The Devil's Advocate (29 page)

"They know," he said, nodding. A thought came to him. "Do Norma and Jean ever talk about their husbands?"

"Of course."

"I mean, their pasts, their family life?"

"Some. So?"

"Anything unusual about either Ted or Dave that I don't know?"

She shrugged. "You knew Ted was adopted, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't. He never said anything to me to suggest it. The way he talked about his father's firm, I just assumed he was his natural father and his mother was his natural mother." He looked at her. "Dave doesn't talk much about his parents, now that I think of it. If he does, it's always about his father." He nodded. "Dave's mother died when he was born, didn't she?"

"So you knew."

"And I'd bet Paul's ..." He widened his eyes with the realization. "Don't you see?" He stood up. The impact of the realization was shooting through him with electric speed.

"See what, Kevin? You've really got me frightened."

"They mean it when they say this firm's a family. It is. He's their father, really their father!"

"What?" She grimaced.

"I should have known . . . the way they talk about him. 'He's like a father to me,'

Paul once said. I think they've all said it one time or another."

"Really, Kevin. They were just speaking figuratively."

"No, no, it's all making sense now. Someday Gloria Jaffee's son will be in this firm, too. And so .. ." He looked down at her. "So would your child, if you had it."

"The Jaffee child . . . twenty-five or twenty-six years from now? Will join Mr.

Milton's firm? Why, let me see," she said, closing her eyes and calculating. "Mr. Milton will be a ripe old one hundred and nine or ten by then."

"He'll be a lot older than that, Miriam. He's at least as old as creation."

"Oh, Kevin, really," she said, shaking her head. "Where are you getting these wild ideas? Helen Scholefield?"

"No."

"Then where?"

"First, from my own good instincts, whatever's left of them." He paused for a moment and then, after a deep breath, said, "Miriam, you were right about Lois Wilson."

"What do you mean?"

"In my heart I knew she was guilty of fondling Barbara Stanley. Barbara Stanley was embarrassed and frightened because initially she permitted Lois to do it, so she got the other girls involved, got them to agree to lie so she could go forward with allies. I saw the lie and used it against the prosecution. It was a despicable thing to do, but I wanted to win. That's all I cared about, winning."

"You did only what you were trained and paid to do," Miriam recited.

"What? Since when do you believe that? What happened to your revulsion at the idea of my defending her in the first place?"

"Norma, Jean, and I discussed that. It was good for me to have other lawyers'

wives with whom to share my feelings and thoughts. They helped me a lot, Kevin.

I'm glad we've come here and been around more intelligent and sophisticated people."

"No! They're not more intelligent and sophisticated; they're more evil, that's all."

"Really, Kevin, I don't understand why you're saying these things and why you suggested such a terrible thing—aborting our first child."

"I'm going to tell you everything, and after I do, you'll agree with me about the abortion. First, though, I want to see someone, learn some more, learn what to do, learn how to confirm all this so other people, you especially, will believe me."

He got up and went to the phone and tapped out the numbers for information.

When the operator came on, he asked for Reuben Vincent's number. Miriam watched him with interest as he wrote it down quickly and then tapped it out.

"Who's that?" she asked. He indicated she should wait.

"Father Vincent? Good evening. My name's Taylor, Kevin Taylor. Bob McKensie gave me your name. Is this a good time to talk? Fine. I'm very interested in the work you're doing, and I think I need your help. Would it be possible for me to see you now? Yes, tonight. I could be there in a half-hour or so.

Yes. Thank you very much. See you soon." He cradled the phone and turned to Miriam.

"Who was that?"

"A man who might be able to help."

"Help do what?"

"Beat the devil," he said and left her sitting on the bed, a look of amazement on her face.

14

There were times before in his life when Kevin felt as if he were moving in a dream. Caught up in an intense moment or doing something he had dreamed about doing so often, he saw himself as outside the actual events, an observer of himself, almost the way he had been an observer of what he thought was himself in those erotic scenes played out with Miriam. He felt the same way now.

