The Devil Will Come (4 page)

“Which is none too sharp,” Frain said, looking at his own utensil.

“—with his none-too-sharp steak knife,” Rodelle went on, “how are we supposed to know he’s really the guy? What prevents you from just making the whole thing up and then picking some customer at random to star in your little melodrama? Huh?”

“Can you see our problem now, Jimmy?” Frain asked. He changed the pitch of his voice to show that he was playacting, then said, “‘Excuse me sir, we’re with the FBI. Sorry to bother you, but the man who was just with us, that’s right, the one walking out the front door even as we speak, well, he told us that you were a notorious serial murderer, so we’ll have to ask you to come with us so we can straighten this out. Your wife can start lining up a good lawyer for the false arrest lawsuit while she’s waiting for you to be released for lack of evidence, which you sure as hell will be.”

Jimmy Platt looked at Frain bleakly. “You need some kind of proof before you can bust him.”

“That’s right,” Frain said. “It one of those annoying Constitutional things. They call it ‘probable cause.’”

The three men ate in silence for another couple of minutes. Then Platt looked up again and said, “If you knew which one it was, you could follow him when he leaves here, right? Tail him, like on TV?”

“Now, why would we want to do that, Jimmy?” Rodelle asked. He didn’t seem amused any longer.

Platt waved his fork, as if the answer were self-evident. “See where he goes, where he lives! There’s got to be a
ton
of evidence in his apartment, or hotel room, or wherever he’s staying. And in his car, too, probably. Don’t most of these wackos keep, like, souvenirs from their victims?”

“They’re called ‘trophies,’ moron,” Frain said. “We’re not talking about a weekend in Atlantic City here, you know?”

“But, call them what you like, Jimmy — yeah, you’re probably right,” Rodelle said. “Might be all kinds of incriminating stuff in his car, his living space, maybe even in his pockets — and we couldn’t go near any of it without a warrant, signed by a judge.”

“For which we’d need to show probable cause, just to get the judge to consider the damn thing,” Frain said.

“Exactly,” Rodelle said, nodding.

“I don’t fuckin’ believe this!” Jimmy Platt said. “You’re telling me that there’s not one damn thing you can do? Even if I hand you this guy on a
platter
?”

“That’s about it,” Rodelle said. “Under the circumstances, we couldn’t even question him.”

Platt narrowed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them wide. “All right, what about this, then? I go in front of the judge with you, tell him what I know about this guy. Hell,
I
could be your probable cause! Then you get your warrant, tail him, search his place, all that stuff you were talking about.”

“Great idea,” Frain said, as if talking to a three-year-old. “But while we’re finding out where the closest Federal District Judge is, and driving there, and getting a hearing on our petition for one or more warrants, what do you suppose your buddy The Reverend is gonna be doing? Think he’d wait right here for us until, I don’t know, lunchtime tomorrow?”

“It takes
that
long?”

“It’s entirely possible,” Rodelle said. “Plus, that assumes that the judge agrees to give us a hearing right away, and that we’d get the damn warrant — which we might not, since a convicted felon in custody, no offense, Jimmy, might not be the most credible basis for an application.”

“And let’s not forget the biggest problem of all,” Frain said. “Assume, just for giggles, that all this stuff we’re talking about could actually happen — and that’s an assumption the size of Utah. But, okay, say we get the search warrants, we follow the guy that you finger as The Reverend, search his room, his car, his pockets, and so on. And say that we turn up some major evidence: Polaroid pictures of all the victims’ bodies, maybe. You know — something totally incriminating. So, all right, we bust the guy, and eight or nine months from now the case comes to trial. His lawyer challenges the search and seizure, and we say ‘Well, we had warrants,” and the lawyer says, ‘What was your probable cause?’ and we say ‘we had an ID, courtesy of Jimmy Platt, counterfeiter extraordinaire,’ and the lawyer says, ‘Let’s put Mister Platt on the stand and hear about this so-called probable cause of yours,’ and we say, ‘Well, uh, you see, there’s kind of a problem with that, counselor. Right about now, Jimmy’s probably laying on the beach in Pago-Pago, sipping rum punch and drawing fifty dollar bills freehand, since we kind of agreed to let him escape right after he fingered your client for us.’ And like that.”

“‘And like that’ means what?” Jimmy Platt asked sourly.

“It means the search warrants would probably be thrown out,” Rodelle told him. “Which means the fruits thereof, such as those hypothetical photos of the victims, also get thrown out. Which means the accused walks. Oh, and it also means that Frain and I get fired, for whatever
that’s
worth.”

