“Exactly —and for a demon, it’s no different. See, skim-joints are strictly verboten in the demon world, because they rely on a steady supply of human souls to make their product —souls destined for hell, sure, but souls nonetheless. Now, ideally, the skimmer shaves off what they want and then passes the soul on to meet its ultimate fate, so nobody’s the wiser. But if there’s a fuck-up in the skimming process, that soul could be destroyed. The destruction of a human soul is a violation of the Great Truce between heaven and hell, and if either side were seen to be condoning such an act, the result would almost certainly be war —which means skim-joints are an affront to God and the devil both. So the last thing any demon wants is to get caught coming out of one. An easy way around that is to possess some unsuspecting bastard for a few hours and ditch him when you’re done —sort of the demon version of a getaway car. See, unlike me, all demons —be they the lowliest and most monstrous foot-soldiers, or the higher-ups that look like you and me —have bodies of their own, so when they possess someone, it’s more like remote projection. Snatching a vessel to hit a skim-joint means their true selves can be safe and sound half a world away. On the off-chance their vessel’s killed, they wind up right back in their own body —no harm, no foul. Only the hardcore skim junkies ever bother to show up in person; the way I hear it, the high’s better if you’re present in the flesh.”
“Yeah, I gotcha —but if they wanna keep things on the DL, why wouldn’t they just kill the dude when they were done with him? I mean, what’s to keep the guy from blabbing?”
“Well, for starters, demonic possession is pretty traumatic. The vessel usually doesn’t remember much in the way of specifics —just the odd image, scent, sensation. Besides, even if he did remember, who in their right mind would believe him? And remember —Dumas’s skim-joint would attract a fair bit of business, so this wouldn’t exactly be an isolated incident. If all Dumas’ patrons started killing vessels left and right, the white hats would be bound to notice, and that’s the last thing anybody wants.”
“The white hats? You mean, like, angels?” Gio’s face had taken on the kind of inner light usually reserved for kids waiting up to catch a glimpse of Santa Claus.
“That’s right. Only we’re not talking harps and feathers —these are more the angry Wrath of God types. Believe me,” I said, thinking back to my own tangle with an angel months before, and the swath of destruction across the length of Manhattan that had resulted, “angels are not to be trifled with.”
That inner light faded, replaced by something closer on the reverence scale to fear. “Still, I don’t get why you’re so sure this Richard dude’s our guy.”
I smiled. “Easy. Demons got themselves a nasty sense of humor. They’ve pretty much got their pick of living vessels, but usually they’ve got a reason for choosing the one they do. Sometimes, they’ll snatch a priest, make him speak in tongues at Mass to fuck with him. Sometimes, they’ll take some buttoneddown old schoolmarm and ditch her at a leather bar. Or sometimes, when they need to hitch a ride, they’ll pick a guy because they think his name is funny.”
“What’s so funny about Richard Shaw?”
“Nothing in particular,” I admitted. “But what do you want to bet he goes by Rick?”
Richard Shaw’s home was a low-slung yellow brick ranch in a quiet residential neighborhood about a mile north of the university. A pair of live oaks on either side of the pebbled front yard shaded the house from the light of the afternoon sun. I pulled the Cadillac into the short concrete drive, coming to a halt beside a beige Buick LeSabre adorned with a Jesus fish and a sticker for the local Christian station (REJOICE in the Lord!). Looks like whatever smart-ass demon decided to take himself a ride in a Rick Shaw got a twofer in the fucking-with-mortals department.
Though the day was bright and clear, and the temperature a balmy seventy-five degrees, every window in the house was closed, and the blinds were drawn as well. Three days’ worth of newspapers sat untouched atop the stoop, and the letterbox beside the door was overflowing.
I scaled the porch steps and knocked.
Nothing happened —unless, of course, you count me and Gio shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot in our filthy funeral suits like the most unlikely, bedraggled missionaries ever while we waited for the door to open as something happening.
I knocked again. Still nothing.
“Mr Shaw?” I called. “I was wondering if we could have a moment of your time.”
Inside I heard a scuff of feet on tile. A twitch of curtain revealed a glimpse of darkened living room as Shaw appraised us from inside. “Go away!” he cried, his voice plaintive and unsteady.
Gio looked from the door to me and back again. Then he patted his prodigious stomach and smiled. “You think maybe if I do the Truffle Shuffle, he’ll let us in?”
“You’re not helping,” I replied under my breath. Then, louder toward the door: “I assure you, sir, we’ll only be a minute; we just have some questions about what happened to you the other night.”
“I told you people a dozen times already —I’m not talking to reporters! Why can’t you all just leave me alone? Isn’t it enough you ruined my life, you… you… bunch of jerks!”
Bunch of jerks. My, but that one stung.
Time to try a different tack.
“My associate and I are not reporters, Mr Shaw —we’re Federal Marshals.”
Gio looked at me like I’d sprouted a second head. “We’re what now?” he muttered.
I shrugged my best roll with it shrug. Gio responded with what can only be described as a harrumph.
There was a thunk as the deadbolt disengaged, and the door opened a crack. The chain was still set, and Shaw peeked out under it, wary but hopeful. He was a slight, small-boned, thirty-something man in a pink polo shirt and iron-creased jeans over off-brand tennis shoes of gleaming white. His features were delicate bordering on feminine, and he had wide, pale blue eyes that, from the lack of lines surrounding them, appeared unaccustomed to the doubt that now darkened his face. “Federal Marshals?”
“That’s right,” I replied. “I’m Marshal Hutchinson, and this is my associate, Marshal Starsky. Now if you would please let us in, I believe we could shed some light on what happened to you Sunday night.”
“But how do I know you’re real Marshals, and not reporters pretending to be Marshals so I’ll let you in?”
I sighed and dug Ethan Strickland’s wallet from my inside coat-pocket, flipping it open and waving it at him as though it meant a damn. When he reached for it to take a closer look, I yanked it back. “Mr Shaw, attempting to handle a law officer’s badge is a federal offense.”
“Oh. Of course,” he said, withdrawing his hand as visions of prison time danced in his head. “And please, call me Rick.”
As Shaw closed the door, and disengaged the chain, Gio leaned in close, a grin plastered on his meaty face. “A federal offense, huh?”
“Hey, it could be.”
“You’re a fuckin’ piece a work, you know that? And Starsky? Really? Why the hell couldn’t I be Hutch?”
The door swung open once more, this time all the way. “Please, come in.” We complied. Once we entered, Shaw ducked his head outside, casting furtive glances left and right before shutting the door behind us. “Sorry about the mess.”
I looked around. Aside of a smattering of cellophane candy wrappers on the coffee table, the Spartan living room was immaculate. A floral couch sat beneath a simple wooden cross. Two royal blue recliners faced it from across the coffee table. No knick-knacks, no TV, and not a speck of dust in sight.