Name of the Devil Read online

  I pretend to know what all that means. “I’m worried about how it all finished. Something frightened them even more than what had been going on.”

  “Me too. And Blackwood?”

  “Yes?”

  “Between us skeptics, it’s okay to be a little disturbed by the tape. It creeps me out too.”

  Ailes seems as resilient as a rock, yet it’s a relief to have him tell me he’s vulnerable too.

  The screams haunt me. “I know it’s just a child pretending. But I’m not sure what bothers me more: the idea of why, or the fact that those people took it seriously.”

  “Find this boy for us. Maybe he can explain what’s going on.”

  26

  CLASS PHOTOS GOING back over forty years stare back at me from behind Principal Kitson’s desk. He was a fifth-grade teacher at Hawkton Elementary School around the time the tape was recorded. Now, in his late fifties, he seems more at ease in an office than a classroom.

  I play a sound file on my phone for him. It’s just a selection culled from the full-length audio, but it’s still disturbing. Kitson looks up at me. “Is this a joke?”

  “No joke. I just need to know if the boy sounds familiar.”

  “I don’t think it’s even his real voice,” he replies, well familiar with childish pranks.

  “I know. It’s a long shot. The kid may have been a class clown, or he may have been the shy type who never said anything.”

  Kitson looks to the side for a moment, then shakes his head. “We’ve had lots of those. But I can’t think of anyone specific who sounded like that.”

  “What about the Alsops or Jessup? Any of them have any kids around that might have done that?”

  “No. None that I recall. I was just a math teacher back then. I didn’t see all the students.”

  “How many teachers are still around that might know? Maybe the principal?”

  “She’s in a nursing home. Alzheimers. But I can give you some names.”

  He makes me a list and I spend the next several hours making calls and knocking on doors. There are a few vaguely suggested names, of boys that may have been troublemakers back then, but nobody says anyone stands out.

  Those names turn out to be dead ends, but Mitchum’s investigators circulate samples of the audio and manage to positively identify Adam Alsop, Curtis, and McKnight, confirming what I already suspected. Of the other voices in the room, none of them can be definitively identified as belonging to Natalie Alsop.

  The remaining unnamed voices are troubling. Everyone on the tape we can identify is now dead. Are there others marked for death?

  More direct questions about the exorcism are met with blank stares and shrugs, even from people who knew the victims. This town has seen so much. The last thing they want to talk about is how far back these troubles began.

  Driving down the street or walking past stores in the small downtown, I get strange looks everywhere I go. The sheriff still hasn’t been found. The mysterious events at Black Nick’s cabin have only added to the overall sense of unease.

  Nobody knows whom to trust. Even though I’m supposed to be one of the good guys, they’re still in shock over the implications surrounding Sheriff Jessup. He was their good guy.

  The local radio stations are going nuts. Information about the blast having a still-secret, mysterious explosive has fuelled the hysteria of a zombie on the loose. Footage of Reverend Groom’s suicide plays endlessly on national news, anchor invectives about its graphic content only hyping interest in the clip. YouTube videos of Groom speaking in tongues and faith healing have begun popping up.

  The sheriff comes across as the Boogeyman, but oily televangelist Groom, who conned people in television broadcasts, is also a complicated victim. Many see his suicide as divine intervention.

  Theologians fill the airwaves discussing every aspect of the case. The notion of avenging angels has been brought up. Fortunately, our video frame of the demonic shadow chasing Groom hasn’t gone public. I can only imagine how that might go over.

  When I check in with Mitchum’s task force at their office, I notice more crucifixes around necks than is normal for the FBI. Several Bibles are scattered around, open to passages describing possession.

  The armed search teams still looking for Sheriff Jessup are reporting strange stories about “lights in the woods” and the feeling of a “presence.” I chalk that up to paranoia, although they won’t change their minds.

  What presently frustrates me the most is not being able to identify the boy on the tape. Our victims are all dead ends. The Alsops didn’t have any children. Curtis and McKnight had none the right age. After the teacher interviews went nowhere, Kitson had given me a list of students from that time who still live around Hawkton. My cold calls are repeatedly met with “no comment.” I don’t get the impression anyone is hiding anything from me on purpose, but I think the past is just so distant, and the present so stressful, that they are reluctant to think back.

  Ailes calls me when I get back to the motel after spending the day in the City Hall records wing going through the births. “Any luck?”

  “No,” I reply as I take off my flats and lean back on my motel bed.

  “Mitchum is raising a fuss,” he sighs.

  “Over what?”

  “You.”

  “I didn’t do anything.” I feel my back spasm. “I stopped by the task force for maybe forty minutes to drop off some interviews.”

  “That was enough, apparently.”

  “Christ. I’m not even technically on her case. I did that as a courtesy to the team doing backgrounds. Groom’s suicide isn’t even an FBI investigation. It’s not even a local one.”

