Hell on High Page 15

  Mindenhall winced in involuntary sympathy. "Where in the world did they get Karo syrup?"

  "I'm sure Hell has a pantry," Glibspet said darkly and took another sip. "It's probably on the shelf right next to the Puppy-on-a-Sticks." That was true, actually, though he'd gotten his bottle at Food Lion. "Anyway, I doubt they'll bother us again."

  Mindenhall sighed. "I hope not. My priest is unhappy enough about me working here without my running into demons." He finished his coffee and crumpled the cup violently, throwing the wet ball of Styrofoam towards the recycle bin. "Of course, he's always been unhappy with the whole gay thing too, even though I've been celibate lately, so what's one more sin?"

  "I like that line of thought, Craig." Glibspet looked into Mindenhall's eyes for a long moment, then winked.

  Mindenhall smiled, hesitantly at first, then with more assurance. "You've got a one-track mind, Dom," he told Glibspet, "but maybe your track leads to my station."

  Progress, thought Glibspet. Solid progress. "I hope the train's an express." He set his cup down. "Now, what were you bringing me last night?"

  Mindenhall went over to his desk and opened his briefcase. "Just this." He extracted a large manila envelope. "I checked the papers and the police. I've got thirty-one deaths here that meet your profile. Thought they would be worth a closer look."

  "Great. Burn me some copies, then start running the standard checks. Credit histories, insurance payouts, college records, the works. I want to know anything that doesn't fit."

  Glibspet watched appreciatively as Mindenhall bent over the copy machine. Soon. Very soon.

  Mindenhall handed him the warm sheets of paper. Glibspet took them into his office, and after a moment's consideration, closed the door.

  There were things Craig couldn't check, he reflected, like whether a decedent was currently in Hell. He got out the red modem and attached all the wires. All he wanted this time was a bunch of simple yes or no queries; it should be easy enough to program the specifics into a script so he could go on and do other things. He only had a few menus to navigate through.

  Two hours, with every curse he could think of laid on the head of whoever had designed the brain-dead COBOL-like scripting language for his com program, Glibspet finally finished his "simple" query. And it had only taken him twice as long as doing it by hand would have. A programmer had once told him that she couldn't find much difference between Hell and COBOL; of course, that had been before she went into the Pit. Still, he was starting to see her point.

  He hit run and listened to the modem dial. It dialed only seven digits—Hell is never long distance. He listened to the modems handshaking; then, satisfied that he had a connection, Glibspet turned to his map.

  The map was a large-scale representation of the Triangle area and covered most of the right wall of his office. There were pushpins stuck in various spots, some green and some amber. As yet, he could find no real pattern. Glibspet took the morning's Raleigh News & Courier and leafed through the main and local sections.

  He found two possibles. The first was a Chapel Hill kid dying of cancer. His dog had gone missing, and when it did, the boy lost the will to live. Suddenly, after three months, the dog showed up—but at the hospital, not the home—and the kid started responding to chemo. The second was an attempted robbery at a suburban Southern National branch that failed when the intended robber's bullet missed the clerk standing two feet in front of him, triggered the silent alarm, and caused a short circuit that overloaded the light fixture directly above him, cracking the globe which fell on his head and knocked him out. Incredible coincidence or Divine Providence? Inquiring minds wanted to know.

  Glibspet pushed two new green pins into the map. Interesting... Was there a cluster roughly centered on Research Triangle Park, or was it a statistical anomaly? Glibspet just didn't believe in coincidences. Maybe it was time to hit the road and run down some of his best prospecting leads from the same general area.

  Chapter 42

  The morning sun burned mercilessly out of a cloudless sky; it threw Escher shadows in front of buildings and blinded the mass of commuters stranded, unmoving, on the long expanse of I-40.

  "Salmon," Glibspet said to Mindenhall as he maneuvered the Lincoln deftly from one side street to another and the interstate passed from view.

  "What?" Mindenhall asked irritably. He hadn't had his morning coffee, and Glibspet knew he resented being put in a position where he had to make some actual response to conversation.

