a novel
by
Justin
Gustainis
His voice, booming though the state-of-the art sound system, filled the hall and
reached out to the heart and mind of each person in the audience.
"And so, my friends, as we embark upon a new century, a new millenium, a new beginning for our great nation and its people, let us not fall victim to the comforting illusion that no battles remain to be fought. The war for the heart and soul of America will go on. Make no mistake about it, a hard and bloody fight it will be, and the victory of virtue is by no means assured."
He paused, the grave expression on his face a testament to the concern he felt for his nation and its future. Then the face, handsome by almost any standard, broke into a reassuring smile.
"But although there is no unassailable guarantee of success in our endeavors, of this much I am certain: that with God's help, you and I, all of us who fight for right, will find within ourselves the strength we seek for the struggle!"
The audience erupted into applause and cheers, as it had done four times already. But this time the approbation was both louder and longer.
In the press gallery, The Boston Globe looked up from its laptop and said to The New York Times, "Knows how to push their buttons, doesn't he?"
"Sure, but that's not hard to do with this crowd," The Times replied with a shrug. "Throw the animals a little red meat, and they'll jump through all kinds of hoops for you."
The Globe smiled tightly. "Does your editor mind you referring to the devout reactionaries of Believers United as 'animals'?"
"Not as long as I don't do it in print."
The two men resumed typing their stories as the applause from the 5,822 attendees at the Believers United annual convention rolled on like a mighty river. On stage, the man behind the podium was basking in their approval as he waited for the applause to die down.
A few minutes later, as the speaker launched into his peroration, The Times asked, in a bored voice, "Think he'll run?"
"What, for the White House?"
"Uh-huh."
"Shit," The Globe said scornfully. "He's running already."
###
At the reception following the speech, those members of Believers United willing to make a minimum $1,000 tax-deductible contribution to the cause of righteousness were given the opportunity to consume high-cholesterol hors d'oeuvres, wash them down with domestic champagne, and exchange a handshake and a few words with the evening's guest speaker, Senator Howard Crane.
Since the paying guests numbered 108, the funds raised amounted to a tidy sum. By prior agreement, the money would be split down the middle: half into the coffers of Believers United, and the rest to the fledging "Crane for President" Committee, an organization that the Senator had carefully refrained from endorsing – so far.
Fifty-four thousand dollars for two hours of schmoozing sounds like easy money, but the junior Senator from Ohio earned every penny. He did not resort to the repertory of techniques that every politico knows – the bright but meaningless smile, the quick, firm double-pump handshake, the artfully vague words and phrases that might mean anything and hence mean nothing at all. Since the support of the Christian Right was going to be vital if he was ever going to use "1600 Pennsylvania Avenue" as a return address, Crane knew he couldn't afford to go on automatic pilot. If he let his eyes glaze over, these people would notice, and remember. They were touchy about respect, and, as Crane was soon reminded, passionate about their political and social agenda.
"Fifty
thousand babies every year, Senator, butchered in those abortion mills!"
"Now they want to give out condoms and birth control pills – in the
Junior high schools. Can you
imagine?"
" Since they've got that Brady law on the books, it's just a matter
of time before the storm troopers come knocking on people's doors and
confiscating our guns, you just wait and see if they don't!"
"And the man admitted he was a queer, right there in front of the
School Board and everything, and they still couldn't fire him."
"Won't let a kid say the Lord's Prayer in school, but nobody minds if
he smokes a marijuana joint outside on the playground. Hell, some of these hippie teachers would
probably join him . . . ."
To each guest Crane gave his handshake, his attention, and his sympathetic agreement, whether real or feigned – he was sincere in his opposition to both abortion and increased gun control, but privately unsure about the degree of menace posed by the U.N. and its rumored fleet of "black helicopters."
It went on like that for the full two hours, so Crane was understandably relieved when his Chief of Staff drifted over and said softly, "We've put in our time, as agreed, and we do have that other appointment later. Do you want to get going, or are you having too much fun in Jerry Falwell country?"
Without changing his pleasant facial expression, Crane replied, in a near-whisper, "By all means, let's get out of here, before all this self-righteousness gives me hives."
His Chief of Staff gave a slight smile and a murmured "Fiat voluntas tua, Domine," before turning to address the room in a clear and commanding voice:
"Ladies and gentlemen, it was really great of you to invite us here tonight. I know the Senator would stay to talk with you all night, if I let him. But somebody's got to be the bad guy and make sure he gets his rest, so that he can have his wits about him when he goes back to running the country tomorrow."