  “I know. But once we ID’d Curtis and the others on the tape, it became part of Mitchum’s investigation. She wants to call the shots on this too.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “It’s bullshit. I know. She’s frustrated because they haven’t found the sheriff. The manhunt isn’t hers, but people want closure on this thing.”

  “Closure? Or a whitewash?” I snap.

  Ailes ignores my comment. “And there’s the other problem with the tape . . .”

  “What?”

  Ailes pauses. “It got leaked,” he replies.

  “Christ.”

  “Some blog has the full audio. It’s on SoundCloud now, and YouTube.”

  “Terrific.” This could make things that much more difficult.

  “Mitchum is saying you leaked it.”

  “What?” I shoot off the bed. Jesus. Christ.

  “I know you didn’t.” He doesn’t say anything about my other superiors. “She was cornered by a journalist. She made a comment about ‘publicity seeking’ people attached to the case.”

  “I didn’t do that.” My fingers clench the phone so hard I’m afraid I’ll break the screen.

  “I know. But the director is in a tough spot. Your Mexican adventure and now Mitchum raising a fuss. We can’t have you two fighting.”

  “I’m not fighting! I’m just doing my job,” I protest.

  “I know. I know.”

  “All I’m doing is chasing down the leads she’s ignoring. I’m just filling the gaps.”

  “No one is pulling you in yet, although that may change in the next day or so. It depends on how much of a fuss Mitchum raises.”

  “Do I just drop it?” I ask, knowing there’s no way in hell I would now.

  “No. Keep going, stay clear of Mitchum.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Find the boy. Get someone still alive who is on that tape.”

  “I’m trying. Mitchum has to realize she’d never even know about him if I hadn’t stuck my nose in things.”

  “I know she knows. But here’s the difference between you two: You just want to find out what happ
ened and get the guilty party. She sees this as a competition. In her mind, any success you have comes at her expense. Time isn’t important to her. If she has to elbow someone to win, that’s okay by her.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “That’s politics. It’s why you’re a great field agent and would make a horrible manager.”

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  “It is.”

  We hang up and I lay back down on the bed, trying not to think about what gross acts have taken place on the comforter. I’m at a dead end with the boy on the tape. My next step is to start knocking on random doors and barging into houses. I’m sure Mitchum will love that.

  She’s incomprehensible to me. I can’t even bring myself to hate her. I just don’t get it.

  My phone rings again. I answer without looking at the display, expecting Ailes. “Now what?” I blurt.

  “Something naughty, I hope,” replies a voice that’s definitely not my boss’s.

  27

  DAMIAN. OF ALL the people to hear from now. He’s got a radar for locating me when I’m in a bind. “Hold on.” I send a text to the working group assigned to track him down.

  call trace this dk number

  “YOU’RE SUCH A good girl, Jessica,” he replies in his calming voice. “In the future, I’d be happy to go through the FBI switchboard if that’ll save you the trouble of having to tell them every time I contact you.”

  “Where are you?” I ask flatly. This is one more complication, one I can do without.

  “Safe.”

  The events that took place less than a week ago in Tixato are fresh on my mind. “Been to Mexico recently?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Just a hunch.” I don’t have too many vigilantes that like to follow me, leaving bodies in their wake.

  “What would it say about your employers if I am able to reach you more quickly than they can in a time of crisis?”

  “Were you there?”

  “Certainly . . . in spirit. Let’s change the subject.”

  “Let’s not. Why did you follow me down there?”

  “Hypothetically, I’d only go there if I thought you were in some kind of trouble.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Hypothetically?”

  “Whatever?”

  “Ever wonder how your phone knows how to ring when someone calls you?”

  “No. Not particularly.”

  “Now you will. You see, your phone broadcasts an identifier. It tells the nearest tower you’re in its zone. The tower then alerts the network and that’s how they know where to send the call.

  “If you are resourceful and you care for someone, you might find a way to make sure that you know the moment their phone vanishes off the network. Of course, when you turn a phone off or its battery runs down, it has the same effect as a disappearance.

  “Even if said person is visiting a foreign country, in particular a region with a very nasty criminal element, you might still assume a phone going off the network is just their charge running out. But if you realize that every phone in the area has gone down with no explanation, and that the bad people might be the ones doing this, you might have cause for concern.”

  This is as close as I’m going to get to an admission.

  “Thank you.” The words come out of nowhere.

  “Pardon me?” Damian is taken aback.

  “I said thank you.” I don’t believe I’m saying this.

  “I thought you were going to tell me you had it covered. That you didn’t need any help,” he replies.

  “I don’t know. I was scared. I was really scared.” I haven’t confessed this to anyone, not even Ailes. I’m not sure why I’m choosing Damian. He’s dangerous. He’s psychotic. He’s probably a murderer. Twice now, maybe three times, he’s killed for me.

