“Now, what does all of this have to do with catching Samael? First of all, it gives us a model for judging his behavior. When he believed himself to be an angel, he killed accordingly. When he believed himself to be human, he killed accordingly. Now, believing himself to be Satan incarnate, his murders are vicious, brazen, defiant acts of revenge.
“Our proactive strategies, therefore, ought to involve actions that wound his pride. He needs to be made a fool of in order for him to take the bait. Unlike the angel, who sought to kill anonymously, the new Son of Samael wants everyone to know who is doing the killing. He acts out of egotism. He wants publicity. He’s probably read every account printed about him, noting the names of writers who build up his violence and power, and noting also those who trivialize his position. Understanding this dynamic gives us a starting point for luring him in.”
A plenary such as this one would be irresistible.
“Even so, he uses the very faces and hands of his victims as disguises. This shows his utter contempt for humanity. Having been human for a few short months, he thinks he knows enough about us to despise us. We can expect many more such attacks on humanity, perhaps something at a school or a YMCA, perhaps something at a hospital or nursery.”
Thanks for the ideas.
“In the end, it does not matter whether this man was ever an angel, or is now a demon. All that matters is that he thinks he is these things, and acts accordingly. My time is just about up, I see, but I’d like to open the floor for questions.”
Perfect, thought Mike Uriel, standing up and raising his hand.
Detective Leland pointed his way, and all eyes turned toward him.
Lowering his hand – in fact, the somewhat fleshy hand of the old man – he growled out a question in an old-man voice. “You say that this demonic killer will be looking to attack humanity – children in particular. What do you think the killer’s intent is toward your child?”
Even from that distance, he could see her face whiten. A growl of offense moved through the crowd. Mike Uriel did not sit, though, awaiting a reply. Detective Leland waved away the angry sound of the crowd and said, “No, no. It’s a good question. I’m up to my eyeballs in this particular case, and my child will be, as well. Let’s first get this straight – the child is mine, not his, not the department’s. And, secondly, let’s hope the Son of Samael is caught before the baby is born, in another four months. If not, he may well try to take the baby.”
“Take the baby? Why would he want it?” asked Mike Uriel. “Wouldn’t a demon prefer to kill the child so that nothing of his humanity would remain?”
“Perhaps,” Donna responded slowly, as though she hadn’t considered that possibility. “But he may want to claim the child as his own, as the flesh and blood incarnation of evil. The son of Satan, and all that.”
Mike Uriel nodded. The pleased smile on his face quirked the skin of the dead man. “Thank you. Most insightful, most helpful. Thank you.”
The ambulance waited outside the stage door, and a line of policemen stood on either side of the walkway, a gauntlet Detective Leland must run.
Leland was in no shape to run. She felt like sleeping for three days. Another officer wheeled her chair out the doorway and toward the waiting ambulance. She smiled wanly and waved. The cops cheered her, some reaching out to pat her back in appreciation. When she reached the ambulance bumper, a thin young paramedic emerged from within and took her hand, gently helping her up into the vehicle. He guided her to a gurney and helped her lie down. Leland touched a hand to her chest, breathing hard from even that little exertion. The paramedic blinked his sensitive silvery eyes and handed her an oxygen mask. He eased the handle. “Just until you catch your breath.”
She didn’t put the plastic cup over her face, clutching it in one hand. “Wait until the crowd can’t see.”
He laughed a little. “That’s easy enough.” He lifted the folded wheelchair into the back of the ambulance, swung the doors closed, and stowed the chair. “There. How about you take a whiff of that stuff?”
She already had the mask over her face. Two breaths later, she was unconscious.
“All right, go ahead,” the young paramedic said to the driver.
The ambulance let out a small bleep as it lurched forward. The paramedic drew the door to the cab closed, then moved to the side of the unconscious lieutenant. He lifted the oxygen mask from her face and shut off the cock. Then, from his own face, he peeled away a mask of skin and stowed it in a bag at his belt. The Son of Samael grinned, rubbing away the clinging balls of spirit gum. Beneath lay the blue-gray crazings of the demon tattoo. Lines ran along his cheekbones, outlined his eye sockets and lips, and thickened into black swarms upon his brow. The whole of the tattoo formed an exaggerated skull, and every line upon it flamed with the fires of death.
“Oh, Donna. I know we can never return to that place of bliss. But I wanted to kiss you again with my own lips.”
He leaned over her, laid his lips upon hers, and kissed her, long and lingeringly. Drawing away, he watched her, the slow rise and fall of breath in her chest.
“You were right about me. You are the only one. You understand me. You are the Antivirgin, who will always intercede for me. We have communed, have shared a maculate conception. In that, we will be forever joined.
“But the child conceived by us – it cannot be allowed to live,” he said, pulling down a syringe he had laid aside.
He drew a three-inch cardiac needle from an adjacent drawer and fitted it to the wide cylinder. Then, stabbing the side of a bottle of window-washing liquid, he drew the blue stuff up into the syringe.
“I want nothing of me to remain in the mortal realm. Why else do you think I’ve stolen so many faces and hands? I want to pass completely from this flesh. Already I do not identify myself with my own features. I certainly won’t have my face and hands running around on another body.”
He pulled the shirt back from her pregnant belly, probed for a hard spot – the baby’s shoulder or head or hip – and then rammed the needle home, emptying the shaft in one long compression. Donna did not move at all, except from the jolt of his fist. When he drew the needle out, there was a little clear fluid mixed with the blood and window cleaner. That seemed a good sign. He leaned away, sliding the door back just slightly.
“How much farther to the first tollbooth?” he asked the driver.
“About ten minutes,” the driver responded. “Why?
You got a girlfriend there?”
“No. I just thought I’d stretch my legs.”
“How’s the cop doing?”
“Sleeping like a baby.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The wheels of the gurney rattled irritably upon the polished linoleum of the St Mary’s emergency room. Metal doorways and wire-reinforced windows scurried past on one side, a long, unrelieved expanse of flowered wallpaper on the other. The blue-white glow of fluorescent lights flashed overhead in warning.
“Pulse steady at a hundred twenty. Pressure seventy over forty and dropping. Breathing rapid and shallow.”
The man pushed, his face pimpled with cold sweat above his heavy EMT coat, which dragged stiffly at his arms.
“Injury? What happened?” The intern looked frumpy in her gray scrubs, white coat, and hair net.
“I don’t know. The paramedic was a new guy. He disappeared after the first toll. He must’ve screwed up and panicked.”
“God damn it. Here, this way. Got an empty bay over here. What did he do to her?”
“He gave her some oxygen. After that, I don’t know.”
“Oxygen or anesthetic? She could be overdosed, back in a coma, or worse.”
“What about the rapid breathing? That’s not from anesthetic. More like a toxic reaction.”
“God damn it. She was supposed to be safe with us. Anything else?”