There was good-natured laughter in response, partly at the corny humor, but mostly at the idea that the label "bad guy" could possibly refer to Mary Margaret Doyle, the tall, charming, and beautiful woman who had just paved the way for her boss's departure. And so, after a few final words, Senator Crane made his exit. As he did so, his Chief of Staff was at his elbow -- a position she had occupied often over the last nine years, ever since Crane's days as an obscure member of the Ohio legislature.
###
Mary Margaret Doyle drove the rented Dodge Stratus with the same quiet competence that she brought to everything she did. Her passenger had been quiet for some time, but, as the headlights picked out a sign reading "Welcome to Rhode Island," Senator Crane said, "Let's hope the media doesn't get wind of this little errand of ours. Laughingstocks don't get elected President in this country. Well, give or take Jimmy Carter."
"The media won't know anything about it," she said. "Right now you're in your suite at the Copley Plaza, alone, suffering from a bad headache. You have given orders that you are not to be disturbed, under any circumstances, before breakfast time tomorrow."
"Great, terrific," he said grumpily. "So if something major hits the fan overnight, something that we should deal with right away, we won't even find out about it until 7:00 in the morning?"
Mary Margaret sighed. "'Woe unto ye, oh ye of little faith,'" she quoted. "In the unlikely event that something should hit the fan, as you so elegantly put it, one of the staff will hear about it. They have orders to call my cell phone, which is right here." She tapped the black leather bag on the seat next to her. "I have no doubt that our people, properly instructed by phone, would be able to cope with your hypothetical emergency for the ninety minutes or so it would take us to return to Boston. Then we're back in the Copley Plaza through a rear door, up to the 18th floor in a service elevator to which I have obtained a key, and back in our respective rooms, in plenty of time for you to save the world, or even someplace really important, like Cleveland."
"You think of everything, Doc" Crane said. "Doc" had been his private nickname for her ever since he'd realized that her initials were "M.D." In a grumpy tone he went on, "Too bad, while you were at it, you couldn't manage to think up a more convenient time for us to go on this wild goose chase."
"The man said that Halloween night was an excellent time for it. The balance of forces is favorable, or something like that. Besides," she added, "if you really think it's a wild goose chase, then why are you here? Why aren't you back in your room, on the bed with your shoes off, watching boxing on HBO?"
"If what you've heard is true, if el-Ghaffar can really do what you say he can do, then the implications could be just . . . staggering."
"The national security implications, you mean." There was a touch of mockery in her voice now.
"Yes, damn it, that's exactly what I mean," Crane snapped. "What did you think, that I want to use this guy to get rich? Last I looked, the value of assets in the blind trust was something like six and a half million, not counting the house in Chagrin Falls."
"It's just over 7.2 million now," she said. "The annual statement arrived last week and has been sitting in your 'In' box. You really should read your mail more often."
"You know, sometimes you can be a real fucking pain, Doc."
"So can you, Senator, especially when you use that kind of gutter language, knowing full well that I don't like it."
There was stony silence for the next three-tenths of a mile. Then Crane took in a deep breath, let it out and said, "I'm sorry, MM. I just can't shake the feeling that this whole thing is going to be a colossal waste of time, and it's got me kind of cranky. But I'm sorry for the way I spoke."
"I'm sorry, too," she said. "I expect I was being something of a pain, at that. But let's not snipe at each other over this. I mean, you could be right: it could turn out to be a fool's errand. But everything I've been able to find out says there's something to it."
"Conjuring demons," Crane said, shaking his head. "Just like in the fu—uh, frigging movies."
She nodded. "Yes, I know. It sounds like very bad late-night TV – except that it might just possibly be true.
They continued south on Route 95, which soon brought them to the outskirts of Providence, although they did not take any of the exits leading into Rhode Island's capital city.
"H.P. Lovecraft country," Crane said, as if to himself.
Mary Margaret Doyle's brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"
"H.P. Lovecraft," Crane repeated. "He used to live in Providence."
"Is that someone I should know? He's doesn't work on the Hill, does he?"
Crane gave a bark of laughter. "No, he's been dead sixty years or more. Lovecraft was a writer. Quite well known, in some circles."
"I don't think I've ever come across his work," she said with something like disapproval. Clearly, if she hadn't read Lovecraft, he wasn't worth reading.
"Good to know that there are some gaps even in a Vassar education," Crane said dryly. "Lovecraft wrote a lot of stories, and some novels, back in the Twenties and Thirties. Pulp fiction, I guess you could call them, but well done, nonetheless."
