Hell on High Page 20

  "I need it in two weeks, Halloran," Rhea said. How she stomped out barefooted he didn't know, but she managed, and slammed the door behind her.

  Jack rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Halloran," he said to himself, "you have really put your foot in it now." He didn't like being angry—it burned off IQ points faster than attending tractor pulls.

  He didn't want to leave Celestial. Even if Rhea were shutting him out; there was still the dream. Anywhere else, he could only make money. Here he could make history.

  Screw history. Here he could touch the stars.

  He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. Two weeks. He had two weeks, and a stack of gotta-haves to go through. In how many places could he replace custom rigs with two-dollar radios?

  Chapter 56

  Glibspet and Mindenhall walked into the offices of Gorman & Chase, a small Chapel Hill ad agency. They both wore dark suits and shades. "Snazzy," Craig said, looking at their reflections in the firm's lobby doors.

  "It's an image thing," Glibspet said. "Well-heeled, but slightly menacing. Remember, we aren't here to be anyone's friend."

  "If you say so, Dom," Craig muttered. He was still uncomfortable with this part of the job, but Glibspet thought his lying was coming along nicely.

  "May I help you?" the receptionist asked. She was a strawberry blonde with a good figure and dimples. Glibspet immediately thought of several ways she could help him—unfortunately, none of them were applicable.

  "Dominic Glib." He handed her an impressive looking business card. Mindenhall did likewise. "My associate and I represent Federated of Omaha Insurance in claims investigation. We're currently investigating a large claim paid out on the death of one Rheabeth Samuels. I believe she worked here."

  The woman frowned. "Not that I know of," she said. "When was this?"

  "About three years ago," Mindenhall said.

  "Hmm. Maybe you'd better talk to Helen. She's been here forever." She keyed her intercom. "Helen, there are a couple of detectives out here who need to talk to you."

  There was a squawk of dismay from the other end and the receptionist lowered her voice. "No, I'm sure it's not about that," she said reassuringly. She looked up again. "Helen will be right out," she said. "You gentlemen have a seat right over there." She pointed to an uncomfortable-looking couch.

  The two sat. "Sit straight," Glibspet hissed to Craig. "Look grim—and put the magazine down."

  Craig tossed the ancient Time magazine back on the coffee table. "I just wanted to see how the Ford/Carter race was coming," he whispered back.

  Helen was a plump brunette in her early fifties. "Hello," she said nervously. "I'm Helen Goforth?" She didn't seem very sure of it.

  Glibspet stood, and Mindenhall followed suit. "Dominic Glib, Federated Omaha," Glibspet said crisply. "I understand you may have known Rheabeth Samuels."

  "I—well, the name sounds a little familiar. I've been here ten years, you know—there have been so many names?"

  "Just the facts, ma'am," Mindenhall said. Glibspet glared at him. "She would have worked here about three years ago," Craig continued, somewhat chastened.

  "I—I'm afraid I don't remember her," Helen admitted. "She can't have worked here very long?"

  Either their information was wrong, or this Rheabeth Samuels had been a complete nonentity. Glibspet said, "She moved here from out of state only a few weeks before her reported death."

  "Perhaps you'll have to talk to Mr. Gorman, then? He does all the hiring?"

  "Yes, that sounds like a very good idea, Ms. Goforth," Mindenhall said. "Thanks for your help?"

  "It's been a pleasure?" Goforth hurried off.

  "That rising intonation would drive me over the line in about ten minutes," Glibspet said. "I don't know how these people stand it."

  "They're used to it?" Craig said.

  "Cut that out!"

  Glibspet approached the receptionist again. "I'm afraid Ms. Goforth couldn't help us," he said. "Could we talk to Mr. Gorman, please?"

  She frowned. "I'll see," she said. "He's pretty busy." She negotiated on the intercom with another secretary for several minutes, then, "I think he's coming down," she said. She paused. "Don't piss him off."

  Gorman was a short dark-haired man with an unlit cigar in his mouth. Full of nervous energy, he didn't wait for Mindenhall and Glibspet to introduce themselves. "Jeez," he said, "I got people tied up in Germany, got a crew trying to talk some sense into the phone company, nobody on deck here and you want to ask me questions. What do you think I do here, run a research institute?"