  "Salmon," Glibspet repeated. "They come to the same river year after year, fight their way upstream, spawn and die." I-40 came back into view, and he waved down at the stalled traffic. "No one knows why they do it, or how, for that matter."

  Mindenhall raised his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. "Tradition, I suppose," he said, "or maybe they want a better life for their kids, something safer than growing up in the deeps."

  "But the species would probably survive better in the deeps," Glibspet said. "Plenty of fish do. And people would be just as happy—probably happier—living in caves and barbecuing the odd mammoth. No hour drive just to get back-stabbed by office politics; no having to be nice to idiots on the phone all day. What makes them do it?" His eyes caught a morning jogger and her dog coming out of a neatly manicured yard. They both deserved more attention than he could give them with Craig in the car. He made a note of the address.

  Mindenhall sucked his lower lip pensively. It was a sensuous mannerism, and enough to turn Glibspet's attention away from the heart-shaped ass dwindling in his (aptly named) rearview mirror. He had big plans for today and Craig. "I don't buy it," Mindenhall said finally, substituting conviction for caffeine. "The happy savage thing is a myth. People aren't salmon, and we have the God-given imperative to ask Why?—about everything. Sometimes it leads us into traffic jams, but it doesn't keep us there forever, and along the way we get the science to raise our kids without plague, and the art to make it important to us."

  "You haven't watched network television lately, have you?" Glibspet asked.

  Mindenhall waved the objection away. "A detour," he said, "like the traffic jams. They'll both be gone in fifty years. We'll always have dumb people—the mammoth hunters who can't see what good a bunch of seeds could do—but those 'happy savages' are in the Devil's playground, not God's. The rest of us will keep asking Why?" He paused for a second. "Which reminds me," he said. "Why am I here?"

  Glibspet turned into the parking lot of a nondescript stripmall. Brown's Realty was sandwiched between Borchert's Day Care and Redpath Spediprint. He cut the engine. "That's a big question," he replied.

  "You know what I mean," Mindenhall said. "I don't see why it takes two of us to ask a real estate agent some questions."

  "Because we're going as a couple," Glibspet said patiently. "We want to know things that, strictly speaking, are none of our business. A gay couple in North Carolina is either going to make the agent so nervous that he won't think twice about what we're actually talking about, or if we actually somehow get a gay agent, so friendly that he'll tell us whatever we want to know." He opened the door and got out. "Just remember to pat my hand occasionally, and call me honey."

  Mindenhall grinned. "You're a wicked man, Dom," he said. "Shall I swish?"

  Glibspet grinned back. "Maybe," he said, "just a little."

  In fact the Realtor was neither gay, nor a man. She was a short, plump woman with streaks of gray in her hair and more than a little makeup on her cheeks. On her desk, a Bible sat next to a small Elvis snow globe with blue flakes. She was staring into it now, as if the King might start making snow angels any second. Glibspet didn't think she had looked directly at them since the first time Craig had taken his hand. "Well this one just looks darling," Mindenhall said, pointing at a blurry photo in the agency's listing brochure. "Don't you think so, honey?" He stroked Glibspet's hand again. The agent caught the motion from the corner of her eye and shuddered. She swirled the snow globe frantically, leaving the King all shook u
p.

  "I don't know, Craig," Glibspet responded. "I wonder what the karma there is. You know I can't sleep in a room where anything bad happened." The house had been owned by one of Glibspet's prospects, someone too obscure for even a newspaper obit. "Gayle," he asked, "can you tell us about the house? Were they nice people who lived there? What happened to them?"

  Gayle looked up from the blizzard briefly. Mindenhall caught her eye, blew her an elaborate kiss and winked. Glibspet thought it was a bit over the top, but it was effective. Gayle hunched over in her chair—trying to expose the smallest surface area possible to them, perhaps—and started to babble.

  "Such a nice woman," she said quickly, "and they say it was a very gentle death." Under Elvis's watchful eyes, she gave a complete nonstop rundown on three generations of the house's owners, replete with local gossip.