Stopping at a traffic light on Seventh Avenue, he saw someone standing on the corner, looking his way. The man, his overcoat collar up, his hands in his pockets, his face partly in shadows, partly in dim light, reminded him of himself, and for a moment he saw himself as that man might be seeing him—crunched up intently over the steering wheel, his hair disheveled, a wild-eyed, frantic look on his face.

The light changed, and the driver in the car behind him hit his horn angrily. Kevin pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator, but as his car tore on through the night, he gazed up once in his rearview mirror to see the shadowy figure crossing the street quickly, looking like someone in flight. He drove on with that image of himself lingering on the surface of his eyes just the way light lingers for a split second after it has been turned off.

Kevin knew this section of the Village well. He had gone there often to have lunch at a nearby delicatessen. He went directly to the parking lot next to Father Vincent's building, and, just a little over a half an hour since he had called him, he rang the man's apartment and entered as the door was buzzed open.

Father Vincent opened his apartment door for Kevin as soon as he emerged from the elevator. "Right this way," he called in a deep, resonant voice. Kevin hurried toward him.

A short, stout, bald-headed man in a crisp white shirt and black slacks stepped back so he could enter.

Father Vincent had two lean puffs of starch-white hair over his ears. They combined at the rear of his head to emphasize the oval shape of his shiny crown, spotted with brown age spots. His eyebrows were gray and bushy, but his eyes were a soft, youthful blue, revealing the spirit and intellectual energy of the man. His cheeks were inflated just under his eyes. In fact, there was a bloated look to his entire face, all his features somewhat large. His chin dipped and curved smoothly, rounding off his elliptical visage.

He was barely over five feet tall, and Kevin thought there was something dwarfish about his hands. He extended his left one quickly, seizing Kevin's right hand and pumping his palm with unexpectedly strong stubby fingers.

When he smiled, the softness in his cheeks folded to form two dimples just above the corners of his mouth. Kevin decided he was a cuddly, cute man, lovable, a beardless, albeit a bit diminutive, version of Kris Kringle.

"Cold as hell out there, I bet," Father Vincent said, rubbing his hands together sympathetically.

"Yes. The wind is especially biting tonight," Kevin said, and for an instant he replayed the image of the shadowy man on the corner, his collar up against the frosty air."Go right into the living room. Make yourself comfortable," Father Vincent said, closing the door. "How about a hot drink or a stiff one?"

"I think. . .a stiff one."

"Brandy?"

"Fine. Thank you."

Kevin followed him into the cozy little living room, its furniture consisting of an egg-white large cushioned sectional, two glass and wood end tables, and a matching table at the center of the sectional. There was a dark pine rocker in the far left corner with a pole lamp beside it. On the right and to the immediate left were shelves and shelves of books. The far wall consisted of a fake marble fireplace. There was a false log with a glowing red light in it. The light blue nylon carpet looked old but not yet worn.

Father Vincent went to a small liquor cabinet on the immediate left and poured two snifters of cognac.

"Thank you," Kevin said, taking his.

"Have a seat. Please." Father Vincent gestured toward the sectional, and Kevin sat down, unbuttoning his top two overcoat buttons.

"I'll give you a chance to warm up before taking your overcoat, if you like."

"Yes, thank you," Kevin said. "This will help," he added, indicating the brandy. The drink did feel wonderful as it burned its way gently down his throat and into his stomach. He closed his eyes and relaxed.

"You look like a very troubled young man," Father Vincent said. He sat across from Kevin and studied him as he sipped his own brandy.

"Father, that's an understatement."

"Unfortunately for me, it often is." He smiled. "People come to priests or psychiatrists only as a last resort, usually. So," he said, relaxing himself, "you're a friend of Bob McKensie's, huh?"

"Not exactly a friend. I'm a defense attorney. I opposed him in a case recently."

"Oh?"

"Father Vincent," Kevin said, thinking it was best to get right down to it, "Bob explained that you have done considerable research in what we call the occult."