Jimmy Platt swore, softly but vilely, for several seconds. Then he took in a deep breath, let it out, and picked up his fork again.

As Platt went back to work on his dinner, by now mostly cold, Frain and Rodelle exchanged looks. The two had worked together for almost six years, and they did not always need words in order to communicate.

At the end of this brief, unspoken dialogue, Frain shrugged while turning up one corner of his mouth, which his partner interpreted to mean,
Go ahead, if you want to
.

Rodelle turned his attention to their prisoner. “Jimmy, listen,” he said. “We might be able to manage this much: if you tell us which one of these customers is the guy you supposedly saw that night, we’ll stick around until he’s ready to leave. I’ll follow him outside and get the license number of whatever he’s driving. In the morning, I’ll call a guy I know in Behavioral Science at Quantico. If he’s not working this Reverend case, he’ll know who is. I’ll pass on the license number, along with a physical description, and where he was last seen. If the car is registered or rented in the suspect’s real name, they’ll be able to make an ID, then check him out. If any of that leads to an arrest, we’ll make sure the judge knows about it at your sentencing hearing. It could make a difference, who knows?” Rodelle shrugged. “Best we can do, under the circumstances. What do you say?”

Jimmy Platt put down his fork, picked up an almost-full glass of water, and drank deeply, gazing at Rodelle over the rim. Then he replaced the glass on the table, and a ratty grin slowly spread across his face. He began to chuckle softly. “Jesus, I really had you two clowns going for a while there, didn’t I? I thought for a minute that you were actually gonna go for it, just for a chance to bust that evil killer, Mister Reverend.” Platt shook his head in amazement. “Do you guys still put out milk and cookies for Santa on Christmas Eve? Am I gonna have to break the sad news about the Easter Bunny, too?”

Frain looked across at Rodelle and murmured, “I told you.” Platt glanced at him, then let the grin disappear. He leaned as far over the table as the handcuffs would let him, and took on a conspiratorial manner. “Listen,” he said to Rodelle, “I don’t know anything about this Reverend dude that I didn’t read in the paper, but I can still make this worth your while. I’ve got some land in South Florida that I can let you have at a bargain price, since I probably won’t be able to visit it for the next ten years or so. It’s a place called Everglades Acres, and—”

Frain yanked angrily at the handcuffs and jerked Jimmy Platt back to his former position. “I want you to sit still and shut up, asshole,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just remember, it’s still possible that you could fall down and hurt yourself before we get to Washington. You might even fall down two or three times, know what I mean? So just
shut your fucking mouth
.”

To Rodelle, whose face was flushed with anger and embarrassment, Frain said gently, “The waitress is over your right shoulder, Mark. Why don’t you flag her down and get us the check? Let’s get out of this roach palace.”

The three of them left the Athena a few minutes later. As they walked toward the door, Jimmy Platt kept his gaze straight ahead of him. He did not look at any of the diner’s other customers. He especially did not glance in the direction of the man with short black hair who was eating alone in booth 11.

* * *

“You look tired. Long shift?”

Carmen Ruiz glanced up from the dinner check she was totaling. She had noticed earlier that the guy in Booth 11 was kind of cute: about thirty, good build, blue eyes, black hair worn fashionably short. The only unattractive thing about him was something that Carmen had noticed while taking his order: he had a crucifix tattooed on the palm of each hand. Maybe he was some kind of religious nut, but at least he wasn’t acting weird; he’d been polite, even a little flirty, each time she had stopped by to take his order or bring him something.

Was he trying to seriously hit on her now? If so, he was due for disappointment, cute or not. Carmen, although unattached, absolutely refused to go out with guys she met while working. You could never really tell about strangers, and there were an awful lot of scary people loose in the world.

But his question seemed innocent enough, so she gave him a medium smile and said, “Not yet. Dinner rush is always pretty hectic, you know, but I only came on at five.”

He glanced around the dining room. The three men from the corner booth, who had seemed to be having some kind of intense conversation throughout their meal, were just departing. “Seems to be clearing out a little. Maybe things will slow down for you soon.”

“Could be,” Carmen said, placing his check in front of him. “But I don’t mind working hard, and most of what I make comes from tips, anyway.”

The man smiled gently. “A good point,” he said, “and a timely reminder, too.” He reached around to his hip pocket and pulled out a wallet. “Do I pay you, or up front?”

“At the register, please,” Carmen told him. “And come back and see us again, okay?”

The man nodded slowly. “Sure will.”