  It was clear to Glibspet nearly from the start that he could mark this one off his list, but Gayle seemed oblivious to any of his visual cues of waning interest. She wasn't really talking to him anyway, and the King wasn't going to stop her. "Oh no, I'm afraid it's just not us, Craig," he said finally, rising to his feet. "It's just too, I don't know, neo-quasi-retro, don't you think?"

  "Absolutely," Mindenhall agreed, taking his cue, "much too." He stood also. "Thank you, Gayle," he said, "but it just doesn't complement our modal harmony." He put his arm around Glibspet, and they walked to the door together. Behind them, Elvis was having a Blue Christmas—probably thinking about his grandchildren.

  They made several more stops, none of them as much fun as the first, and none of them productive. Early morning led into lunch at The Flying Burrito, which segued into a long busy afternoon and a full supper at Angelo's. Mindenhall was laughing as they went back out into the parking lot. Glibspet was being as urbane and witty as he knew how, and he had made it a point to ply Craig with as much of the excellent Italian red as he would take. While by no means drunk, he leaned now on Glibspet's arm from time to time for guidance. Glibspet himself was playing the model designated driver, and had had nothing but coffee.

  "Shit," Glibspet said as the Lincoln came into view.

  The front and rear left tires were completely flat and the big car listed visibly to the side.

  Mindenhall let go Glibspet's arm. "Oh, hell," he said and walked over to the car. Touching the hood for balance, he circled around to the far side. "These look fine," he reported. "What could we have hit?"

  Glibspet knelt by the front tire and inspected it. "Look at this," he called. When Mindenhall came around and crouched beside him, he pointed to a single neat hole high up in the sidewall of the tire. "I'll bet the back's the same," he said. "Someone, teenagers probably, had nothing better to do with their evening."

  Mindenhall got up and sat on the hood, his legs dangling over the useless wheel. "Well," he sighed, "now what?"

  Glibspet considered. "I'm not going to call a tow truck for flat tires," he said. "It's not worth it. There's a Western Auto in that plaza over there." He pointed across the street. "I'll put on the spare in the morning, then roll the other one over there and let them patch it."

  Mindenhall drummed his heels on the crumpled whitewall. "And what about tonight?"

  "Well, we can pay outrageous taxi bills, or we can get a room over there." There was a small motel about a block down the street, where a flickering sign proclaimed Bob's Dr p Inn.

  Mindenhall looked doubtful, "Well, I don't know—" he started to say then stopped himself. "A room, you said?"

  Glibspet spread his arms and shrugged expressively. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It's been a good day, hasn't it? Maybe something's trying to tell us it doesn't have to end yet."

  Mindenhall drew himself up straight and sat silently for a moment. "You're right," he said finally and hopped off the car. "I think I'd like that."

  "I would too," Glibspet said. "I keep a shaving kit in the trunk. Let me get that, then I'm set." As the opened trunk blocked him from Mindenhall's view, Glibspet reached into his pocket, took out his Swiss Army knife and laid it down in a corner. The black rubber stains on the awl blade would be hard to explain.

  Chapter 43

  Helms Rejects Baptist Charges

  Capitol Hill—Charlotte Observer

  Senior North Carolina Senator Jesse Helms denied Thursday that his amendments to the omnibus farm bill especially benefited North Carolina's demon farmers. The North Carolina Baptist Convention had made the charges last Friday, supported by state Agriculture Department figures showing that Unchained farmers grow tobacco almost exclusively, and have largely displaced human farmers.

  "I have always supported the North Carolina farmer," Helms said in a morning news conference. "I have a great respect for the Baptist Convention, and I'm a churchgoing man, but the needs of my constituents have to come first."

  The senator also denied making the statement "Well, at least they're not black" at a breakfast on Monday. "I would never say such a thing in public," he replied in response to press queries.

  It had been a long two weeks, Rhea thought. An incredible time. She rolled herself deeper into Jack's embrace and sighed as his sleeping arms tightened around her. The sigh tickled his nose. "Ummm," he murmured without waking. It was a friendly sound, non-threatening.