"That's interesting." Clearly, she thought otherwise.
"In some ways, yeah." Crane ignored her sarcasm. "Lovecraft wrote a lot of his stories about this race of creatures he called the Old Ones."
"Sounds like the Foreign Relations Committee," she said, smiling slightly.
"Lovecraft's guys were even older than some of my esteemed colleagues," he said. "The Old Ones were supposedly on Earth long before man. They were immensely powerful, almost like gods. Eventually, some savvy humans found a way to control them, to lock them away where they couldn't do us any harm. But in Lovecraft's stories, the damn things keep getting loose."
Mary Margaret Doyle drove on in silence for half a mile or so, then asked her boss, "Is there a moral in there somewhere? Some point you're trying to make, however obliquely?"
"No, I don't think so," Crane replied.
"I mean, if you don't want to go through with this, I can take the next exit and turn around. We can stop for coffee somewhere and then head back to Boston. Believe me, I'd understand. I'm a little frightened at the prospect of doing this, myself."
The word frightened did it. "No, keep going, damn it," he said gruffly. "We started this, we'll see it through. If this guy turns out to be a fraud, it'll be something we can laugh about later, maybe."
"Maybe," she said softly. "Maybe we will."
They got off Interstate 95 a little south of Warwick, the state's second-largest city. They followed secondary roads through mostly open country, the fields bordered by the low stone walls for which rural Rhode Island is famous.
There were few road signs to guide them, but Mary Margeret Doyle never hesitated at any intersections or forks in the road. After a while, Crane asked, "I don't mean this the way it sounds, but are you sure you know where you're going?"
"Absolutely," she replied. "El-Ghaffar sent me a map. It was really quite detailed."
"Where is it?"
"I shredded it. After committing it to memory, of course."
"Of course." Crane shook his head slightly. He should have known.
They drove on for another ten minutes or so. Finally, a little west of Kingston, Mary Margaret Doyle slowed the car and began peering at the road's right shoulder, as it searching for something. A few moments later, she murmured, "Ah, there we are," and braked again before making a right turn that took the car down a narrow dirt road, tall pine trees lining both sides like sentinels.
"We're almost there," she said.
"Good," Crane replied, and almost sounded as if he meant it.
###
Another quarter-mile brought them to the clearing, and the house that stood within it. If Crane was expecting Castle Dracula, he was disappointed. The place looked like it might have once been a farmhouse, although what there was to farm in the middle of this forest Crane could not begin to fathom. In the abundant light from the full moon, he could see that the building was not quite ramshackle – the outside walls badly needed re-staining, but were all upright nonetheless; the roof appeared to be missing a few shingles, but was still intact; and the porch steps creaked when subjected to Crane's weight, but they did not break.
Since Mary Margaret Doyle had been the one to set this meeting up, he let her do the knocking at the weathered front door. It was opened almost immediately, as if someone within had been standing behind it, waiting for them to seek admittance.
The man in the doorway smiled. "Miss Doyle, I presume," he said smoothly. "What a pleasure to meet you in person, at last. Please – come in."
He ushered them in with a gesture as economical as it was graceful. They entered what seemed to be a living room, its rugs faded, the furniture old and a little shabby. As their host turned back from closing the door, Mary Margaret Doyle said, "Dr. Hassan el-Ghaffar, I'd like you to meet Senator Howard Crane."
The two shook hands. Since he'd known the man he was going to meet was an Arab, Crane found little that was surprising in the man's appearance. Hassan el-Ghaffar, who looked to be about fifty, was over six feet tall with a build that was slim bordering on skinny. His hair, black with a few touches of gray, was combed straight back from his forehead. The skin was slightly swarthy, and the face bore a few tiny craters that spoke of an early acquaintance with chicken pox, or maybe smallpox. A carefully-trimmed goatee covered el-Ghaffar's chin and upper lip. The only incongruity was the pale blue eyes, which Crane had never seen in a Semitic face before. He had no way of knowing that they were a legacy of the Berber slave traders who had abducted el-Ghaffar's grandmother around the turn of the prior century.
"I am delighted you could be here this evening, Senator," el-Ghaffar was saying. "And Miss Doyle, too, of course." The last was said almost as an afterthought, which led Crane to suspect that the Arab had not entirely shaken off his culture's traditional attitudes toward women. Too bad for him, Crane thought. Any man who underestimated Mary Margaret Doyle usually regretted it sooner or later.