  "We just need a minute of your time, Mr. Gorman," Glibspet said and handed him a card.

  "Federated of Omaha? Never heard of it. You need an ad campaign. I can get people all over the country lining up to buy policies."

  "I'm sure you could, but we just need to ask you a few questions," Mindenhall said.

  Gorman looked at his watch. "You've got five minutes," he said. "Then I start billing at on-site rates." Glibspet saw a man come through the back door holding a broom. He had several empty plastic bags threaded through his belt. He went over to the receptionist's desk, lifted the liner out of her trash can and replaced it with one of his empty bags. He and the receptionist talked for a minute. She pointed, and he turned to watch the tableau in the center of the lobby.

  "You hired a woman named Rheabeth Samuels about three years ago," Glibspet said.

  "No I didn't—" Gorman started, then shook his head. "Yes, I did. What about it?"

  "Our company paid out a large claim on her life—"

  "Damn straight you should have," Gorman said. "I remember now. Promising kid. Copywriter out of Alabama. Been here two days when a semi merged into her Honda. Killed instantly. Hadn't even moved out of the hotel yet."

  "And you never heard anything about her being alive?" Mindenhall prompted.

  Gorman snorted. "The police showed me the picture. No live people in that many pieces." He looked at his watch. "Time's up, or five hundred dollars a question," he said.

  "Thank you very much," Glibspet said hurriedly.

  "Been real. Pam," he called, "I want Frankfurt on the phone by the time I get back to the office."

  "Can do," the receptionist said, and started dialing.

  "Hey," the man with the broom said, and walked towards Glibspet and Mindenhall.

  "Hello," Craig said.

  "I've been super here five years," the man said. "I remember that girl. Not many people who come through here stick in my mind, but she did. Nice girl. Short, plump little thing, really friendly. I liked her an awful lot—thought maybe... well. Then she died. It was a real shame what happened to her."

  Mindenhall nodded.

  "But you said something about looking for her alive."

  "Possibly," Glibspet said.

  "Well, I heard the name again. Caught my attention—was a funny name the first time, and then to hear it again, you know? It was on the local news—right at the end of the show. About a woman heading some kind of hi-tech place, something in the Triangle. But if that's who you're looking for, your records are really screwed up. She's older than the Rheabeth who started here—pretty."

  Glibspet pulled the photo he'd had made from the likeness of Averial and handed it to the man.

  "This looks kind of like the woman I saw. I didn't get a very good look... but this could be her. Darker hair now, I think. Maybe. Maybe prettier."

  Really. Glibspet smiled. "That's very interesting."

  Chapter 57

  "You've been spending nights here again lately, Rhea," Remufel said to her when she came in from work. He was sitting at the kitchen table, as usual.

  "Yeah," she said.

  "Want to talk about it?"

  "No, not really."

  "Want some chocolate cheesecake then?"

  "N—" She paused. She'd been making bad decisions all day. "Yes, Remmy, please."

  He cut her a slice. "I made it myself," he said.

  The floor by the cou
nter was covered with chocolate. "So I see." She took a bite. "It's good," she said.

  Remmy nodded, and watched her intently as she finished the piece. She put down the fork and he continued to watch her.

  "He wants to marry me," she said finally.

  "That's commendable of him," Remmy said. "Very honorable."

  "You know the rules, Remmy. If I say yes, I have to tell him everything."

  "Yes," Remmy said.

  "He'll know I'm a fiend from Hell."

  "Right." Remmy nodded.

  "He won't love me anymore! He won't want to marry me!"

  Remufel cocked his head. "You won't tell him you'll marry him because then he won't marry you."

  "Yes!" Rhea sobbed as tears welled up.

  "So then, exactly what are you gaining?" Remmy asked quietly.

  Rhea wiped her eyes and thought. After a few minutes, she grinned tentatively. It felt good. Very good. "Where's Mir?" she asked. "She would have said I was doing the right thing."

  "Then," Remufel said slowly, "you're lucky you got me, aren't you? More cheesecake?"