Carmen smiled a quick farewell and went off to attend to her other customers. The man in Booth 11 watched her go. The red aura surrounding her was clear to him now, almost blinding in its brilliance.

It was too bad, in a way. She seemed like a pleasant, hard-working young woman. But the aura told him, as clearly as God’s handwriting on King Belshazzar’s wall, that she had been Chosen.

He never questioned God’s decisions, or failed to obey His commands. After all, God had given him wisdom and serenity, after allowing him to escape, years ago, from that terrible place where the doctors had put him.

But nothing came without a price, not even God’s mercy.

He had acquired the cross tattoos, as God had commanded. And he had made sin-offerings whenever called upon to do so. There had been eight sacrifices, so far. He had seen God’s messages in the auras, and had obeyed His word.

A deal is a deal, after all.

If the waitress had started her shift at 5 o’clock, then she would almost certainly work until the diner closed at 2:00 a.m. She would leave, probably by the back door, sometime between 2:00 and 2:30.

He would park his van back there and wait, the chloroform, handcuffs, and knives all ready for the offering that God demanded of him.

He would keep his bargain.

* * * * *

Again the Burning Times

The Reverend Matthew Hopkin threw open the door and strode into the Magistrates’ robing room. “Your pardon, my Brothers,” he said, a little breathlessly. “I had ridden but half a league when Jeremiah threw a shoe. I had to lead him home and then saddle his brother Ezekiel, who is not quite so swift a steed.”

“It matters little,” the Reverend Hugh Bolton said with a tight little smile. “A proceeding of this gravity cannot commence without the presence of the whole tribunal. We would scarce have begun without you, Brother.” The barely veiled sarcasm was Bolton’s idea of subtlety. Glancing in his direction, Hopkin thought that Bolton’s black robe and ample girth made him look like a fat crow — the kind you see perched atop the gallows, eager for fresh meat.

“Would not your life be made easier if you lived within Salem proper, Matthew?” Roger Dufrain asked mildly. “You could spare yourself such a long journey each day.” At 30, Roger was the junior of the three judges, and his unlined face with its ruddy complexion emphasized his relative youth. Some among the people thought that, in his robes of office, Roger resembled a choirboy — an opinion that was widely shared but never spoken aloud.

“The Lord did not intend for our lives to be easy, Brother Roger,” Hopkin replied while hastily donning his own regalia. “Else He would not have sent The Great Fire to test us. Besides,” he added with a slight smile, “the daily ride to and fro is my only chance for the quiet contemplation that seems to elude me elsewhere.” Dufrain returned the smile — he knew that Hopkin had six children at home.

“Well, the matter pending should not detain us long,” Bolton declared. “The girl is clearly guilty.”

Hopkin stopped buttoning his robe and turned slowly to stare at Bolton. The Chief Magistrate’s blue eyes were icy, although his voice was deceptively mild, at first. “Well God save us, Brother Hugh, I wish you had included that information in the summons that brought me all this way in such haste. We hardly need put ourselves through the trouble of swearing witnesses and examining evidence, since the Reverend Hugh Bolton, with the wisdom we normally accord only to the Lord God Almighty,
has already determined the outcome of the case
!”

Bolton flinched in the face of such vehemence. “I— I only meant that the facts seem clear. After all, there was enough evidence to order the warrant for a search. You did sign it yourself.”

“Aye, I did, and with good reason. However, a warrant is one thing, my Brother, and proof of guilt quite another. Otherwise, all that we three do in presiding over this court is but a sham, a mockery of God’s justice.” Hopkin took a step forward, then another. He stood barely an arm’s length from Bolton, now, and his voice was dangerously quiet as he said, “And I will have no part in such a mockery — not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Is that abundantly clear to you,
Brother
?”

“Yes, yes, of course it is, I meant no… that is, I never mean—”

“Perhaps we might prepare to take the bench, my Brothers,” Dufrain said calmly. “The people await us, as they have done for some little time, now.”

Hopkin took in a deep breath, expelled it, and let the anger fade from his face and voice. Still staring into Bolton’s porcine face, he said, “As usual, our younger Brother speaks sensibly.” He stepped back from Bolton, glad to be away from the rancid odor of the man’s breath. Settling his Chief Magistrate’s robe more comfortably on his shoulders, Hopkin said, “Come then, my Brothers. Let us do our duty, as God is our judge. For, surely, He will be.”

* * *

“…and it was shortly after 10 of the clock that my sister’s fever broke, God be praised. I stayed a while longer, but then she bid me return home to care for my own family. So it was just shy of midnight that I walked past that girl’s window and heard the Devil’s voice.”

