And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
Some of them that stood there, when they heard that, said, This man calleth for Elias. And straightway one of them ran, and took a sponge, and filled it with vinegar, and put it on a reed, and gave him to drink.
The rest said, Let be, let us see whether Elias will come to save him.
Jesus, when he had cried again with a loud voice, yielded up the ghost.
And, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent; and the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose, and came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many. Now when the centurion, and they that were with him, watching Jesus, saw the earthquake, and those things that were done, they feared greatly, saying, Truly this was the Son of God.
“Back again, officer?” asked the checkout woman. It was the same too-slim, lank-haired cashier from the night before, though her shoulders were slumped and her eyes ringed in darkness. There was a sharp, bloodshot craziness in her gaze, but she smiled all the same. Samael walked toward the soft drink refrigerators.
“What did I have last night, Diet Dr Pepper?”
“Yes,” she answered, a little too quickly. As Samael pulled open the case door, he glanced toward the woman. Her face was haunted. “Did you pull a double shift?”
“Yeah. Time-and-a-half pay. Will that be everything?”
“How about another Sun Times?” asked Samael as he approached the counter.
“Out of papers,” she said. “Tell you what? How about a free Hustler, on the house?”
“Aren’t those Sun Times?” he pointed to a stack of six or seven papers.
“Yesterday’s. Here. Here’s that magazine, and take the soda, no charge.”
Samael looked down at the cover – a woman with enormous breasts that emerged from beneath a sailor shirt. “I don’t want the magazine, but let me see a paper.”
She bit her lip but turned around, stooped, and pulled the top paper from the stack. Folding it, cover inward, she handed it over. “Free. Gratis. Have a nice day.”
He unfolded the paper and saw his own police photo, and a caption explaining that he would be dressed as a policeman.
“They already were here,” she said, beginning to cry.
“All I said was that you were here about eight last night and that you were friendly and paid for everything. I swear, that’s all. And, I swear I won’t call them to say you were here again. I won’t tell a soul.”
Refolding the paper, Samael said, “How much do I owe you?”
She laughed through her tears. “Really, mister, it’s free.”
“How much?”
Closing her eyes to add the figures, she blurted, “A dollar eighty-nine.”
“Here’s two.” He said, “When they come back, tell them again how I was polite and paid for everything.”
“I won’t tell them anything, honest.”
“Just tell them the truth. Tell them what I was like. Tell them what I was.”
TWENTY-TWO
The cover story was, of course, about him. It told that a Father Destry of St Charles Church had sent parishioners running from the sanctuary, telling them, “Get out quickly and quietly. Call 911. The Son of Samael is here.” The priest and his minivan had then disappeared. One of the women who fled saw someone carry Father Destry, put him in the minivan, and cover him with plastic. The man’s description matched that of the Son of Samael.
Chicago’s chief of police urged strict caution until the serial killer was apprehended – keeping doors and windows locked, asking proper identification of any workers who come to the door, not admitting anyone unfamiliar. Even these precautions were not certain to make a person safe.
“This killer strikes at any time, day or night, public or private, high-risk or low-risk,” the chief warned.
“He’s charming. A genius – psycho. Unpredictable. Don’t think you’re safe just because you’re not a streetwalker. Watch yourself. Watch your families, your neighbors. We’re gonna get this son of a bitch.”
Samael blinked – a genius psycho. The chief was waxing poetic: Studs Terkel with a badge. The reporter called him on it: When asked whether the Son of Samael was the toughest killer that Chicago cops had faced, the chief replied, “You kidding? This guy’s no Gacy. He’s just a lowlife. He’s used to picking on Cheeseheads. He’s in Chicago, now. He’s got Chicago cops to deal with – well-trained, wellequipped, an army of cops now. We’ll catch him.”
Samael shook his head. “Your well-trained army isn’t worth one Donna Leland. She got me. You never will.”
There was a sidebar article embedded in one corner of the main story. Its headline drew his attention.
“I BOUGHT THAT BASTARD A PAST”
AP International
Story and Photo by Blake Gaines
“I bought that bastard a past,” confessed Marge Billings early yesterday morning. Her husband, Derek Billings, was slain by his cell mate, the Son of Samael.
One week prior to the murder, according to Mrs Billings, she had contacted “forgers and hackers” to create a false history for the Son of Samael.
“Derek made it all up, and [told me] who to call and what to pay,” said Mrs Billings. “I should have just given [the Son of Samael] the ten thousand. Then maybe Derek would be alive.”
Asked why her husband would do this, she said, “He thought they were friends. He liked to be the knight on the white horse. He was an***hole.”
When asked about the now-famous photo album that showed William B. Dance and his brother, Billings commented, “That was Derek’s album. He thought it a nice touch.”
“If this is true,” commented Judge Sandra Devlin, who had remanded the Son of Samael to a mental institution instead of a prison, “I was wrong.”
True or not, Mrs Billings named names. Four arrests have already been made, including the heroin addict hired to play the Son of Samael’s older brother, James.
FBI computer criminologists have discovered two files in William B. Dance’s record that contain “the classic flags of tampering.”
Further indictments are expected in the coming weeks.
Because Mrs Billings volunteered her testimony to police, she is free on one hundred dollars bond.
“I just want Derek’s killer to pay.”
Samael folded the paper. It trembled in his hand. He set it down on the passenger seat, started the minivan, and placed both hands on the wheel.
Sunlight slanted through the windshield and onto his chest. It soaked into his police shirt, but there was still an envelope of cool air around his body. He breathed slowly, not wanting to disturb the moment. So, it had all been a lie. He wasn’t William B. Dance. The memories of his life, of Abu Ghraib, of eating the scorched crow on the streets of Mexico City, of standing beside the rusted slide – those were mere suggestions planted by hypnosis, by the need to be human. It all was a lie.
Then, what am I? he wondered. Not an angel. Not a human. What? If Donna were still alive, he knew exactly what he would have been. He would have lived in Hell to be with her. He would even have become human. Whatever I am, I’m trapped in this body, in a dead man’s uniform, in a dead priest’s van, and being hunted by an army of cops.
He drove to the edge of the parking lot, waited for a moment between rushing cars, and pulled out into traffic. There would be a place up here. Just up here. Ah, a Laundromat.
The man was tall and lean, with unclean brown hair, intense eyes, a cigarette clenched between two thin fingers, and a newspaper in his hands. He also happened to have a gun sitting on the plastic seat beside him.