"I'm not entirely sure if 'delight' describes my own feelings about this evening, Doctor," Crane said, amiably enough. "I suppose that will depend on what you have to show us."
"Ah, a skeptic!" el-Ghaffar said with enthusiasm that Crane suspected was rehearsed. "I derive great satisfaction from introducing skeptics to the mysteries of the Nether World. It is always interesting to watch them readjust their weltanschauung to the new reality that is revealed to them."
"Readjust their what?" Crane was not going to be intimidated by some intellectual's command of ten-dollar words.
"'World view,'" Mary Margaret Doyle explained. "Literally, it refers to a comprehensive way of seeing the world, as well as humanity's place within it."
"Well, whether my world view is due for adjusting remains to be seen, Doctor." Crane noticed that el-Ghaffar was looking at Mary Margaret Doyle strangely. "But if you're willing to make the attempt, I'm willing to observe."
"Of course, of course," el-Ghaffar said. "I think you will find it an interesting experience. Rather like that enjoyed by those observing the first test of the Manhattan Project, I would think." He gestured toward a door in the living room's far wall. "Come, let us descend."
Crane hoped that the use of descend was incidental, and not prophetic.
As el-Ghaffar led them down the basement stairs, Crane said, "It's interesting you should mention the Manhattan Project. I saw a documentary about it last month on the Discovery Channel. I hadn't realized before then just how much uncertainty there was about the first explosion, out there in New Mexico."
"Really?" el-Ghaffar said politely. "They didn't know what would happen when they set off the test bomb?"
"Apparently not. There were serious disagreements among the scientists. Enrico Fermi, I think it was, was betting that the nuclear blast would set the atmosphere on fire and burn up all the planet's oxygen."
"I hope the others were smart enough to take his bet," Mary Margaret Doyle said, stepping gingerly in her two-inch heels.
"Why 'smart'?" Crane asked. "You figure they should have known Fermi was wrong?"
"No," she said. "They should have known that if they lost, they wouldn't have to worry about paying up."
The two men laughed, perhaps a little louder than the witticism deserved.
"Well, you need have no such fears about this little demonstration, Senator," el-Ghaffar said. They had reached the bottom of the stairs now. "This is not the first time I have done a summoning, and there is no real danger involved, as long as we follow a few safety procedures."
The basement, which seemed to consist of one room, was larger than Crane would have guessed. It might have been designed as a "rec room" by the architect long ago, but it was clear that whatever went on in there now would not be considered "recreation" by anyone -- except maybe Johannes Faustus.
There was the pentagram, of course. Crane had done enough reading recently to recognize one when he saw it, and this specimen was hard to miss, since the damn thing was at least five feet across. The five-pointed star had been drawn on the concrete floor using a liquid that appeared brown in the uncertain light. It was probably paint or some kind of special ink, although Crane kept remembering that blood, whether animal or human, will turn brown when it dries. At each point of the star was a squat red candle, unlit, about eight inches high.
The altar was off to the right, covered with a scarlet cloth upon which a variety of symbols had been drawn in black. Crane thought he recognized a few of them, like the figure eight on its side that was the Greek symbol for infinity, but most of the rest were a mystery. Several of them appeared to be words written in Arabic, a language that Crane did not read, and which always looked like incomprehensible squiggles to him.
Atop the altar were a small charcoal brazier, a copper bell, several small ceramic bowls, an old-looking book bound in cracked leather, two candles similar to those surrounding the pentagram, and a long sword with a curved blade. Because of a boyhood fascination with edged weapons, Crane recognized the sword as an Arab implement called a scimitar.
On the floor directly behind the altar was a circle about three feet in diameter, its color the same as the pentagram. Ten feet to the left, two more circles were inscribed on the concrete, similar to the one behind the altar, but slightly smaller. It was to these that Hassan el-Ghafar, Ph.D. led his guests.
"Senator, if you will take your position within this circle here," he said, gesturing. "And Miss Doyle, inside this one, if you please."
Crane waited for his companion to correct the man's use of "Miss" instead of "Ms.,'" but Mary Margaret Doyle said nothing. Apparently there were larger issues on her mind tonight.
Dr. el-Ghaffar stepped back a couple of paces. "Very good," he said. "Now, in a moment I will seal each of your circles." He held up a cautionary hand. "Nothing that will induce claustrophobia, I assure you. But you will each be effectively protected against the demon that I will summon. It will not be able to escape from the confines of the pentagram in any case, but one always takes extra precautions when playing with fire, so to speak." He grinned briefly, the gleaming white teeth an odd contrast with the black goatee and café-au-lait complexion. "If that smile's meant to be reassuring," Crane thought, "then I think it needs a little work. He's as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs."