"It's been one of my passions, yes."

"And he told me you are a practicing psychiatrist as well as a priest."

"To be honest, I wasn't all that active as a psychiatrist. I dabble in it now and then on a part-time basis. And I'm sure he told you I have retired from my clerical duties."

"Yes. Well, to be honest, I think Bob wanted me to see you as both a priest and a psychiatrist."

"I see. Well, why don't you begin at the beginning? What seems to be the problem?"

"Father Vincent," Kevin said, fixing his eyes on the little man, "I have good reason to believe I work for the devil or the devil's advocate. Whatever we call him, he's someone or something with supernatural powers, and he uses these powers to assist the forces of evil at work in our world." He paused and took a deep breath. "Bob McKensie has told me about your work with the occult, and he assured me you wouldn't laugh when I told you all that. Was he right?" Kevin paused and waited for the elderly man's reaction.

Reuben Vincent remained stoical, thoughtful for a moment, and then nodded. "You mean all this literally, I assume?"

"Oh yes."

"No, I won't laugh, nor will I embrace your statement as would so many, what shall I call them, religious fanatics, without satisfying my own criteria. I do believe in the devil's literal existence, although I am not certain that he has manifested himself in a human form continually since the loss of Paradise. I think he has chosen his moments, much as God has chosen His."

Father Vincent pressed his hands together piously and rocked slightly in his seat, his eyes fixed on Kevin. He was such a diminutive man, it was difficult for Kevin to imagine that he could offer anything to combat the powers of John Milton.

"However," he continued, leaning forward, his eyes small, scrutinizing, "there is no question that the devil is always with us. Some of his essence exists in all of us, just as some of God's essence exists in all of us. Some believe that is all the result of Adam and Eve's blunder. I don't know whether I subscribe to that theory so much as I Feel we have the potential to be either good or bad.

"So to answer your question fully, I believe in the devil and I believe he lives in us waiting for his opportunity. Sometimes, to tempt us, he takes a human form and wins our confidence and trust in some way."

Father Vincent sat back, smiling. "What makes you think you are working for the devil himself?"

Kevin began with the Lois Wilson case, his decision to take it, and Paul Scholefield's attendance at the trial. He traced the history of events, Miriam's change in character, Helen Scholefield's cryptic warnings, the Rothberg trial, and brought his story up to his discoveries at the computer in the office.

Throughout it all, Father Vincent listened attentively, nodding occasionally, occasionally closing his eyes as if he had just heard something with which he was well familiar. When Kevin was finished, the old man did not say anything for a few moments. Instead, he got up and went to a window to look out at the street below. He stood there thinking. Kevin waited patiently. Finally, Father Vincent turned to him and nodded.

"What you say makes a lot of sense to me. Stories, anecdotes, histories, and philosophies I have read convinced me quite a while ago that the devil has a sense of loyalty to his followers. Perhaps you remember a great literary work about good and evil,
Paradise Lost,
by the English poet John Milton?"

"John Milton! John Milton!" Kevin sat up. A sharp, deep smile cracked across his face. Then he sat back and laughed.

"What's the joke?"

"It's his joke, his in joke, his own sick sense of humor. Father Vincent, John Milton is the name of the man I work for."

"Really?" Father Vincent's eyes brightened. "This is getting interesting. Obviously, you didn't recall the poetic narrative before this."

"It must have been one of those things I fudged at college, bought those summarized versions to read instead of reading the work itself."

"It's not an easy thing to read ... Latinate syntax, loads of classical references, metaphors born out of metaphors," he said, making S's in the air with his right hand like an orchestra conductor. "Anyway, according to the poet John Milton, after the devil, Lucifer, is thrown out of Heaven for leading a rebellion against God, he finds himself and his followers in hell, and he feels sorry for his followers. Milton described him as a classic leader, don't you see? He had vision, charisma, saw himself as destined to lead and care for his followers."

"John Milton cares for his associates, provides well for them: homes, money, medical care ..."