The Devil's Due (17 page)

“He did say something about a 'him',” Elizabeth said. “Remember, Simon? He said something like 'he said you'd say that' or something.”

The officer scribbled something in his notebook. “Any idea who this 'him' is?”

“No,” Elizabeth said.

“You?” the officer asked Simon.

Simon remembered the exchanged glance between Benny Roth and the boy. Roth certainly had something to gain from his brother's death, but…”No,” Simon said. “No idea, I'm afraid.”

The officer stared at Simon for a long moment and then nodded. “Thanks.” He glanced at his notes. “You be at the Ambassador for a few more days?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said.

“Good,” the officer said with a smile. “We'll be in touch.”

Strangely, an attempted murder hadn't put an end to the party. If anything, it seemed to have re-energized it. However, Simon had had his fill and convinced Grant and Elizabeth it was time to leave. He hadn't forgotten their earlier secret, and waited impatiently for them to offer it up on the drive to Grant's home.

It wasn't until they were safely tucked away from the world in Grant's living room that Simon reached his limit. “What happened earlier?”

Elizabeth flopped down onto the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “Attempted murder, mayhem, a little dancing.”

Grant made a tray of drinks and started toward the coffee table.

Simon was not amused. “Earlier. What happened earlier when I went in search of Grant?”

Grant doubled back and added a full bottle of scotch to the tray, paused and then added another.

Elizabeth stopped massaging her feet, tucked them up under her and settled deep into the sofa cushions. She frowned and rubbed her arm in thought. “I'm not sure.”

“That's not an answer,” Simon said. “Elizabeth—”

“Don’t be too hard on her,” Grant said as he set down the tray and offered Simon a drink. Simon took the glass, but placed it untouched on the side table next to the sofa. “Thorn has that effect on people.”

“Thorn.” Just the mere mention of the man's name made Simon tense. “What did he do?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Nothing. I think. I was in the hall waiting for you and then he was just there.”

“He materialized out of nowhere?” Simon asked.

Elizabeth gave him a sour look. “No. He came up behind me and was admiring the art.”

“I'm sure,” Simon said as he paced behind the side chair adjacent to the sofa. He felt an irrational surge of jealousy and pushed it aside.

If Elizabeth noticed his reaction, she ignored it. “And then Alan was there, and…”

Grant took the seat opposite Simon's chair.

“And…” Simon prompted.

“I'm not sure,” Elizabeth said with a frown and looked helplessly to Grant.

“And?” Simon said to him, patience wearing very thin now.

“And I think you'd better sit down.”

Why was it people said that? Was it supposed to somehow soften the blow? All it managed to do was heighten Simon's already pulsating anxiety. In lieu of strangling the truth out of everyone in the room, he forced himself to sit down and gestured for Grant to continue.

“And your drink,” Grant said. “You might want—”

“What I want,” Simon said angrily, “is to know what the bloody hell is going on!”

“Simon…”

“No,” Grant said, “I don't blame him. He has every right.” He leaned back in his chair and stared into the bottom of his glass before speaking. “Edgar Thorn is an…unusual man. People often feel the way Elizabeth does right now, confused and unsure, after an encounter.”

Simon frowned. “Encounter? That's an odd choice of words.”

“Is it? Edgar Thorn is an odd sort of man. Or no man at all.”

“What is it you're not saying, Mr. Grant?” Simon asked with far more patience than he had or Grant deserved.

Grant pondered the question for a moment and then nodded, seemingly coming to some sort of conclusion. “What I'm about to tell you will sound absurd, even insane perhaps, but I assure you, I believe it with all my heart.”

He stood and walked over to a bookcase, scanning the shelves briefly before pulling down an old leather-bound volume. Grant pushed out a breath and carried the book over to Simon.

“Are you familiar with the story of Faust?” he said as he held it out to him.

Simon looked at the book — Christopher Marlowe's
The Tragicall History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus.
“In the play, a German scholar, dissatisfied with the limits of knowledge, of his life, learns the black arts and summons Mephistopheles, a messenger for the Devil. Faustus offers Satan a bargain. In exchange for, I think it was 24 years of knowledge and power, Faustus will give the Devil—”

“His soul,” Grant finished for him.