From a nearby shelf el-Ghaffar picked up a canvas sack about the size of a ten-pound bag of flour. Bending at the waist, he carefully poured what looked like sand around the perimeter of Crane's circle, then Mary Margaret Doyle's, before repeating the procedure on the larger circle behind the altar. The sand, if that's what it was, appeared to Crane to be shot through with small bits of blue stone. He noticed that el-Ghaffar was careful to create an unbroken circle each time he laid the sand down on the concrete floor.
"Once I start the summoning," el-Ghaffar said, straightening up, "do not leave your circle for any reason, until the ritual is completed, the demon has been dismissed, and I tell you it is safe. This is vitally important." He looked each of them in the eyes, in turn. "If you disregard my instructions, you will place yourselves in very great hazard."
"What kind of hazard?" Crane demanded. "You just said that this demon that's supposedly going to show up will be trapped inside the pentagram, right? So what does it matter whether I stay inside the circle or walk around the room on my hands, holding a rose between my teeth?"
Crane saw the pupils of el-Ghaffar's eyes suddenly dilate. He guessed that the man was furious, but making a determined effort to control it.
Crane was right on both counts. Hassan el-Ghaffar was not used to having his directions questioned, and this oafish infidel of a Senator seemed to have a knack for being both irritating and obtuse. But tonight's demonstration was a golden opportunity for el-Ghaffar. The backing of the federal government could be of incalculable value to his work -- he would be able to pursue it full-time, for one thing, instead of as a sideline to his teaching position at the University of Rhode Island. He could tell the entire Anthropology Department at URI to fuck itself, and would do so with immense pleasure. And once the government understood how few people actually had the knowledge, and the nerve, to call upon the Infernal Ones, he would be able to write his own ticket
But for now, discretion and control were called for. So instead of screaming insults at Crane, el-Ghaffar was patient. "I am a cautious man, Senator," he said. "It is true that this work involves some risks, but they are always calculated risks, which means I employ every protection available."
"That's what I don't get," Crane persisted. "What are the risks? What's the worst that could happen if something goes wrong?"
"The worst that could happen?" The Arab shook his head at the man's ignorance. After a moment he said, bleakly, "Senator, I ask you to believe me when I tell you this: you do not want to know."
"Well, why –"
El-Ghaffar held up his hand, palm out like a traffic cop. "Please! I would enjoy discussing this issue with you at length, but our time grows short. We must be ready to begin by midnight. But let me first ask you something: have you seen that famous movie about the shark, Jaws?"
A shrug from Crane. "Sure."
"Then I ask you to consider what you would do if you were in the position of the marine biologist in that film, as he was being lowered into the sea in a shark cage. This water, remember, contains an immense Great White shark, to which you would be little more than an appetizer, if it could reach you. Now, you are in the cage, you trust the cage, the manufacturer claims that it is proof against any shark in the world. But, as you are about to be lowered into the water, someone asks you if you would like a tube of shark repellent, for a little extra protection. Tell me, Senator – would you refuse it?"
The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Then Crane shrugged. "You draw a nice analogy, Doctor, although I'm not sure you've established your premise." He sighed once, then said, "All right, no more questions for now. We'll stay in our circles until you say otherwise. Right, Mary Margaret?"
Mary Margaret Doyle had been silent throughout this little contest of wills. "Of course we shall," she said now, with utter seriousness. "I never contemplated anything else."
Crane looked at her sideways for a moment, but said nothing. El-Ghaffar glanced at his watch and walked quickly over to the altar, saying, "There is still time, if we hurry."
There was a steamer trunk on the floor about fifteen feet behind the altar. El-Ghaffar opened it, reached in, and brought out a garment of black cloth with red adornments sewn onto it. With a quick, practiced motion, he slipped it over his head and passed his arms through the armholes so that the robe fell into place, its hem exactly one inch above the floor. Crane noticed that the symbols on the robe were the same as those on the altar cloth; only the color scheme was reversed. El-Ghaffar bent over the trunk again and came up with a skullcap in the same scarlet color as the altar cloth. As the Arab carefully positioned the cap atop his head, Crane noticed that it bore the "infinity" symbol in black, exactly in the center.