  “I don’t know what to say. Do you think . . .” he starts.

  “No, Damian. I will shoot you on sight,” I reply forcefully.

  “I love your foreplay.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Are you ever not serious?”

  “I said ‘thank you.’ I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Don’t you want to know why I’m calling?”

  This is the game he plays. He knows something but wants to tease me. He wants me to ask him. He wants me to let him know I need him. “Why, Damian?”

  “Besides the sound of your voice? Speaking of voices, I heard that little audiotape you found. Heck of a performance. That kid had potential.”

  “A faker after your own heart?”

  “Indeed. A tragic waste of talent. I’m sure you can relate. Have you found out his name yet?” he asks.

  “No. I don’t suppose you have?”

  “I can’t do everything for you, Jessica. But I do know someone who can help you.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s a collector by the name of Max Ripken. He lives in Virginia.”

  “What does he collect?”

  “Ones and zeroes.”

  I don’t have the time for this dance. “Yeah, um, helpful.”

  “You have no idea. He has so many of them, you’ll need something to start with. A name would help.”

  He’s already drawn me in. Why do I encourage this?

  I know why . . . I just can’t admit it to myself.

  “If I had a name I wouldn’t need him.”

  “Are you so sure? You’ve already looked at the name of every child who lived in Hawkton that you could find. Any luck? If you have the name, Max can help you make a connection.”

  “I don’t have the goddamn name!”

  “That’s because you’re thinking like an adult.”

  I hate his games. “Damian, give me the name.”

  “I don’t have it. What you need to do is take a nice long hot bath and relax. The name will come to you. Or, at least the path to the name.”

  “Damian . . .”

  “It’s important you do it this way. It’s important for you to keep thinking differently than everyone around you. That’s how you caught the Warlock. If you’re chasing ghosts, then you have to think like one.”

  “Ghosts aren’t real.”

  “Exactly. But if I force-feed you what’s going on, you won’t see the whole picture.”

  “And you do?”

  “A little bit. I know something about ghosts, and about how lost boys bide their time. Have I ever led you astray?”

  “You’re the definition of astray.”

  “I’ll leave you with this parting thought. It’s actually something that has been concerning me.”

  “What?”

  “Between the ‘event’ in Mexico and the unfortunate experience you had a few months ago, you seem to be getting in harm’s way quite a lot.”

  “And?”

  His tone changes from teasing to serious. “Is it me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you taking these risks because somewhere, deep down, you think you have a protector?”

  “No. Don’t flatter yourself. I’m more afraid of you than anyone else.”

  “Jessica, I’d give my life to save you. You know that. Unfortunately, I may not always be there. You need to know this. I’m just a man.”

  “A disturbed, psychotic man.”

  “Who loves you more than he can ever express.”

  “Turn yourself in if you love me so much.”

  “For what? I’m just a person of interest right now. That’s rather boring. I can’t even get conjugal visits. Unless . . .”

  “I’d sooner shoot you.”

  “There was a time when you felt differently about me.”

  “I was young and didn’t know the real you.” There was
a time when things weren’t so complex, or at least I thought they weren’t.

  “Perhaps you did. Looks like it’s time to go.” The line goes dead.

  Damian and his damn hints! He has a particular way of seeing things. I don’t trust him, but I can’t ignore him. He’s been right before.

  I lock the door and search under the bed and in the closet. He has a thing about violating my personal space.

  Satisfied that I’m all alone, I start the bathtub and undress. The power of suggestion was too much. Damian knows scalding water and steam are my happy place. I place my gun and phone on the toilet seat within arm’s reach and step in.

  I relax against the cold tub as the water trickles over my toes and try to think of what I’m missing. Damian said to approach this from a child’s point of view. I’m not sure what that means.

  I’ve looked at every record I can find in the town. There is no way to track down children who were visiting relatives, or staying somewhere nearby.

  What am I not seeing? I let the water pull me down into the suds and stare up into space.

  The warmth begins to lull me asleep.

  Something catches my eye and my spine chills.

  The bastard.

  He was here.

  He was in my goddamn room!

  I don’t know if I should feel afraid or secure that he’s nearby.

  There are numbers written on the mirror, probably with soap. The steam has made them visible.

  793.809

  291.216

  282.451

  My phone rings.

  “Agent Blackwood?”

  “Did you get the trace?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it from here?”

  “No. Miami, actually.”

  “I’m sure he’s nowhere near there.”

  Self-consciously I get out of the tub and wrap a towel around my body. There’s a shiver at the back of my neck.

  I write the numbers down and wonder how far away Damian really is.

  28

  AT FIRST GLANCE, the numbers don’t mean anything. They’re not a location. They can’t be phone numbers. I stare, trying to decipher them. A code? I give up and just Google them all at once.