“It's an ancient legend,” Simon said. “It predates Marlowe by several hundred years, perhaps more. From Paganini to military generals, people have claimed a deal with the devil has given them special powers or used it to justify witch hunts.”

Grant arched an eyebrow. “You're quite knowledgeable on the topic.”

Simon put the book aside. “I'm an academic. I've studied things like this for many years. But I fail to see what this has to do with Thorn.”

“Seven years ago, I was playing Richard the III in Poughkeepsie,” Grant said as he walked over to stand in front of a fireless hearth. “Of course, back then I was Alan Krueger.” He turned to face them, arms out at his sides. “Everything about me is a lie. I was born in New Jersey, for God's sake.”

“What happened in Poughkeepsie?” Simon asked, hoping to keep Grant from falling off the rails completely.

“Nothing,” Grant said. “Nothing
ever
happens in Poughkeepsie.” He walked back over to his chair, but didn't sit. “And so, like every wide-eyed idiot, I came to Hollywood to seek my fame and fortune. And I was cast as 'Man Dying of Scurvy' in the
Sea Beast
. Fame and fortune seemed very far away. Until I met—”

“Thorn,” Elizabeth said.

Grant nodded. “He was very persuasive. I thought he was joking at first, of course, but he had a way about him. As though he could see inside you and move the pieces around.”

“Yes,” Simon said, remembering how he'd felt upon meeting Thorn. “But surely, you're not suggesting Thorn is some sort of Mephistopheles.”

“No.” Grant sank down into his chair. “I think,” he said, leaning back. “He's the Devil himself.”

Simon shook his head slowly. “You'll forgive me, but that seems a bit of a stretch.”

“It's absurd, isn't it?” Grant said. “And yet. After I signed my contract, everything I'd wished for came true. I'd spent years trying to do what he accomplished for me in the blink of an eye.”

“He's a man with a lot of power at the studio, isn’t he?” Elizabeth said. “He didn't need any supernatural help to create a career for you.”

“I told myself that at first. But then as I saw what he did for…to other people, I began to doubt.”

“People like Ruby?” Elizabeth said.

“Yes.”

Simon shook his head. “That's hardly evidence of a demonic presence on the earthly plane. Thorn is a powerful manipulator,” Simon said, “But beyond that…”

Grant shed his coat and unbuttoned his shirtsleeve. “After I signed the contract, this appeared the next morning.” He rolled his sleeve up to his bicep, took his handkerchief out and rubbed at the inner crease of his elbow. Once the covering make-up was gone, a small, raised bluish mark took shape. He sat forward and presented it for them to see.

Elizabeth moved closer to get a better look. “The Devil's mark.”

Grant nodded. “We all have them.”

Simon was still far from convinced. Natural explanations far outstripped the supernatural ones at this point, although, it would be foolish to dismiss any possibility out of hand quite yet. He moved to sit next to Elizabeth and reached out to touch the scar. Grant pulled back. “I'm not afraid of it,” Simon said.

“You should be.”

“Devil's mark or not, it's not contagious.” He felt along the skin. “Slightly raised, some sort of brand.” Simon leaned back into the cushions. “That's hardly proof. Something like that can be produced with conventional means. A small branding iron.”

Grant rolled down his sleeve. “I think I'd remember that.”

“Yes, but Thorn is a master manipulator. Perhaps, he uses drugs somehow to magnify his powers of persuasion.”

Simon ticked off a list of potential causal agents in his mind, discarding most as quickly as he thought of them.

“Wait a minute,” Elizabeth said. “You said, 'We all have them.'“

“Yes, that poor girl Ruby, Benny Roth and at least two other men who are already dead.”

“Benny Roth too?” Elizabeth said, putting the pieces together. “And Sam Roth?”

Grant shook his head. “Not that I know of. The rest of us, you see, we all 'met' Thorn around the same time.”

“That dinner at Musso & Frank…” Elizabeth said.

“A last supper of sorts,” Grant said with a bitter laugh.

Simon heard the fear and resignation in Grant's voice. Belief was half the battle. If Thorn had Grant convinced of his fate and Grant wasn't willing to fight for his own life, was Simon really ready to risk his own and Elizabeth's for him?

“Do you want to live?” Simon asked Grant.