Hassan el-Ghaffar took his position behind the altar, making sure that both his feet were well within the circle. He opened the ancient-looking book to a page that had been marked with a black ribbon. Glancing over at his guests, he said, "I will perform the ceremony in Arabic, since my grimoire" – he gestured toward the book – is written in that language. Also, it is my native tongue and I am least likely to make any mistakes that way. It will be incomprehensible to you, but be patient. You will find things becoming interesting before long."
"Don't tell me," Crane muttered to his companion. "You'll be able to follow along, because you speak Arabic too, right?"
"Actually, no," Mary Margaret Doyle said. "I don't know a word of it."
"My God, sometimes you really do surprise me."
She smiled slightly. "This may be a night full of surprises. Now, hush."
From the depths of his robe, el-Ghaffar produced an ordinary Zippo lighter and lit the altar's two candles. Then he passed his left hand over them several times, reciting something in a language that Crane assumed was Arabic, although the words themselves meant nothing to him.
El-Ghaffar suddenly stopped speaking, drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, and blew it out forcefully through his mouth.
"Seems pretty fucking stupid, blowing out the candles," Crane thought, "after just going through all the trouble of lighting the damn things."
But the candles were not extinguished by el-Ghaffar's vigorous exhalation. Instead, something appeared to flash through the air from the altar candles over to where the pentagram had been drawn in the floor. An instant later, the five candles at the pentagram's points sprouted tiny blossoms of flame and were soon burning brightly.
Crane stared at the newly-ignited candles
for a second, then, on a hunch, shifted his gaze just in time to catch the
glance that the Arab sent his way.
"Yeah, I thought so. Wants to see how well the conjuring trick is
going over. Well, it's not bad,
although I think I saw something as good from Siegfried and Roy last year in Vegas. You're going to have to do better than that,
buddy-boy.
From Crane's perspective, nothing all that intriguing happened over the next half-hour or so. El-Ghaffar read aloud from what he'd called his grimoire, rang the bell from time to time (always for five strokes on each occasion), made mysterious-looking gestures in the air and generally bored Crane half to death.
Then, finally, he lit the brazier.
He first dropped in powders from the ceramic bowls. Crane noticed that each substance was of a different color: first there was blue, followed by green, then brown, then, finally, red. After adding the last ingredient, el-Ghaffar held his hands, palms down, over the brazier, read another few words from the book, then clapped his hands together, hard.
The material in the brazier burst into flame. It burned brightly for a few moments, then subsided to a glow that gave vent to a rather thick, gray smoke.
Crane had been watching the procedure closely. "That's a little better", he thought. "I didn't see anything drop into the bowl while he was clapping. Of course, some substances will spontaneously combust when you combine them. Or maybe there's a heating element hidden inside that brazier. But it's a pretty good trick, anyway."
El-Ghaffar's voice was louder now, and had taken on the rhythmic quality of a chant. Among the incomprehensible Arabic words, Crane was starting to hear one that he thought he knew. He had seen plenty of news footage of various Arab crowds around the world denouncing America as "the great Satan," so the word Shaitan was familiar to him. El-Ghaffar was using the word frequently now.
There were no windows or ventilation ducts in the basement, and Crane had noticed no cracks in the walls that might provide a draft from outside. But, even so, the smoke from the brazier was moving now, flowing inexorably toward the pentagram some twenty feet away.
"Now you're talking," Crane thought, "or, rather, chanting. I can't figure this trick out at all. Wonder if Doc knows how he's doing it?"
He glanced at Mary Margaret Doyle and saw that her expression was serious, verging on grim. Her eyes were narrowed, and a vein in her neck was visibly pulsing in response to the pounding of her heart. Crane decided to save his smartass question for later.
The gray smoke was gathering in the center of the pentagram now, and had grown noticeably thicker. El-Ghaffar's chanting was reduced to one word, and he was saying it over and over, louder and louder: "Asmodeus. Asmodeus. Asmodeus. Asmodeus! Asmodeus! Asmodeus!! ASMODEUS!!"
The smoke in the pentagram's center was swirling, congealing, forming and reforming, and finally took on a shape that was vaguely humanoid. Then the gray mist began to dissipate, leaving the figure in plain view.
Crane's suspicion that he had been watching a crudely produced magician's illusion evaporated – not unlike the smoke that had been shrouding the pentagram. In place of his skepticism now was something that was a blend of awe and fear and disgust.
The center of the pentagram was occupied by a rotting corpse. At least, it should have been a corpse, except that it was standing, apparently under its own power, and the head was questing back and forth, as if it could see all three of them even though the eye sockets contained nothing but a steady stream of maggots that seemed to be issuing forth from the putrescent skull cavity.