  She had almost forgotten what it was like to not probe every word for concealed threats, every course of action for hidden motives.

  This quiet passion had sneaked up on her—she hadn't been looking for it at all. When the Unchaining came, she had seen her chance to flee and in the melee, she had taken it. Hell was wearing her down; she would have ended up in the Pit in a couple more centuries, at most, and she didn't think she would ever have the force of character to bring herself back to the status of fallen angel, no matter how long eternity stretched. So she was determined to go out in a blaze of glory: Prometheus gifting the savages with fire and giving a big poke in the eye to both Lucifer and The Other One.

  But her grand gesture had become something much more... well... real. Starting a company was expedient and practical, but it also brought together people who shared a dream and depended on her to make it happen. She had found after a while that their dream, and their joy in dreaming, had more power than her fantasies of revenge and oblivion had ever had. Especially now, when the greatest of the dreamers was the man who held her in his arms.

  Jack had made her laugh from the first day she hired him, with his abstracted mannerisms and love of music. She still delighted in the astounding pockets of naiveté that she found in him from time to time, but she'd come to realize that in anything that mattered to him, he had a steel core. He would do the right thing whether it came easily or not; whether it paid off for him personally or not; whether it felt good or not. Integrity, she thought. You just didn't find a lot of integrity in Hell. How could she offer less?

  It was funny, really. Centuries of Hell had worn her down to the point that she thought she had nothing left to lose and no choice but oblivion. Then a few short years of passing for human had returned to her things she'd forgotten losing and a few she'd never had: Trust replaced fear; shared pleasures replaced solitary ravaging; the thrill of accomplishment replaced the electric blood-lust charge of desecration. She buried her face in Jack's shoulder. Perhaps, she thought, it's even brought me love.

  And all of these good things would bring about her destruction just as surely as if she had remained unchanged and had followed her intended path to the letter.

  Chapter 44

  Jack wasn't just whistling "Dixie"—he was working flat out while he did it. "Dixie" was, he reflected, a song that could still get you in trouble, despite Lincoln's blessing, but sometimes he just felt so good he couldn't help it. He didn't know when he'd been happier. The times with Natsu were great, but that was a teenage thing. Adults had more to give each other. Certainly the best times with Carol weren't nearly as good, and the end of that relationship.... He shuddered.

  He ran over the final specs for the drive housing. The MU
LE had even more kick than Rhea had predicted, and he needed to add some extra reinforcement without changing the center of thrust. He spun his chair away from his workstation and picked an envelope off of his desk. He sketched rapidly on the back with a pencil. The pencil-on-paper approach was archaic, but sometimes he needed something hands-on to think about a problem—besides, writing on napkins, envelopes and tablecloths was an engineering tradition.

  He drew in some vectors and tagged them with ballpark magnitudes, then leaned back in his chair and looked at the drawing. Nothing came to mind immediately. He concentrated, and the Domino's Pizza delivery number popped into his head. It was a good thought, but not timely. Apparently whistling took too many brain cells—he stopped, tapping the pencil against his chin instead. Finally his mind wrapped around the problem, and he drew a countervector that felt right. A few minutes' checking on the workstation confirmed it, and Jack entered the changes as pending in the specification database. Three other engineers would check behind him, but he knew he had the fix right. He hadn't created a bad change; the builders down in Manteo wouldn't have to tear anything out to add the new bracing and the revision would only add a few days to the schedule.

  He considered printing the revised blueprint, but decided against it. The gremlin was back in his printer; no telling what it would do to his layout. It had gotten more sophisticated once it lost the element of surprise, and had come up with a little cold suit from somewhere that protected it from his freezing spray.

  Just to keep it on its toes, he keyed up a couple of pages of one of C. S. Lewis's essays on Christianity and sent it down the line. The resulting noise from inside the printer sounded like a chipmunk with indigestion and gas: his gremlin was not a happy little Hellspawn at all. The pages came out almost blank—apparently the monster had felt compelled to eat most of Lewis's thesis.