“Your pardon for a moment, Goodwife,” Hopkin said. Then, turning his head, he called out, “Bailiff, the daylight grows faint. Be so good as to have the lamps lit.”

A few moments later, as the oil lamps bestowed upon the courtroom their flickering light and distinctive odor, Hopkin asked the witness, “What gave you to think it was the voice of the Devil, and not simply an ordinary man speaking within the house?”

Goodwife Trixie Abbandando frowned in thought. “The
tone
of it, Your Lordship. It were not like the voice of a living man,” she said finally. “It sounded… tinny, and far away, like. I knew right off something was not right about it.”

“And what did you do then?” This was from Dufrain.

“What any Christian would do. I crept to the window, stood on the very tips of my toes, and peeked inside.”

“What did you see?” Dufrain asked.

“I saw that girl, that Susan Bright—” She pointed an accusing finger toward the dock “—sitting at a small desk, at which a candle burned. Before her, she had an infernal device, a wicked tool of Satan. It was from there that the voice came forth.”

“And what did it say, this Devilish voice?” Bolton asked. “What evil thing did you overhear?”

The witness hesitated. “Well, I could not make out any word, Your Lordship. I were too far away.” Her voice hardened. “But I saw the wicked thing clearly, and I know this much: the apple tree produces naught but apples, and never will. The mouth of Satan does not bring forth the Gospel.”

“Please, Goodwife Abbandando, restrict yourself to the facts, as you witnessed them,” Hopkin said gently. “Leave the interpretation to others. Now, tell the court what you did after you saw what the accused was doing.”

“Why, I continued on home, fast as my two legs could carry me. Told my husband what I’d seen, soon as I was inside the door. He said I must tell the Court of it, straight away. So, first thing the next morn, I did.”

Hopkin glanced at each of his fellow judges in turn. Seeing that neither had more questions, he told the witness, “Be so good as to rise and approach the evidence table.”

As Trixie Abbandando stood at the long table that ranged in front of the judges’ bench, Hopkin asked her, “Do you see before you the device you first spied in Susan Bright’s bedroom?”

A number of objects were arranged upon the table, but the woman pointed to one without hesitation, although she did not allow her finger to actually come in contact with it. “This is it here, Your Lordship. This is the Devil’s tool I saw!”

She had indicated a rectangle of wood, about 10 inches by 7. Upon it were affixed several small metal objects of different sizes connected to each other by bits of thin, insulated wire. The three judges looked at the object with interest. So did many of the spectators, who remained in their seats but craned their necks to see.

The witness was dismissed. Over the next two hours, the court heard from several others.

The Sheriff who executed the search warrant described the results of the raid on the Brights’ home, pointing to the evidence table several times in explaining what he and his deputies had seized.

Neighbors of the Brights testified as to how they
might
have heard unusual sounds coming from the accused’s household, but weren’t certain. The witnesses’ answers were carefully calculated for their own protection — to deny any knowledge at all might leave them open to criticism if the girl were convicted; to admit suspicion of her activities could bring punishment for not reporting it voluntarily.

The girl’s parents were called, each in turn. They both denied any knowledge of Susan’s possession of the infernal device. But they also refused to condemn their daughter, saying that she was a God-fearing child who, if she had sinned, had done so from the foolishness of youth, not evil intent.

Hopkin thought he rather liked them for that.

Then it was time to question the accused herself.

Susan Bright, all of sixteen years old, was sworn and duly seated. Her reddish-brown hair was swept back from a face that might be beautiful one day. Her gray eyes were blinking rapidly, and she gripped the arms of the witness chair tightly, as if to keep her hands from trembling. She was clearly terrified.

As well she might be
, Hopkin thought.
This business could cost her the highest price there is. In this world, at least.

Hopkin led off the questioning, as was customary.

“Susan,” he said gently, “You have heard Sheriff O’Bannion testify how he did discover that—” he gestured toward the device “—in your room. Do you deny that it was there?”

“No, Your Lordship.” Her voice trembled a little.

“And you have also heard Goodwife Abbandando swear that she saw you use it to coax forth voices. Do you deny this?”

“No, Your Lordship, I do not.”

This caused murmuring among the spectators, which Hopkin silenced with a glare. Turning back to the witness, he asked sternly, “Do you therefore admit to being in league with the Devil?”

The girl began to shake her head to and fro, saying, “No, Your Lordship, no, never! I have naught to do with the Evil One, or with any of his works!”