The figure was naked, which gave the three humans the opportunity to observe the precise condition of its decaying flesh, to note the places where the flesh had disappeared completely to reveal white bone matter, and to consider the number and variety of necrophages (beetles, worms, and the maggots, among others) that were finding the unquiet corpse a tasty treat.
The grotesque sight had been present only for a few seconds when its odor hit them like a great polluted tide. It was a smell that the liberators of the Treblinka death camp would have recognized all too well – an amalgam of rot and filth and shit and decay that almost but not quite made Crane and Mary Margaret vomit.
Hassan el-Ghaffar appeared displeased, but not especially surprised. "Hearken unto me, disobedient one!" he said sternly, in English now.. "Thou wert summoned, as per agreement, and bidden to assume a pleasing form. Do so – now!"
Despite the lack of both lips and tongue, the thing in the pentagram answered, in a voice that was both deep and cultured, rather like James Earl Jones at his most charming. "My form is pleasing to me," the voice rumbled.
"Well, it pleases neither me nor my companions," el-Ghafar said. "Change now, lest I smite thee!" He picked up the long, curved sword from the altar and held the blade an inch or so above one of the candles.
"Peace, peace, I hear and obey. Act not in haste." For Crane, it was the height of incongruity to hear that voice, so alive and vigorous, coming from something that you might find buried deep in a Mafia-owned landfill.
Then, in an instant, the image of decay and death was gone, replaced by something that was manifestly, defiantly alive. The sculptors who ornamented the Parthenon could not have envisioned a figure of human perfection to rival what now stood in the center of the pentagram. The man stood about six feet, with a cap of tight black curls that matched the black eyebrows which, in turn, perched elegantly above the piercing blue eyes. The body was literally perfect -- muscular, tight, tan, and toned, without a scar or blemish. This was not the extreme overdevelopment of a bodybuilder, but rather strength and speed and flexibility brought to the epitome of grace and form usually associates with statues of Ancient Greece's athletes.
And since the man was naked, it was not difficult to observe that his sexual endowment was entirely consistent with the rest of his physical perfection. Indeed, even as confirmed a heterosexual as Howard Crane found it difficult not to stare at the large, erect penis that protruded from below the flat, muscular stomach.
"Thy form is now much more pleasing to the eye, not to mention the nose," el-Ghaffar said. "Whilst thou art briefly among us, great Asmodeus, I will ask of thee certain simple tasks, well within thy powers to perform." He gestured toward Crane and Mary Margaret Doyle. "These companions of mine would know of thy power, thy wisdom, thy knowledge of this world's affairs, even of those things which certain Kings and Princes regard as their most closely-held secrets. In return, I shall reward thee as promised in our bargain, made freely and duly signed by us both, in mutual obligation."
"I don't think that will be necessary."
The voice was Mary Margaret Doyle's, the first time she had spoken in almost an hour. Both men stared at her in amazement, which quickly turned to shock as, almost casually, she stepped outside the circle.
Crane was mystified. She had appeared to be taking this business seriously from the beginning, whereas Crane's suspicion had evolved into tentative belief only in the last few minutes. "Is she trying to debunk this whole thing? Is el-Ghaffar a fraud, after all? Did she notice something that I've missed?"
If Crane was confused, el-Ghaffar looked stupified. He gaped, open-mouthed, as Mary Margeret Doyle walked briskly over to the pentagram. The demon trapped inside it seemed to be the only one who did not find her behavior unusual. Instead, he appeared to be watching with great interest..
Mary Margaret Doyle approached one of the candles burning at the pentagram's five points, and, with a quick sideways move from her left foot, kicked it over.
This brought Hassan el-Ghaffar out of his shocked silence. "You stupid cow, what are you doing? he screeched. "Put that back where it was, immediately! Quickly, before it goes out! Do it now! Do you hear me, you fucking cunt?"
Mary Margaret Doyle turned to look at el-Ghaffar. Instead of the shocked and angry expression that Crane expected to see as a response to the Arab's obscene insults, there was only a wide smile on her face. The smile remained in place as, a moment later, she glanced down to check the tipped-over candle's position, raised her left foot again – and, in one quick motion, stomped the flame into extinction.
What followed, one-tenth of a nanosecond later, was a sudden release of energy that knocked all three of the humans off their feet. There was no sound of detonation, no flying debris, just a force of immense power that burst from the center of the pentagram, and if there was any noise from it at all, it was something that resembled a cry of triumph, although it was a sound that had never issued from any human throat.
