had smoke drifting up from the barrel. It took
Zarafeth a moment to realize he had been shot in the shoulder. One of the
dresser drawers was open behind Charlie, no doubt the place where he kept his
gun. On the dresser, in clear view of the bed, was a wedding photo showing
Charlie and Camille some ten years younger.

“Son
of a bitch!” Charlie shouted and fired again.

This
time, the bullet hit Zarafeth between the eyes. He felt the body die, and he
left it immediately. Disembodied again, he returned to his natural state and
drifted up toward the ceiling. Below him, the Clark Gable body had already
turned to dust, and Charlie Lovejoy leaned over the bed, looking at the little
pile in disbelief. Zarafeth considered penetrating Camille’s body again just
out of spite, but then Charlie turned the gun on her and pulled the trigger.

Zarafeth
felt no regret for Camille’s passing. She was better off, he thought. The only
regret he felt was at not having been with her long enough to have pulled a bit
of her soul into himself before she died. Disgusted, he passed out of the
house, got his bearings, and followed the breeze back into the Hollywood Hills
and the sanctuary he knew he would find at Julian’s. He was terribly
disappointed. All the work he had done in the last weeks, all the strength he
had built from all the conquests he had made—all of it was gone, turned
to dust by the power of the husband’s tiny little bullet. Spitefully, he hoped
the man had killed himself after shooting Camille. In the end, it did not
matter, though. Tonight, he would have Julian make him a new body, and he would
start finding new lovers he could use to strengthen it.

It
was not, after all, unpleasant work.