Hopkin leaned back in his chair, signaling to Bolton that he might take up the interrogation.

Peering at the witness with his piggy eyes, Bolton said slyly, “This instrument you were seen using, when did the Devil give it to you?”

“The Devil never give it to me, Your Lordship! Never!”

“How then did you come by it?”

“It were my brother’s. I found it one day, among his things.”

“Your brother! What is his name? Is he in this courtroom?”

“His name is — was — Jonathan, Your Lordship. He died last year, of the cholera.”

“Dead is he? How very convenient!” Bolton’s sarcasm was as ponderous as his wit. “How do you propose we question this brother of yours, then — through necromancy? Has the Devil taught you that forbidden art, as well?”

“I know nothing of necromancy! I know not even what it is! I have no truck with the Devil!” The girl began to weep softly.

Bolton drew breath to speak. but Hopkin touched his arm lightly. The fat man subsided, looking like a spoiled child being denied a third piece of cake.

Hopkin waited for the girl to compose herself, then nodded to Dufrain.

“So, you believe the device belonged to your late brother?” Dufrain’s voice was clear and calm, with no hint of Bolton’s theatrics.

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

“Know you how he may have come by it?”

Susan Bright hesitated. “I— I think mayhap he did build it, Your Lordship.”

There was more murmuring, which Hopkin again stifled with a stern look.

Dufrain paid the spectators no heed. “How could a mere boy fashion a device such as that?”

“He told me he had found a book, your Lordship. In the ruins of an old house, out in the countryside.”

“The Devil’s book!” cried a woman from the third row of seats.

Hopkin banged his gavel once, loudly. “This court will be in good order,” he said sternly, “or this court will be cleared!”

Once calm had been restored, Dufrain asked the girl, “Can you identify the book your brother used? Is it among these here?” He gestured toward the evidence table, on which rested several volumes seized from the Bright home.

She approached the table as if it had teeth and claws. Glancing up at Hopkin, she received a nod of encouragement, and stepped closer. After only a moment’s perusal of the stack of books, she picked one out. “This is the one, your Lordship. Jonathan said he found the knowledge in here to build the device. He said it was something called a… a rah-DEE-o.”

The word was repeated in a dozen or more muttered remarks before Hopkin gaveled the courtroom quiet. He bid Susan Bright return to the witness chair, and signaled to Dufrain that he wanted to take up the questioning again himself.

“Even if you did not make or procure this device yourself, Susan, why did you employ it to listen to the Devil’s voice?”

“I had never touched it afore that night, your Lordship. I knew not how to operate it, but I must have touched something in error, for suddenly there was this voice that came from it. I was so surprised, I just sat there before it, listening.”

“Do you not know the danger of giving attention to the words of Satan, child?” Hopkin’s voice was not unkind.

“But they could not have been Satan’s words, your Lordship,” she protested. “It were a man’s voice, true. But it were praying — praying to the Lord Jesus….”

* * *

“The poor twit of a girl meant no harm. She used bad judgment in keeping her brother’s little toy rather than turning it over to proper authority, but methinks she is no more a worshipper of Satan than I am.”

The courtroom was empty, except for the three magistrates. It had been so for nearly two hours as they deliberated.

“I tried my best to break her, as you saw, but she never abandoned her account,” the Reverend Hugh Bolton went on. “Some small chastisement may be in order. Mayhap the father should be instructed to take a strap to her, redden her buttocks so that she must take her meals standing for a week. But even such as that may be unnecessary — the trial itself has taught her a valuable lesson already, I’ll wager.”

“Before court, you had declared her already tried and convicted, Hugh,” Hopkin said quietly.

The big man shrugged uncomfortably. “As you rightly pointed out, Matthew, my judgment was too hasty. I had failed, although briefly, to pay heed to the oath we all have sworn. But the evidence seems clear, now.” He shook his head solemnly. “There be no witchcraft here — just a silly girl who chanced upon a dangerous plaything.”

“The evidence supports
no
such notion,” Roger Dufrain snapped. His boyish face was set sternly. “The girl knew the dangers, yet she willingly ignored them. She deliberately invoked the demon Technology.”

Dufrain walked to the evidence table and picked up the book that Susan Bright had identified in court. “Look you here,” he said, pointing to the cover illustration. It showed an adolescent boy holding a thin glass tube with a rounded bottom. The boy was staring raptly at the tube, which was partly full of some liquid that bubbled fiercely and emitted a stream of smoke. Above the image were printed the words, “101 Science Projects.”