El-Ghaffar was the first one to regain his feet, although he did so slowly, awkwardly, like a punchdrunk boxer determined to answer the bell for the last round, even if it killed him. Blinking rapidly, he looked toward the pentagram, noted that the four remaining candles had been reduced to smoking pools of melted wax, and that the same fate had befallen the two candles that had been burning atop the altar. Otherwise, the basement remained unchanged, with one notable exception.
The center of the pentagram was empty.
Mary Margaret Doyle stood up next, a little unsteadily. El-Ghaffar looked at her, but the rage was gone from him now. In its place was something that any veteran of World War One would instantly have labeled shellshock. But even in his benumbed condition, el-Ghaffar was still capable of experiencing surprise, and what surprised him now was the realization that he was still alive, that all three of them were alive and apparently undamaged.
Howard Crane was just getting to his feet as el-Ghaffar said, "We should all be dead," he said in wonderment. "There are cases like this on record, going back centuries, stories of demons who were conjured and then somehow got free of their fetters."
Crane dusted himself off without speaking, left the now useless protective circle, and walked stiffly toward the altar.
"All these stories, these legends," el-Ghaffar continued, "they are absolutely consistent in their accounts of what occurred after the demon escaped: it slaughtered every person in the conjuring chamber, usually with extreme cruelty and mutilation."
Crane had reached the altar, but el-Ghaffar paid him little mind. Nothing Crane might do could possibly matter now. If he noticed Crane's hand closing on the handle of the long, curved scimitar, he gave no sign of it, remaining instead preoccupied with his monologue.
"It makes no sense, when you consider the malign nature of demons," el-Ghaffar said. "I can't understand why Asmodeus failed to kill us all."
Crane spoke then, but his voice sounded nothing like the pleasant tenor that el-Ghaffar had heard earlier in the evening. This was a voice from a nightmare. "It's quite simple, really," the voice rasped. "This time there are bigger stakes involved."
In his addled state, el-Ghaffar was slow to understand. In the three or four seconds it took him to comprehend what had happened, something that had until recently been Howard Crane took two steps forward, the scimitar in its right hand The Arab's mouth was just starting to open in a scream when Crane's arm swung in a fast, vicious arc.
There was a wet sound of impact, followed a moment later by a soft thud, as el-Ghaffar's head hit the floor. A long second passed before his body followed.
The thing that had once been Senator Howard Crane turned then, blood dripping from the scimitar's blade, to look at Mary Margaret Doyle. She stared back, her eyes wide, her body rigid as a marble statue. Then, suddenly, the grin lit up her face again. "That was nicely done," she said. "You've got quite a stroke there."
Crane's mouth smiled in turn, an expression with more than a little lust in it. "Once we are alone, in the hotel, I will show you other strokes that I am capable of. All night long, for a beginning."
"I should certainly hope so," she said. "It makes me wet just thinking about it."
The Other turned Crane's head to look at the decapitated corpse on the floor. "He died too quickly," it said with regret. "I would have liked to give him a foretaste of Hell, before consigning him there."
"I know," Mary Margaret Doyle said sympathetically. "But we shouldn't be away from Boston too long. As you said, there are bigger stakes involved – Mister President."
Something that had once been Howard Crane chuckled softly. "I like the sound of that title. I could get used to it."
She gave her head a toss. "If all goes according to plan, perhaps you'll have the opportunity to do so."
It nodded Crane's head a couple of times. "Yes, the plan. It is a good plan, and promises to bear much fruit. We have you to thank for that. My Father is pleased with you. When the final victory is ours, you will be rewarded."
She bowed her head then, humbly accepting the approbation of the Prince of Darkness Himself. But when she straightened up, there was a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Perhaps you can provide a foretaste of my reward by fucking my brains out on a regular – a very regular -- basis."
"My pleasure," it said, with a slight bow in return.
"Not entirely," she said. "Shall we go?"
At the base of the stairs, she looked back at the Arab's body. "What about him?" she asked indifferently.
The Other shrugged. "There are rats in the walls. They will dispose of him, a little at a time."
They climbed the stairs, and soon there was the sound from outside of a car starting. Three or four minutes later, the first rat crept into the basement through one of the many gaps in the house's foundation. Its whiskers twitched as it sniffed the damp air. The smell of blood was strong, and the rat was hungry.
It did not stay hungry long. Nor did its many relatives.