The question caught him off guard. “Of course, I do. Doesn't—”

“We're willing to fight, however we can to help you, but if you don't—

“I told you,” Grant said impatiently. “There's nothing you can do for me, but you're missing the point entirely. That's not why I am worried.”

“No?” Simon was skeptical of that.

“Of course, I'd rather not forfeit my soul, but there's something else. When I interrupted Thorn and Elizabeth earlier this evening, he reminded me of…an option.”

“That sounds promising,” Elizabeth said.

Simon didn't share her enthusiasm. Historically, the options for such things were seldom favorable. Suddenly, he had a horrible cold as iron feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Grant's expression grew dark. “A soul that has been bargained for can be retrieved if a purer soul, one that's unsullied, is given in exchange.”

“In several versions of the legend, a fair maiden does offer herself,” Simon said.

“In Hollywood, fair maidens are the legends.” He looked at Elizabeth. “Present company excepted, I'm afraid.”

“Me? I'm not a maiden,” she said. “I'm not a virgin. We do it all the time.”

Grant had the good sense to let that remark go. “My dear, it's not that part of you that he's interested in.”

“It's your soul,” Simon said.

Simon set his cufflinks down on top of the dresser and walked silently over to the overstuffed chair by the small table in their hotel bedroom. He'd been simmering since they'd left Grant's, and judging from his body language, he was ready to come to a full boil any time now.

He looked at her through narrowed eyes as he tugged at one end of his bowtie. He loosened the knot and let the black ends of silk fall onto his chest. Elizabeth winced. She knew that look. That was the
Dear God in Heaven, Woman, what have you gotten us into now?
look. Which, honestly, she only half-deserved. Maybe three-quarters. But, Elizabeth also knew Simon's anger wasn't really directed at her all. He hated not being in control of things, and he hated her being in danger most of all.

She braced herself for his opening salvo, but Simon just sighed heavily and sat down in the chair. He undid the top button on the collar of his shirt, still looking at her intently. Finally, he shook his head, leaned forward and loosened the laces to his dress shoes. Maybe he was going to have the whole argument with himself and leave her out of it completely?

“Ridiculous,” he said under his breath.

Or not.

He sat up in the chair, toed off his shoes and fixed her again with his most quelling glare. If she'd been a first year and not his wife, she would have scurried away like a rabbit. But, she knew the man behind the façade now and deep down, he knew she was right. That staying was right. He just needed to wander in the wilderness a little while first.

“I didn't do it on purpose, you know?” she said.

Simon leaned back in his chair and crossed one long leg over the other, his ankle resting on his knee. He arched an eyebrow and tugged off his sock. “Drawing the attention of the Devil or almost getting shot?”

Ouch. “Uhm, the first part?”

Simon hmm'd and switched legs.

Elizabeth looked down at the rip in the side of her beautiful dress and poked a finger through the hole. This was why she shouldn't have nice things.

Simon tossed his sock aside, put his bare feet on the floor and curled his hands around the front ends of the arm rests. He looked like a king on his throne, a damn sexy king, waiting for her to continue.

“I seem to remember,” Elizabeth said, “that I wasn't alone creeping down the hall after the armed man.”

“I don't creep.”

She saw the fleeting smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “You know what I mean,” she said. “We saw someone in trouble and we helped him.” She pointed at Simon and herself. “
We
helped him.”

“Yes, but this is different.” He stood and untucked his dress shirt from his pants.

“You don't really think he's the Devil, do you?”

Simon paused and thought for a moment. “I'm not sure.” He unbuttoned his shirt as he thought aloud. “Considering the things we've seen in our travels, it's not irrational to consider some sort of spirit or demon could be at work. But, a sociopath like Rasputin or Crowley seems far more likely. And hardly any more comforting a thought.”

Despite his words to the contrary, Elizabeth did find the thought an odd relief. She'd seen the demon in King Kashian's eyes and felt something…unnatural in San Francisco. She'd rather fight flesh and blood any day. Simon might still harbor a healthy skepticism, but she didn't. The unlikely grew more likely with everything she'd seen.

“Regardless,” Simon said, “devil, demon or sociopath; Thorn is dangerous. And the idea that he's focusing his attention on you…”

She could see the muscles in jaw working as he shook his head. “Unacceptable.”

She couldn't argue with that.