  When Rheabeth left the kitchen, Miramuel reappeared. "Do you think that will work?"

  Remufel shrugged. "When he finds out what she is, he might decide he doesn't want to be with her anymore. She has to show him her true self. Maybe when he rejects her, she'll give up what she's doing and leave. And if she does, the funding will fall through and the project will die, and she won't be in trouble anymore."

  "Do you really think we did the right thing by removing all evidence of the TRITEL contracts and luring Roberts out of the state?"

  "Do you want Avy safely out of Lucifer's reach?"

  "Yes."

  "I hope Jack runs screaming when he sees her. Then she won't have anything left here to hold her."

  "I hope so, too. I just wish we knew we were doing this right."

  Chapter 58

  Jack was on the roof, talking to his gargoyle. "You've got to go," he told her. He had his Super-Soaker, but he hadn't had the heart to use it on her yet.

  The gargoyle was looking a lot better—almost plump, in fact. It made sense, he thought wryly. He'd looked up gargoyles in the Hell database, and found out that gargoyles fed as much off of negative emotions as they did off of real food. The pickings must have been pretty slim here while he and Rhea were a going concern. So why had the gargoyle stayed?

  "Where pretty lady?" she asked. "You, she, no clothes, make bounce-bounce. Why no more?"

  "I wish I knew," Jack said. "I really do."

  "I no clothes, I pretty, bounce real good," the gargoyle announced.

  Jack shuddered. He wasn't that far gone. Yet.

  The gargoyle reached out and grabbed him lewdly.

  "Hey stop that!" He slapped her hand back. "You've got to go," he repeated, and picked up the Super-Soaker. She looked at him in puzzlement. He sighed—he couldn't pull the trigger. Devils, yes; demons, yes; gremlins, yes—but he felt like he knew this gargoyle.

  "Look," he said, "you can stay awhile. But try to do your business over the back side of the house, where it'll help the flowers. And—say, what's your name, anyway?"

  "Name not Anyway," the gargoyle said sadly. "Got no name."

  Jack had a wicked thought. "Really?" He grinned. "You do now. I'll call you Carol."

  "Oh!" the gargoyle said. "Good name! She pay good."

  A chill ran down Jack's spine, and he had the feeling an entire gaggle of geese had walked across his grave. "What," he whispered, "are you talking about?"

  "You know. Carol-lady pay devil, he pay us keep you company. Me, gremlins. Good job. See?" She opened a marsupiallike pouch and pulled out a grimy twenty-dollar bill. "Been hard work, sometimes, but good worker I."

  Jack stared incredulously at the pouch and at the money. Carol. She was paying a devil to plague him. No wonder his life had gotten so weird.

  "Well, I'll be damned," he said finally.

  "No, you nice man," the gargoyle said. And then, hopefully, "Bounce-bounce?"

  Chapter 59

  "Dom?" Mindenhall yawned and stretched. The two of them sat in Craig's living room. Glibspet had one end of the couch, while Craig stretched out on his back with his head cradled in Glibspet's lap. On the television, Andy was taking Opie fishing while the famous theme song whistled its way along.

  Glibspet stirred. He didn't really need sleep, but there was something almost hypnotic about the whole scene. "Yeah?" he said finally, and tousled Mindenhall's hair.

  "Why are we looking for this woman?" Craig stretched lazily and rolled over on his side. "The other cases come and go, but this one goes on and on."

  "I don't know," Glibspet admitted. "This one is the boss's; the last one he stuck me with before taking up poodle ranching." He wished he were poodle ranching—it would be a great job, but the market was saturated. "It was one of the conditions for his agreeing to let me buy him out." He shrugged. "I don't know why he, or whoever he was working for, cares, or even knew she was out there."

  Mindenhall raised himself up on an elbow. "Well, I checked the phone books, and the city directory," he said. "If she's living around here, she's unlisted. And there are lots of hi-tech companies in the Triangle to wade through."

  "But we have a name now," Glibspet said, "and we know she's a fairly public persona." He grabbed Mindenhall's arm and pulled him up into his lap. "This thing is all but over." Glibspet kissed him. "Trust me," he said. Mindenhall's breathing quickened. He kissed back, and wrapped his arms around Glibspet.

  "Always, Dom," he murmured. "Always." The couch creaked as they sank down together.

  "Nip it?" Andy asked from the screen. "In the bud," Barney confirmed. Glibspet hit the mute.

  Chapter 60

  Regional Phone Company Pioneers New Service

  Lumberton—The Robesonian Weekly

  At a news conference Monday, local long distance company HELLo America announced their new Enemies and Inlaws dialing plan. The plan, which gives rock-bottom rates to telemarketers, will be available nationally at the start of the month.

  When asked how the company could possibly undercut all competition for the telemarketing market and still make a profit, Chairman Baal Turgos, a Devil Third Class, admitted, "It's a gamble, but we plan to clean up on the other side." He went on to explain that members of the new plan are unable to call each other, so HELLo America expects tens of thousands of households to sign up at regular rates. "The commercial rates will get all the boiler-room operations and the protection will get the households." Turgos continued, "We expect exponential growth until the number of nonmember households drops below the telemarketing threshold. By then, we will have thought of something else."

  When asked if it wouldn't be inconvenient for plan households to be unable to call each other, Turgos replied, "Thirty-seven percent of all households have teenagers. Parents will love us."

  Rhea looked at the too hard box on her desk. It was full, but the bills now outweighed the useless government forms—she wouldn't have believed it possible. Normally, everything went through Accounts Payable, but these weren't normal times. She took the notices and dealt them out on her desk.

  It was as sorry a tarot reading as she'd ever seen. Valentine's Electronic Supply House, that would be the Lovers, and E. Thomas Dooley Hydraulic, Inc., that would be the Hanged Man. Not a good sign for those to land together. That wasn't the point, though. She swept them back up again, and started considering each in turn. The point was finding those that could possibly be put off for a little while longer. It had reached the stage where that meant anything less than a third notice. Rhea finally put two in an envelope for Accounting; the rest she put back in the too hard box. She considered starting a too broke box, but who would pay for it?

  Was this going to be it, then? The end of all the work and hiding, of all her hopes for finally doing something really right? Bankruptcy? If all she had built were going to come crashing down, she could almost believe that getting caught would com
e as a relief. Almost.

  Her phone beeped. She picked it up. "Rhea," Jan said, "Jack's back. Just thought you'd like to know."

  "Thanks, Jan," Rhea said automatically. Jack hadn't quit. In fact, he had flown to Manteo to oversee some work at the shipyard. She really hadn't expected him back so soon. Butterflies stretched their wings in her stomach—it tickled, but felt good somehow. She put the phone down, took a deep breath and headed for the door.

  Jan had the grace to be very busy with something on her screen as Rhea walked past. In the empty stairwell, she took the steps two at a time, slowing to a sedate pace only when she stepped out into the hallway. Jack's door was open, as always. He was sitting there with his back to her, looking out the window as he talked on the phone. She stepped inside quietly.

  "I appreciate it, Thel," he said. "I know Rockwell's a great place, and I owe you for putting a word in for me, but I think I'm going to stick it out." Rhea saw that he was doodling with his free hand. She looked closely. It was a rocket ship heading nose first for the ground. "Yeah, I know," he said, and his shoulders sagged. "It would be better for my career if I came out while this is still a going concern but—yeah, I know what I said, but I've got personal reasons." He sketched a tombstone with his initials on it. "Uh huh, that's right, but I'm going to risk it. Okay, thanks again, and remember... not a word about this to anyone. Say hello to Angie. See you!"

  Rhea backed out silently, waited a second and came back in again, noisily. Jack jumped and turned as she closed the door.

  "Hello, Rhea," he said warily. "More bad news?"

  "I owe you an apology, Jack," Rhea said.

  Chapter 61

  Jack considered. Had she come to tread, barefooted, over his throbbing heart again? Had she heard him talking to Thel?

  It didn't matter. Having her here, talking, not saying something stupid like last time—that was what mattered. Please, whoever's up there, don't let me screw this up! "No," he said, choosing the words carefully. "You've given me too much to owe me anything, Rhea." He paused. "I'd like an explanation, but you don't owe it to me."